Archive of Our Own

girls talk boys

peter parker is asleep on your ceiling.

you notice only because the rain begins tapping harder against the bedroom window, covering the quieter sounds of his breathing until the silence above your bed feels wrong. the desk lamp remains on beside you, casting a pale circle across unfinished chemistry notes, two empty mugs, and the black-and-red mask peter drops beside your pencil case when he climbs through the window shortly after midnight.

you tip your head back.

he lies several feet above you with one arm folded beneath his head, his shoulder blades pressed flat against the ceiling as though gravity has become an optional inconvenience. the sweatshirt he pulls over the suit has ridden up along his stomach. one bare foot hangs through the torn cuff of his pant leg, revealing a darkening bruise across his ankle.

you set down your pencil.

“peter.”

his breathing continues evenly.

you reach for the eraser beside your notebook and throw it. the small pink rectangle strikes his forehead.

peter jerks awake, and his entire body releases from the ceiling at once.

you barely have time to push away from the desk before he drops toward your bed, catches himself with one hand against the wall, and swings upside down above the mattress. loose hair hangs away from his forehead. his eyes move across the room in quick, unfocused passes before settling on you.

“what happened?” he asks.

you stare at him.

peter glances toward the window. “is someone here?”

“you fell asleep on my ceiling.”

his attention shifts upward as though the ceiling might explain itself. “oh.”

“you said you were leaving ten minutes ago.”

“i was.”

“from the ceiling?”

“i sat down for a second.”

“that is not sitting.”

peter lowers himself until his feet reach the floor. the room seems smaller once he stands inside it, though he keeps his shoulders drawn inward as if trying to take up less space. rainwater still darkens the ends of his hair from patrol, and a shallow cut crosses the corner of his mouth where someone catches him hard enough to split the skin.

you reach toward it.

peter turns his face before your fingers touch him.

“it’s nothing,” he says.

“you’re bleeding.”

“barely.”

“it’s on my rug.”

he looks down. a small red mark stains the pale fibers beneath his left hand where his knuckles brush the floor.

“sorry.”

you rise from the chair and walk toward the bathroom. the floorboard near the door gives its familiar creak beneath your heel, followed by the softer sound of peter trailing after you.

your bathroom is narrow enough that he has to lean against the doorway while you search beneath the sink. bottles shift against one another as you move them aside. by the time you straighten with the first-aid kit, peter has taken off the sweatshirt.

the suit beneath it is torn along his ribs.

you stop.

peter follows your gaze and immediately pulls the fabric closed with one hand. “that looks worse than it is.”

“you say that about everything.”

“because everything usually looks worse than it is.”

“the tower bridge looked exactly as bad as it was.”

something passes through his face.

the change is brief, but you see it anyway. the line of his mouth tightens. his fingers curl into the torn edge of the suit, hiding the exposed skin more firmly.

you set the first-aid kit beside the sink.

“sit.”

“i’m okay.”

“peter.”

he looks toward the bedroom, calculating the distance to the window.

you fold your arms.

peter exhales and lowers himself onto the closed toilet lid.

the overhead light hums faintly. rain runs against the small frosted window above the shower, turning the streetlights outside into dull patches of yellow. you step between peter’s knees and take hold of the torn fabric before he can object again.

the injury is not deep. a scrape follows the lower curve of his ribs, already beginning to close around the edges, but dried blood covers more of his side than the wound should produce.

“what happened?” you ask.

“car thief.”

“the car thief had a knife?”

“crowbar.”

you wet a strip of gauze with alcohol. “that’s not better.”

“it’s less sharp.”

“thank you, peter.”

“you asked.”

he watches your hands as you clean the blood from his skin. his body remains unnaturally still beneath your touch, every muscle holding itself in place despite the instinct that usually keeps him moving. you have seen him catch a falling glass without looking, turn toward sirens before anyone else hears them, and flinch when the radiator begins knocking three apartments away.

now, his attention stays fixed on you.

“you should have called me,” you say.

“while the guy was hitting me?”

“after.”

“it was late.”

“you climbed through my window at twelve thirty.”

“technically, i climbed down the wall.”

you glance up. the corner of his mouth lifts, pulling slightly at the cut.

you touch the gauze to it before he can smile wider. peter winces, more from surprise than pain.

“hold still.”

“you attacked me.”

“with gauze.”

“it could be contaminated.”

“it it literally sterilized.”

“you never know with those amazon first-aid kits.”

you try not to laugh. the effort lasts until peter looks at you with exaggerated suspicion, then something escapes anyway—small and tired, softened by the hour.

his expression changes.

the humor remains, but it settles beneath something quieter as his eyes move across your face. you become aware of how close you are standing, one of his knees against the outside of your leg and your fingers resting beneath his chin.

peter reaches for you slowly. his hand settles against your waist, light enough that you could step away without resistance. the material of your shirt gathers slightly beneath his fingers.

“you’re tired,” he murmurs.

“you’re concussed.”

“i’m not.”

“you fell asleep on the ceiling.”

“that’s happened before.”

“that doesn’t help your argument.”

his thumb moves once against your side.

the bathroom continues humming around you. water drips from the cloth into the sink. somewhere outside, tires pass over the wet street, their sound rising briefly before fading into the rain.

peter looks toward your mouth.

you kiss him first.

his hand tightens against your waist, pulling you between his knees while his other palm settles along your jaw. the cut at the corner of his mouth makes the first press careful, almost hesitant. then you angle your face, and whatever restraint he brings through the window with him disappears.

peter kisses you like he has spent the whole patrol trying not to think about it.

his fingers slide into your hair. your hand finds the back of his neck, where damp curls soften beneath your palm. the suit feels cold under your other hand, but the skin visible above its collar is warm.

he draws you closer until the first-aid kit catches beneath your hip and falls into the sink. plastic clasps strike porcelain with a sharp crack.

you pull back.

peter’s eyes remain closed for half a second longer. when they open, his breathing is uneven.

“that was loud,” he whispers.

“thank you for identifying it.”

“your parents—”

“are across town.”

“right.”

“you knew that.”

“i forgot.”

“you came through my window because they’re gone.”

peter looks toward the bedroom again. his hand remains around your waist.

“that wasn’t the only reason.”

the words settle between you without explanation.

you wait for him to continue.

he does not.

instead, peter lowers his forehead against yours. his breath warms the space near your mouth while rain presses harder against the window.

“i should go,” he says.

his fingers do not loosen.

“probably.”

neither of you moves.

peter kisses you again, softer this time, as though the decision to leave makes every second before it more important. his thumb traces the edge of your jaw. your hand stays against his neck, feeling the quick rhythm of his pulse beneath your fingers.

then a siren begins several streets away.

peter hears it before you do.

his head lifts. his body turns toward the sound with an instinctive sharpness that leaves the rest of him somewhere behind.

the siren grows louder.

you step back, and peter’s hands fall from you.

he stands and reaches for the sweatshirt, pulling it over his head without looking away from the window. the mask disappears into one pocket. a web cartridge rolls from the other and strikes the bathroom floor.

you pick it up before he notices.

“you’re low,” you say.

peter takes the cartridge from your palm. “i’ll make more tomorrow.”

“you said that yesterday.”

“tomorrow keeps changing.”

“that isn’t how tomorrow works.”

“it kind of is.”

he pauses in the doorway. the collar of his sweatshirt has folded inward, and you fix it without thinking.

peter goes still beneath your fingers.

“what?” you ask.

“nothing.”

his gaze moves over your shoulder toward the mirror, where the two of you stand reflected together beneath the bathroom light. your hair is disordered from his hands. his mouth is red where you kiss him around the split skin.

the image looks like an answer to a question neither of you has asked.

peter looks away first.

“i’ll text you,” he says.

“when?”

“when i’m done.”

“that isn’t a time.”

he gives you a small, apologetic smile. “soon.”

you follow him into the bedroom. peter opens the window, letting cold air and rain into the room. one hand sticks easily to the outside brick as he climbs onto the sill.

“peter.”

he glances back.

you almost ask what this is.

the question reaches the back of your teeth and stops there. you don’t know what answer you expect from a boy wearing a superhero suit beneath your old sweatshirt, already halfway out of your bedroom because someone he has never met might need him.

“don’t bleed on anyone else’s carpet,” you say instead.

peter’s smile becomes real.

“no promises.”

then he disappears into the rain.

—

peter’s sweatshirt is still hanging over the back of your desk chair the next morning.

you find it while searching for your jacket, which seems to have disappeared along with him. the sweatshirt smells faintly of rain, laundry detergent, and the sharp chemical trace of web fluid that never entirely washes out.

your phone remains silent on the bed.

peter does eventually text after patrol, though the message arrives at four seventeen in the morning and contains only three words.

home. alive. sorry.

you read it twice.

then you take his sweatshirt.

midtown smells like wet coats and industrial cleaner when you arrive. students crowd the entrance, shaking rain from umbrellas and complaining about the weather as though new york has personally betrayed them. someone has taped a photograph of mysterio above one of the trophy cases, surrounding it with handwritten messages and a strip of black ribbon.

you avoid looking at it for long.

the trip to europe already feels strangely distant. people talk about london as if it belongs to a movie rather than something that happens around you—fire breaking across the bridge, drones filling the sky, spider-man swinging through collapsing illusions while the rest of you hide inside the tower.

peter returns to school with a bruise along his jaw and tells everyone he falls in the hotel bathroom.

no one except you, ned, and mj knows to stop asking.

you find mj in the cafeteria with a book open beside her tray. she occupies the same table near the windows, though ned and peter’s chairs remain empty.

“where are they?” you ask as you sit across from her.

mj turns one page. “ned said they had to do something.”

“something?”

“that was the official description.”

you look toward the cafeteria entrance.

mj looks at you over the top of her book.

“what?” you ask.

she lowers her eyes to your clothes.

peter’s sweatshirt hangs past your hips. the academic decathlon logo has faded from years of washing, and a thin white stain marks the cuff where he spills web fluid on it two nights ago.

you pull the sleeve over your hand.

mj closes the book around one finger.

“is that peter’s?”

“maybe.”

“you know i’ve seen him wear it.”

“lots of people have this sweatshirt.”

“with web fluid on the sleeve?”

you glance down.

mj watches your face.

“you could at least try lying,” she says.

“you already know.”

“i know he’s spider-man.” she rests her elbows against the table. “i don’t know why you’re wearing his clothes.”

you reach for the straw attached to your milk carton. the wrapper refuses to tear beneath your fingers.

mj waits.

the cafeteria continues around you, filled with plastic trays striking tables and students talking over one another. flash stands near the vending machines, showing three girls the same photograph of spider-man above tower bridge. he claims they are close personal friends now because peter introduces him to spider-man once in a hotel hallway.

“i’m seeing someone,” you admit.

mj’s expression does not change. “okay.”

you wait. she reopens her book.

“that’s it?”

“did you want applause?”

“no.”

“good. i don’t have any.”

you nudge the bottom of the book until she lowers it again. mj looks from you to the empty chair beside you, then back toward the sweatshirt.

understanding settles across her face one piece at a time.

“no,” she says.

“i haven’t told you who.”

“you don’t need to.”

“you could be wrong.”

“i’m not.”

mj leans across the table, lowering her voice even though the students around you are too absorbed in their own conversations to listen.

“oh my god,” she whispers. “are you seriously saying you’re with peter?”

heat moves into your face.

“could you say it louder?”

“probably.”

you catch her wrist before she can lift a hand toward her mouth. mj looks down at your fingers, then back at you with open satisfaction.

“you’re with peter,” she repeats.

“i didn’t say that.”

“you’re wearing his sweatshirt.”

“he took my jacket.”

“that explains everything.”

“it explains the sweatshirt.”

“how did he take your jacket?”

the straw wrapper tears between your fingers. you stare at the thin strip of plastic rather than answering.

mj’s eyes narrow.

“was he in your room?”

“he visits sometimes.”

“through the window?”

you finally push the straw through the carton. “the front door would involve questions.”

“questions like why peter parker is entering your bedroom after midnight?”

“those kinds of questions.”

mj settles back in her chair. her expression has changed from suspicion to the focused stillness she usually develops while watching documentaries about unsolved disappearances.

“how long?” she asks.

“a few weeks.”

“weeks?”

“keep your voice down.”

“you kept this from me for weeks?”

“i was going to tell you.”

“when?”

you take a drink of milk to delay answering. it is lukewarm and tastes faintly of the cardboard container.

“eventually,” you say.

“that isn’t a time.”

“neither is ‘soon,’ and peter uses that constantly.”

mj glances toward the cafeteria entrance. “does he know you’re calling it seeing someone?”

the question catches against something unprotected.

you lower the carton.

the answer should be simple. peter climbs through your window after patrol. he lets you clean blood from his face and sleeps beside you when his senses refuse to settle. he kisses you until neither of you remembers the conversation that comes before it, then leaves before morning with apologies and promises to text.

sometimes he holds your hand beneath the table while the four of you study together, hidden behind ned’s laptop and open textbooks. he keeps a toothbrush in your bathroom because the first time he stays until sunrise, you complain about his coffee breath. he knows which floorboard creaks outside your bedroom and how to close your window without making the frame stick.

but peter has never called himself your boyfriend. you have never asked him to either. 

“i don’t know,” you admit.

mj’s eyebrows rise. “you don’t know if he knows you’re involved?”

“i know how that sounds.”

“do you?”

“we haven’t talked about it.”

“you’ve established a secret window-entry system, but not a relationship?”

“the window thing happens naturally.”

“of course it does.”

you look toward the entrance again.

peter and ned were supposed to arrive several minutes ago. peter probably hears the cafeteria from wherever he is in the building. the thought makes your skin feel warmer.

mj steals one of your fries.

“does he come over as peter or spider-man?” she asks.

“mj.”

“it matters.”

“he’s always peter.”

the answer leaves before you consider it. mj’s hand stops above your tray.

you look down at the milk carton, rubbing one thumb through the damp ring it leaves against the table.

“even with the suit,” you continue, quieter now. “he’s still peter.”

mj lowers the fry.

“that was disgustingly sincere.”

“forget i said it.”

“absolutely not.”

you reach for the fry, but she eats it first. a small smile touches the corner of her mouth while she chews.

“what do you talk about?” she asks.

“things.”

“helpful.”

“school. movies. patrol.”

“his patrols?”

“sometimes.”

“does he tell you everything?”

you hesitate.

peter tells you about the people he saves. the little boy who cries when peter returns his lost dog. the elderly woman who offers him twenty dollars for stopping someone from stealing her bicycle. he tells you about the strange noise his web-shooter makes when one of the cartridges jams and how difficult it is to swing when the wind changes between buildings.

he does not tell you when he is frightened.

that part arrives in the tremor of his fingers while he locks your window. in the way he startles awake at ordinary sounds. in the nights when he lies beside you without sleeping, his attention fixed on every distant siren until you place your hand over his chest.

“not everything,” you say. “but more than he thinks.”

mj studies you for another moment.

“you love him.”

your elbow strikes the milk carton. mj catches it before it tips, sliding it safely toward the center of the table.

“i didn’t say that,” you whisper.

“you didn’t have to.”

“it’s only been a few weeks.”

“that doesn’t answer me.”

“you sound like a detective.”

“you’re doing whatever this is with spider-man. somebody should investigate.”

“i’m not doing anything with spider-man.”

mj’s eyebrows lift.

you pull the carton closer.

“it’s peter,” you correct. “that’s different.”

a tray lands on the table beside yours with enough force to make the silverware jump.

peter stands over the empty chair, slightly out of breath. his hair looks as though he runs both hands through it repeatedly, and the collar of his shirt folds inward beneath his jacket.

ned arrives behind him carrying his tray.

“sorry,” peter says, looking between you and mj. “mr. cobbwell needed help with something.”

ned’s expression tightens.

“a projector,” he adds.

“right.” peter nods too quickly. “the projector.”

mj looks from peter to ned. “did the projector attack someone in the east stairwell?”

ned nearly drops his tray.

peter lowers himself into the chair beside you. “why would you ask that?”

“no reason.”

you reach over and fix his collar before you can stop yourself. peter goes still beneath your fingers.

the movement is small, ordinary. you have done it in your bedroom without thinking, usually while he talks too quickly about something that happens during patrol. here, beneath fluorescent lights and mj’s attention, it feels more intimate than kissing him in the dark.

you let your hand fall.

ned looks at mj.

mj looks at peter’s sweatshirt around your body.

peter follows her gaze. his eyes widen.

“oh,” he says.

“yeah,” mj replies.

peter turns toward you. “you told her?”

the question is quiet, almost lost beneath the cafeteria noise.

you study his face, unable to decide whether he is embarrassed or upset. “was i not supposed to?”

“no. i mean, yes. obviously, she knows about—” he glances around the room before lowering his voice. “everything.”

“then what’s wrong?”

“nothing.”

mj snorts.

peter looks at her. “what?”

“you don’t have a nothing face,” she says. “that isn’t it.”

his ears begin turning red. peter reaches for the unopened water bottle on his tray, but his fingers miss and knock it sideways. you catch it before it rolls from the table.

he stares at your hand around the bottle.

“what did you tell her?” he asks.

you set it upright. “about what?”

“you know, me.”

mj’s mouth curves.

peter notices and points toward her. “don’t.”

“i haven’t said anything.”

“you’re doing the face.”

“i have several.”

“that one means you know something.”

“i know lots of things.”

ned sits across from peter and slowly opens a packet of ketchup as though he wants no involvement. the packet tears too far, spreading ketchup over his thumb.

“ned,” peter says.

ned reaches for a napkin. “i’m staying out of it.”

“you’re already in it.”

“i don’t know what she told mj.”

“but you know what i told you.”

silence settles across the table. peter’s face changes, and ned closes his eyes briefly.

mj leans forward. “this is interesting.”

“it isn’t,” peter says quickly.

you turn toward him. “what do you tell ned?”

“nothing.”

ned wipes ketchup from his hand. “that’s not true.”

“dude.”

“you brought me into this.”

“because you said you’d stay out of it.”

“yeah, well, i changed my mind.”

peter looks as though he might crawl beneath the table. his knee presses against yours, restless and warm through your jeans.

mj props her chin against one hand. “apparently, peter wants to know what girls say about boys.”

“i don’t,” peter says.

“you just asked what she told me.”

“that’s different.”

“how?”

peter opens his mouth. nothing comes out.

you watch the flush spread from his ears into his cheeks. his fingers curl around the edge of his tray, worrying the plastic rim while his attention moves anywhere except your face.

the cafeteria continues around you. flash’s voice rises from the neighboring table as he insists he could have helped spider-man in london. someone drops several quarters beside the vending machines. outside the windows, pale afternoon light catches against the courtyard doors.

you touch peter’s wrist beneath the table. his hand turns immediately beneath yours.

“what do you want to know?” you ask.

his thumb brushes once across your knuckles.

“i don’t know.”

“that isn’t true.”

peter glances toward mj and ned.

mj opens her book again, though she holds it upside down. ned becomes intensely interested in arranging fries by length.

peter leans closer. his voice drops until it belongs only to the space between your chairs.

“did you tell her about last night?”

your heartbeat catches.

“which part?”

his gaze flickers toward your mouth. the answer moves through him visibly. his fingers tighten around yours beneath the table.

“never mind,” he says.

before you can stop him, peter releases your hand and reaches for his water.

—

mj waits until peter and ned leave for physics to ask what happened last night.

you tell her almost nothing

not because you are protecting peter’s identity, though. mj already knows about the bite, the suit, the web-shooters, and every disastrous decision he makes in europe. there is no secret left to guard except the shape of peter’s mouth against yours and the way he falls asleep in your bed because his body finally relaxes somewhere.

those details feel different.

they do not belong to spider-man. they barely belong to you and peter, because neither of you has decided what to call the collection of nights accumulating between you.

you tell mj that he gets hurt. you tell her you clean the blood from his face.

you do not tell her that he kisses you with both hands shaking after difficult patrols, or that sometimes you wake with his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades and his arm around your waist.

mj watches you with increasing suspicion as you avoid every important part.

“so he visits,” she says while the two of you carry your trays toward the bins. “you perform emergency medical care, and then he leaves.”

“sometimes he sleeps.”

“in your room.”

“where else would he sleep?”

“his house.”

“may worries when he comes home injured.”

mj drops her plastic fork into the trash. “and you don’t?”

you scrape the untouched half of your lunch into the bin.

“that isn’t the point.”

“it seems like the point.”

students move around you toward the cafeteria doors. the next bell is still several minutes away, but the hall already fills with the sound of lockers opening and shoes striking tile.

mj steps aside to let a freshman pass.

“what do you call him?” she asks.

“peter.”

“you know that isn’t what i mean.”

you balance the empty tray against your hip. “i don’t call him anything.”

“sweetheart?”

you stare at her. mj’s mouth twitches.

“absolutely not,” you say.

“lover?”

“you need to stop.”

“boyfriend?”

the word catches differently.

you place the tray on top of the others with more care than necessary.

“he hasn’t asked,” you say.

mj studies the side of your face. “have you?”

you turn toward the hallway.

“we’re going to be late.”

“that’s not an answer.”

“you spend too much time with peter.”

“he avoids answers worse than you.”

you walk away before she can ask again.

—

peter asks ned about the conversation during physics.

he tries to wait until mr. harrington turns toward the board, but waiting requires a kind of patience peter does not possess when you are concerned. he leans across the lab table before ned finishes copying the formula.

“what do you think they talked about after we left?”

ned keeps writing. “you.”

peter’s pencil stops.

“you think?”

“mj was staring at you like you were part of an unsolved crime.”

“she always looks like that.”

“then why did you ask?”

peter glances toward the classroom door as if he might be able to see through two walls and across the building to wherever you are.

“i didn’t know she knew.”

“she knows everything.”

“not everything.”

ned looks at him.

peter lowers his voice. “about us.”

“there’s an us?”

the question hits harder than ned intends.

peter looks down at the blank page in front of him.

“i don’t know.”

ned’s pencil stills. “you don’t know?”

“we never talked about it.”

“you’ve been sneaking into her room for a month.”

“three weeks.”

“that is the least important part of what i said.”

1. harrington glances toward them from the front of the room. peter bends over his notebook and writes the first equation he sees on the board. he completes it before the teacher turns away.

ned waits.

“it isn’t simple,” peter whispers.

“why?”

“because of everything.”

he gestures vaguely toward himself, though the movement contains the suit beneath his clothes, london, the drones, tony’s glasses, and every siren he follows instead of answering his phone.

ned understands.

his expression softens. “does she know you think it’s complicated?”

peter rotates the pencil between his fingers.

“probably.”

“because you told her?”

“because she’s smart.”

“peter.”

“i don’t know what she wants me to say.”

“you could ask what she wants.”

“that sounds dangerous.”

ned stares at him.

peter looks toward the board again. “what?”

“you fought an army of drones.”

“that was different.”

“how?”

“the drones were trying to kill me.”

“and this is worse?”

peter presses the eraser into the corner of the page until the paper begins to tear.

“maybe.”

—

you find peter waiting near the stairwell after the final bell.

students move around him without stopping, splitting naturally around the place where he leans against the wall. his backpack hangs from one shoulder. a faint red mark crosses the bridge of his nose, probably from whatever happened with the projector before lunch.

he straightens when he sees you.

“hey.”

“hey.”

you stop in front of him. the hallway windows reflect a dull silver sky, and rain begins gathering again against the glass.

peter looks at his sweatshirt you’re wearing.

“you can keep that,” he says.

“you have my jacket.”

“right.”

“you wore it home.”

“it was cold.”

“you can lift cars.”

“that doesn’t make me warm.”

“you were wearing a suit.”

“it isn’t insulated.”

you look down at the sleeve. “this has a stain.”

“i noticed.”

“web fluid.”

“it should come out.”

“it didn’t.”

peter reaches for the cuff. his thumb rubs across the white mark, though the dried fluid does not move beneath it.

his fingers remain around your wrist.

students continue emptying from the hallway. a teacher pushes a cart of textbooks past the stairwell, one wheel producing a high squeak every few feet. peter flinches at the sound.

you step closer.

“headache?”

“a little.”

“come over.”

his eyes lift to yours. “now?”

“unless you have something else to do.”

peter’s attention shifts toward the nearest window.

you recognize the movement.

“patrol,” you say.

“i should.”

“okay.”

you try to pull your wrist away, but peter keeps hold of you.

“i could come over first,” he says.

“you just said you should patrol.”

“i can do both.”

“you always do both.”

something in your tone makes his fingers loosen.

you don’t mean for it to sound sharp. you are tired from sleeping in fragments, listening for his messages, and wondering whether every quiet period means he is busy or hurt. none of that is his fault. none of it is something you know how to explain without asking for more than he has offered.

“sorry,” you say.

“no, you’re right.”

“i didn’t say you shouldn’t go.”

“i know.”

peter lets go of your wrist. the absence of his hand feels immediate.

his gaze drops toward the floor between you.

“what did you tell mj?” he asks.

the question appears unrelated enough to leave you briefly disoriented.

“when?”

“at lunch.”

“we talked about lots of things.”

“about me.”

you study him. his posture remains deliberately casual, one hand curled around his backpack strap, but the muscles along his jaw tighten while he waits.

“why does it matter?”

“it doesn’t.”

“you brought it up.”

“i was wondering.”

“about what?”

peter looks toward the students passing at the far end of the hall. “what you say.”

“i told her the truth.”

his attention returns to you. “which truth?”

you almost smile.

“you’re going to have to be more specific.”

peter doesn’t answer. instead, he pushes away from the wall.

“i should go.”

“peter.”

“i’ll text you.”

“soon?”

the word makes him pause. his mouth curves faintly, though the expression does not reach his eyes.

“yeah,” he says. “soon.”

—

he does not come through your window that night.

a message arrives shortly after midnight.

busy. safe. don’t wait up.

you wait anyway.

rain continues until morning, moving steadily against the windows while headlights pass in pale bands across your ceiling. you keep the desk lamp on beside unfinished homework, though the equations stop making sense long before midnight.

peter’s sweatshirt stays around you.

you wake at four with your cheek pressed to an open textbook and the phone beneath your hand.

there are no new messages.

—

by monday, peter decides mj cannot be trusted.

he reaches this conclusion after asking whether you call him ‘sweet’ and receiving seven uninterrupted seconds of silence.

the four of you sit in the library beneath the watchful attention of a librarian who already warned ned twice about opening snacks near the computers. peter occupies the chair across from you, though his eyes lift from his notes every few minutes.

you pretend not to notice, but mj notices enough for everyone.

she closes her book and looks at peter. “what?”

“nothing.”

“you’ve looked at me fourteen times.”

peter’s eyebrows pull together. “you counted?”

“i count lots of things.”

ned lowers his voice. “that’s creepy.”

“you’re one to talk,” mj replies. “you tracked spider-man through local emergency reports.”

“that was research.”

peter glances toward the librarian, then lowers his voice.

“did she call me sweet?”

you look up from your chemistry notes. mj’s face remains perfectly still, and ned slowly sets down his pencil.

“what?” you ask.

peter’s attention snaps toward you. “nothing.”

“you just asked her something.”

“about the assignment.”

mj opens her book again. “peter wants to know if you call him sweet.”

the librarian looks toward your table when ned chokes on his own breath. peter closes his eyes.

you stare at him.

“you asked her that?”

“not exactly.”

“those were your exact words,” mj says.

“i was asking in general.”

“generally, ‘does she call you sweet?’”

peter pushes his chair back an inch. “i’m going to move.”

ned catches the leg with his shoe. “no, you’re not.”

the librarian clears her throat. all four of you lower your voices.

you lean across the table. “why do you want to know?”

peter looks down at his notes. “i don’t.”

“you asked.”

“i was curious.”

“about whether i think you’re sweet?”

“forget it.”

mj turns a page she has not read. “she called you a freak.”

peter becomes still.

you look at her. “mj.”

“what?” she asks. “he wanted to know.”

“context matters.”

peter’s gaze remains on the paper in front of him. “what context?”

“you were asleep on my ceiling.”

ned’s head lifts. “he does that at your house too?”

“too?” you repeat.

peter looks betrayed. “ned.”

“sometimes he does it during sleepovers.”

“you said you’d never tell anyone.”

“i assumed she knew.”

“why would she know?”

the question leaves peter before he considers the answer.

silence settles around the table. mj’s mouth twitches behind her book. peter’s face turns red.

you reach across and touch the back of his hand.

“you were asleep on the ceiling,” you repeat quietly. “you’re allowed to be a little bit of a freak.”

his eyes lift to yours. something wounded remains behind them.

you turn your hand beneath his and fit your fingers against his palm.

“i also said it affectionately.”

“how do you say ‘freak’ affectionately?” ned asks.

mj looks at him. “tone.”

“right.”

peter’s thumb moves across your knuckles.

“did you tell her anything else?” he asks.

the question is meant only for you now.

you think of what mj says in the cafeteria. you love him.

you think of how quickly you deny it, not because it is wrong, but because saying it would make the feeling solid enough to lose.

“probably,” you say.

peter waits.

when you do not continue, his fingers slowly loosen from yours.

—

the first time betty asks about the sweatshirt, you tell her it belongs to a cousin.

the second time, you say you borrow it from lost and found.

by the third, even you recognize that the lie is becoming insulting.

betty sits beside you on the gym bleachers during a school fundraiser, carefully painting letters across a poster for the academic decathlon booth. the gym smells like tempera paint, dust, and the pizza flash convinces a local restaurant to donate in exchange for several social media posts.

peter and ned work across the room, attempting to hang a banner without a ladder. ned stands on a folding chair. peter holds the back of his shirt to keep him from falling, though either of them could complete the task more easily if the gym were empty.

“so,” betty says, dipping her brush into blue paint, “is there a guy?”

your hand slips. a line of yellow paint cuts through the letter you are outlining.

“why would you ask that?”

betty looks toward the sweatshirt tied around your waist. “because you keep wearing someone else’s clothes.”

“it could be mine.”

“it says parker inside the collar.”

you look across the gym. peter’s back is turned, but with his hearing, that means almost nothing.

“peter lends it to me,” you say.

betty’s expression brightens. “peter?”

“we’re friends.”

“just friends?”

the question lands loudly despite her quiet voice.

you dip the brush into paint again. “it isn’t like that.”

across the gym, the folding chair scrapes sharply against the floor. peter catches ned before he falls. several students laugh. ned climbs down, speaking too quickly while peter keeps one hand against the banner.

his face has gone carefully blank.

betty follows your attention.

“are you sure?” she asks.

you press the brush against the poster until paint spreads through the paper.

“peter and i aren’t together,” you say.

the words are technically true, but they sound wrong anyway.

peter looks toward you. the distance between you is too great for an ordinary person to hear, but his eyes meet yours immediately.

he lets go of the banner.

“i forgot something,” he tells ned.

then he walks out of the gym.

—

you follow him to the roof.

the door resists beneath your hand until you remember to lift it before turning the handle. cold wind crosses the rooftop, carrying the smell of rain from clouds gathering above queens.

peter stands near the edge with both hands braced against the concrete wall. his shoulders tense when the door closes behind you.

“you heard that,” you say.

“heard what?”

“peter.”

he looks across the neighboring rooftops. “you were talking to betty. i wasn’t listening.”

“you hear everything.”

“not everything.”

“you heard me.”

his jaw tightens. you move closer, though several feet remain between you when you stop.

“she doesn’t know,” you say.

“about spider-man.”

“about any of it.”

“right.”

“i can’t tell her.”

“i know.”

“then why are you upset?”

peter turns. wind pushes his hair across his forehead. the pale mark along his nose has almost healed, but exhaustion darkens the skin beneath his eyes.

“i’m not.”

“you left.”

“i forgot something.”

“what?”

he opens his mouth. nothing comes out.

you fold your arms against the cold. “that’s what i thought.”

peter looks away again. traffic moves below the building, filling the silence with distant engines and horns.

“you said we aren’t together,” he says.

there it is.

you step closer.

“are we?”

his head turns toward you.

the question moves between you, more frightening in daylight than it ever seems in your bedroom. peter looks at your face as though he is searching for the safest possible answer, one that cannot hurt either of you.

“i don’t know,” he admits.

you nod. peter’s expression falls.

“then i didn’t lie.”

“no.”

“i couldn’t tell betty about you.”

“i know.”

“why do you keep saying that like you don’t?”

“because knowing doesn’t make it sound better.”

you look past him toward the skyline. buildings rise through dull afternoon light, their windows catching what little sun remains beneath the clouds.

“you never asked me,” you say.

peter becomes very still.

“asked you what?”

“anything.”

“i ask you things all the time.”

“you ask whether i finish homework. you ask if my parents are home. you ask if you can come through the window.”

his hands curl against the concrete wall.

“you never ask what this is.”

“neither do you.”

“i’m asking now.”

peter looks at you.

for one second, hope moves openly across his face. then something louder than either of you interrupts from the street below—a crash of metal, followed by several car horns and someone shouting.

peter turns toward the edge.

you close your eyes. of course.

“go,” you say.

“i can stay.”

“someone might be hurt.”

“this matters too.”

“then come back.”

peter hesitates. you step close enough to take hold of the front of his jacket.

“come back when you have an answer.”

his eyes move across your face.

then he nods.

peter climbs onto the ledge. the suit is hidden beneath his clothes, but the web-shooters already circle his wrists.

“i will,” he says.

you release his jacket.

he falls backward from the roof.

your heart lurches even though you know what happens next. a web catches somewhere beyond the building, pulling him into a wide arc above the street.

he does not look back.

—

peter does not have an answer when he returns.

he does not return at all.

your phone receives three messages over the next two days, each of them apologetic and none containing enough information.

big thing downtown. safe.

helping happy. sorry.

can we talk tomorrow?

tomorrow arrives without him.

at school, he moves between classes with ned. he looks toward you whenever he thinks you are not watching, but does not approach.

you do not wear his sweatshirt.

mj finds you in the library after school and lowers herself into the chair across from you.

“you look terrible,” she says.

you turn a page. “thank you.”

“peter looks worse.”

“good.”

mj raises an eyebrow. you close the book.

“not good,” you correct. “you know what i mean.”

“unfortunately.”

she rests her folded arms against the table. students work quietly around you while rain begins tapping at the high windows, soft enough to disappear beneath turning pages and computer keys.

“he talks about you,” mj says.

you look down at the closed book.

“i know.”

“no. you know he talks. you don’t know what he says.”

“did ned tell you?”

“ned tells me everything when he’s stressed.”

“is peter stressed?”

mj stares at you.

“right,” you murmur.

she leans closer. “he asks ned whether you’re mad every twenty minutes. he asks whether he should text. then he writes a text, deletes it, and asks whether deleting it makes things worse.”

“it does.”

“i told ned that.”

you trace one finger along the edge of the book cover.

“does he say anything else?”

mj’s expression changes slightly.

“you could ask him.”

“he asked you what i say.”

“and i told him to ask you.”

“did you answer?”

“not really.”

“why?”

“because it isn’t my job to tell peter you love him.”

your fingers still. mj doesn’t look away.

“you don’t know that,” you say.

“you talk about him constantly.”

“we barely talk about him.”

“you told me he makes a different face when he hears ambulances than police sirens.”

“that came up naturally.”

“you told me he hates bananas but eats them because may buys them.”

“she forgets he doesn’t like them.”

“you told me he apologizes to furniture.”

“he walked into a chair and said sorry.”

“you told me you can tell when he’s smiling beneath the mask.”

your throat tightens. mj sits back.

“you talk about him,” she says. “you just don’t use the word.”

“what word?”

she gives you a tired look. you look toward the rain-streaked windows.

“he hasn’t used it either,” you say.

“maybe he thinks you don’t want him to.”

“he knows i want him.”

“does he?”

the question remains after mj returns to her book.

—

ned finds peter in the chemistry lab after sunset.

peter sits beneath one of the work lights with a web cartridge dismantled in front of him. every component is arranged in careful rows across the table, though he has not touched any of them for several minutes.

ned closes the door.

“mj says you’re being stupid.”

peter does not look up. “she says that every day.”

“she says you’re being more stupid than usual.”

“great.”

ned pulls out the stool beside him. “did you talk to her?”

“i tried.”

“what happened?”

“someone crashed a van into a taxi.”

“after that.”

peter rotates a small metal spring between his fingers.

“i got busy.”

“for two days?”

“there was the van. then happy needed help with damage control from london. then may had a fundraiser.”

“you could text.”

“i did.”

“you sent her three words.”

“one message had four.”

ned closes his eyes. “dude.”

peter places the spring on the table.

“i don’t know what to say.”

“tell her the truth.”

“which part?”

“all of it.”

peter looks toward the dark windows. his reflection appears faintly above the lab tables, a tired boy beneath harsh fluorescent light.

“i don’t know what she tells mj,” he says.

ned’s eyebrows draw together. “you’re still thinking about that?”

“she told betty we aren’t together.”

“you said you aren’t.”

“i know.”

“then what’s the problem?”

peter rubs both hands over his face. “i don’t want that to be true.”

the admission leaves the room quiet. 

ned waits. peter lowers his hands.

“every time we’re alone, it feels like…” he stops, searching for something precise enough to hold the feeling. “it feels bigger than it should.”

“bigger than what?”

“me.”

ned’s expression softens.

peter looks down at the cartridge again. “then we come to school, and i don’t know if i’m supposed to sit beside her or touch her or act like nothing happens. i don’t know if she tells mj i’m some guy who climbs through her window or if she tells her she wishes i’d stop.”

“she wears your clothes.”

“because i stole her jacket.”

“she waits for you after patrol.”

“because she worries.”

“she kisses you.”

peter glances toward him. “how do you know that?”

“you told me.”

“i did not.”

“you spent twenty minutes explaining why your lip was bleeding more after you left her house.”

peter looks away.

ned pushes one of the web components back into line.

“what do you say about her?” he asks.

“to who?”

“me.”

“nothing.”

ned stares at him.

peter sighs. “fine. things.”

“you told me the exact sound she makes when she’s trying not to laugh.”

“it’s noticeable.”

“you told me what shampoo she uses.”

“she asked me to buy it once.”

“you told me she keeps the window unlocked for you.”

peter’s hands become still.

ned looks at him.

“you talk about her like she’s already your girlfriend.”

the word pulls something tight across peter’s face.

“she isn’t.”

“because she doesn’t want to be?”

“because i haven’t asked.”

“why?”

peter looks toward the dismantled cartridge.

“people change.”

“what?”

“we’re eighteen. everything changes.” his voice drops. “six months ago, mr. stark was alive. two months ago, i thought beck was a hero. three weeks ago, i didn’t know she would ever look at me like this.”

ned does not interrupt.

“what if i ask for something i can’t give her?” peter continues. “what if she gets tired of cancelled plans and windows and me showing up hurt? what if she says yes now and hates me later?”

“what if she doesn’t?”

peter swallows.

“that might be worse.”

“why?”

“because then i have someone else to lose.”

ned sits with that for a moment.

outside the lab, a cleaning cart rattles along the hallway. peter turns toward the sound instinctively, then forces himself to look back at the table.

“you already have her to lose,” ned says.

peter’s eyes close.

“yeah,” he admits.

—

peter comes through your window the following night.

you are awake, though the lights are off. the city fills the room instead—headlights moving across the walls, red aircraft lights blinking above distant buildings, and neon from the pharmacy sign at the corner turning the ceiling faintly blue.

the window opens without a sound. peter climbs inside and closes it behind him.

he wears the suit with the mask pushed above his mouth. one lens is cracked. dirt marks the red fabric across his shoulder, but you see no blood.

you stay beneath the blankets.

“are you hurt?” you ask.

he turns. “no.”

“are you sure?”

“yeah.”

you nod toward the chair beside your desk. “your sweatshirt’s there.”

peter looks at it. the folded fabric has remained untouched since the fundraiser.

“you can keep it,” he says.

“you already said that.”

“right.”

he removes the mask. flattened curls spring unevenly around his face, and a faint crease crosses his cheek from the edge of the fabric.

neither of you speaks.

peter sits on the desk chair rather than approaching the bed. the distance feels deliberate, though your bedroom is too small for it to become convincing.

“you came back,” you say.

“i said i would.”

“three days ago.”

“i know.”

“you’re late.”

“i know,” he repeats.

his hands turn the mask between them, twisting the fabric until one white lens bends inward.

you push back the blankets and sit against the headboard.

“you’re going to break that.”

peter looks down. he smooths the lens with his thumb.

“sorry.”

“stop apologizing.”

“sorry.”

you stare at him. a tired smile touches his mouth before disappearing again.

rain begins outside, not yet heavy enough to reach the window. the weather has spent the entire week threatening a storm it cannot seem to produce.

peter looks toward the sweatshirt.

“what did you tell mj?” he asks.

you release a slow breath.

“you came here to ask me that again?”

“not only that.”

“but it’s still bothering you.”

“yes.”

the honesty surprises you. peter sets the mask on the desk.

“i know it shouldn’t,” he says. “i know you have to lie to people who don’t know, and mj already knows everything important. i know it isn’t my business what you say when i’m not there.”

“but?”

his fingers curl around the edge of the chair.

“but i need to know.”

you wait. peter looks at you directly.

“when you talk about me, who am i?”

the question quiets everything else.

you look toward the window. raindrops begin catching against the glass one at a time, each one dividing the city lights into smaller pieces.

“you’re peter.”

“i know.”

“do you?”

his brow pulls together.

you slide your legs from beneath the blankets and sit on the edge of the bed.

“betty doesn’t know about spider-man,” you say. “she thinks you’re the boy who disappears from class and loses his backpack twice a week. flash thinks you’re spider-man’s ‘assistant.’ my parents think you’re the polite kid from school who helps me with biology.”

“you don’t need help with biology.”

“i know, that’s why it’s a useful lie.”

peter’s mouth almost curves.

you continue before he can retreat into the joke.

“mj gets the truth.”

his expression stills.

“what truth?”

you look down at your hands.

“i tell her you’re sweet when you aren’t trying to convince everyone you’re fine. i tell her you’re a freak when you sleep on ceilings and hiss at the vacuum.”

“it was loud.”

“i know.”

“and i didn’t hiss.”

“you absolutely did.”

peter lowers his eyes, but a small smile remains at the edge of his mouth.

“i tell her you steal my clothes,” you continue. “i tell her you leave before morning, and that sometimes you don’t text until i’m already imagining every terrible thing that could happen to you.”

the smile fades.

“i’m sorry.”

“peter.”

“right.”

you move from the bed. he watches while you cross the small distance between you. your knees touch when you stop in front of the chair.

“i tell her you’re impossible,” you say. “that you cancel plans. that you show up bleeding and expect me not to react. that you hear every lie except the ones you tell yourself.”

peter’s hands loosen from the chair.

“do you tell her you wish i’d stop coming?”

the question is so quiet that you almost miss it.

you look at him.

“is that what you thought?”

he doesn’t answer.

you reach down and take the mask from the desk. the damaged lens catches the city light as you smooth the fabric between your hands.

“peter, i keep my window unlocked.”

“that could mean anything.”

“no one in queens keeps a fourth-floor window unlocked by accident.”

he looks toward your face.

“then what does it mean?”

you set the mask aside.

“what do you tell ned?”

peter blinks. “what?”

“you want to know what i say. i want to know what you say.”

“that isn’t fair.”

“why?”

“because ned repeats things.”

“mj doesn’t?”

“not to me.”

“exactly.”

peter looks down at your knees touching his.

“i tell him about you,” he admits.

“what about me?”

“things.”

“helpful.”

“i tell him you make tea and forget to drink it. i tell him you leave the hall light on when you know i’m coming over. i tell him you can tell when it’s too loud for me even if i don’t say anything.”

your breathing slows.

peter touches the edge of your sleeve. you are wearing your own shirt tonight, but his fingers still move as though looking for something familiar.

“i tell him you don’t treat spider-man like someone different,” he continues. “you don’t ask me to take the suit off before you touch me. you don’t act disappointed when it’s just me underneath.”

“peter.”

“i know that sounds stupid.”

“it doesn’t.”

his fingers close gently around your wrist.

“i tell ned that when something happens, you’re the first person i want to talk to. even if i can’t.” peter’s thumb presses over your pulse. “i tell him i think about your room during patrol because it’s quiet here. not actually quiet, but…” he glances toward the window. “quiet in my head.”

the rain begins falling harder. you don’t move.

“what else?” you whisper.

peter’s gaze lifts to yours. fear appears there before the words do.

“i tell him you take my breath away.”

your throat tightens. peter’s hand slips from your wrist as though the confession requires him to release you.

“i don’t understand it,” he says. “i know we’re young. i know everything changes, and i can’t promise i’ll be good at this. i can’t promise normal dates or that i’ll always answer my phone. i can’t even promise i’ll use the door.”

“the window is faster.”

“it is.”

“and less awkward.”

“usually.”

you step closer. peter looks up at you from the chair.

“you still haven’t answered,” you say.

“answered what?”

“what this is.”

his lips part. you place one hand against his cheek. the faint crease from the mask remains beneath your thumb.

peter leans into your palm before he can stop himself.

“i want you to be my girlfriend,” he says.

the room becomes very still. peter swallows.

“i should’ve asked before. i think part of me thought if we didn’t say it, then nothing could change. you couldn’t decide you didn’t want it later because i never actually gave you anything to leave.”

the honesty hurts more than hesitation would.

you brush your thumb beneath his eye.

“that isn’t how it works.”

“i know.”

“you could still lose me without calling me your girlfriend.”

“ned said that.”

“ned is smart.”

“don’t tell him that.”

you laugh lightly. peter’s hand rises to your waist, but he doesn’t pull you closer yet.

“do you want to?” he asks.

“want to what?”

“be my girlfriend.”

you make him wait, but not for long. only enough that peter’s fingers tighten once against your shirt and the fear in his expression becomes impossible to tease.

then you lower yourself onto his lap.

the chair creaks beneath the added weight. peter catches your hips automatically, surprise passing across his face before you settle with one knee on either side of him.

“yes,” you say.

his breathing stops.

“yes?”

“yes, peter.”

“you’re sure?”

you touch your forehead to his.

“you’re a sweetheart and a freak. i know what i’m agreeing to.”

a breath of laughter leaves him, warm against your mouth.

“so i’m your boyfriend?” the quiet hope in his voice makes your chest ache.

“you’re my boyfriend.”

peter smiles.

it begins slowly, pulling at one corner of his mouth before spreading across his entire face. you barely have time to see it before his hand slides into your hair and he kisses you.

there is nothing hesitant in it now.

peter pulls you against him while your arms circle his shoulders. the chair shifts beneath you, one wheel catching against the edge of the rug, but neither of you pays attention. his mouth moves against yours with the urgency of every question he doesn’t ask soon enough.

your fingers catch in his hair. the mask falls from the desk and lands beside the chair. peter kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, his breath uneven against your skin.

“wait,” he murmurs.

you lean back enough to look at him. his hands remain around your waist.

“what?”

peter’s eyes move across your face. the fear returns, but it is different now—more open, no longer protected by uncertainty.

“did you tell mj you love me?”

your heart stops. peter seems to regret the question immediately.

“you don’t have to answer,” he says. “forget i asked.”

you keep one hand against the back of his neck.

“do you tell ned you love me?”

his gaze drops toward your shoulder.

“yes.” the answer comes so quietly that the rain nearly takes it. 

you wait until peter looks at you again.

“then we tell them the same thing.”

he becomes completely still beneath you.

“you love me?”

you nod.

“the way i love you?”

“probably more.”

“that seems scientifically unlikely.”

“i have evidence.”

“what evidence?”

“you.”

peter’s expression breaks.

he kisses you before either of you can say anything else, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades while the other cradles the back of your head. the kiss softens after the first desperate second, becoming something slower and almost careful.

when he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours.

“i love you,” he says.

the words sound unfamiliar in his voice, as though he has carried them long enough that hearing them aloud surprises him.

you brush your nose against his.

“i love you too.”

outside, the storm finally breaks over queens.

—

mj does not react when you tell her.

she sits across from you at lunch with her book open beside her tray. ned and peter are still in line, arguing about whether two cartons of chocolate milk count as a complete meal.

you take peter’s sweatshirt from the back of your chair and put it on. mj turns one page.

“peter asked me to be his girlfriend,” you say.

“finally.”

you stare at her. “that’s it?”

“did you want applause?”

“maybe.”

“i don’t have any.”

the corner of her mouth lifts.

you pull one sleeve over your hand. “you could pretend to be surprised.”

“you’ve worn his clothes for a month.”

“that doesn’t mean anything.”

“he fell asleep with his head in your lap during study hall.”

“he was tired.”

“he threatened a vending machine because it kept your change.”

“it was two dollars.”

mj looks toward the lunch line.

peter stands beside ned with one hand in his pocket. even from across the cafeteria, he finds you immediately. the tension leaves his shoulders when your eyes meet.

he smiles.

mj follows your gaze.

“oh my god,” she mutters. “you’re seriously with peter.”

you smile into the collar of his sweatshirt.

“yes.”

peter and ned reach the table moments later. peter sets his tray beside yours with more care than usual, then lowers himself into the chair.

beneath the table, his hand finds yours. this time, neither of you hides it.

ned sits across from him. “he told me.”

“i assumed.”

“at four in the morning.”

peter’s face reddens. “you were awake.”

“because you called me.”

“you said i could call whenever.”

“i meant during emergencies.”

peter looks toward you.

“it felt like one.”

you squeeze his hand.

mj closes her book. “did he ask what you tell me?”

“eventually.”

“did you tell him?”

“eventually.”

peter’s thumb passes over your knuckles. “she made me go first.”

“good,” mj says.

ned opens his chocolate milk. “what did you say?”

peter looks at him. “none of your business.”

“you called me immediately afterward.”

“that was different.”

“you cried.”

peter nearly drops his fork.

“i did not,” he says, his voice higher than usual.

ned looks at you. “he cried.”

“there was rain,” peter says.

“inside your bedroom?”

“the window was open.”

“well, i don’t think rain sniffles.”

you lean against his shoulder. peter looks down at you, embarrassment softening into something warmer.

around you, the cafeteria continues as it always does. flash talks too loudly from the neighboring table. coins strike the floor near the vending machines. someone argues about mysterio, insisting spider-man could never have defeated him without help.

for once, peter does not turn toward every mention of his name.

his attention remains on you.

—

that evening, peter convinces you to go into the city.

he calls it a date with enough hesitation that you make him repeat the word twice, then spends twenty minutes explaining that he does not have a plan. you take the subway into manhattan anyway, standing in front of him while he stands beneath an advertisement for a broadway show.

peter keeps one hand around yours.

there are no windows to climb through and no tables to hide beneath. people look at your joined hands without caring enough to remember them.

the freedom of it feels larger than it should.

you buy sandwiches from a small shop near penn station. peter goes to pay despite your protests, then realizes he leaves most of his cash in the suit and has to borrow three dollars from you.

“great date,” he says as you step onto the sidewalk. “really impressive.”

“i’m overwhelmed.”

“you should be.”

“no one has ever owed me three dollars this romantically.”

peter bumps his shoulder against yours.

the city moves brightly around you, billboards washing the street in red, blue, and white. taxis press through the intersection. people gather near the screens above madison square garden, some watching advertisements while others hold phones above their heads.

peter unwraps his sandwich as you walk.

“may wants to meet you,” he says.

you glance at him. “she knows me.”

“as my lab partner.”

“i’m not your lab partner.”

“she thinks you are.”

“why?”

“because i told her you were.”

“white lie?”

“very white.”

“what are you going to tell her now?”

peter looks down at your hands. his fingers tighten around yours.

“the truth.”