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The Indie Art Cinema on 42nd Street smelled like buttery popcorn, floor cleaner, and decades of artistic pretension.
Inside the dim, red lit auditorium, the psychological thriller was doing its absolute best to be dark, gritty, and deeply unsettling. But Peter wasn’t paying attention to a single frame of it.
He was entirely, agonizingly hyper aware of the fact that his shoulder was brushing against MJ’s on the shared armrest.
It was totally surreal. Every time the screen flashed white, he caught himself glancing at her profile instead of the actors on screen, half convinced this was all some weird stress dream he’d wake up from in his bedroom.
About halfway through the movie, during a tense scene in a dark hallway, MJ let out a quiet, scoffing laugh.
“Idiots” she muttered, reaching blindly into the popcorn bucket between them.
Her fingers brushed against Peter’s hand at the bottom of the tub.
Peter froze completely, his breath catching in his throat. He didn't pull his hand away. Instead, slowly like he was defusing a very delicate Stark Tech explosive, Peter let his fingers slide just a little closer, lightly intertwining his hand with hers.
MJ didn't pull away either. She didn't make a big deal out of it, and she didn't look at his direction. She just kept her eyes glued to the screen, though a faint, dusty pink dusted the tops of her cheeks in the flickering blue light of the projector. Her thumb gave his knuckles a tiny, grounding squeeze.
Peter let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since three o'clock that afternoon. The knot of panic in his chest completely dissolved, replaced by a warm, dizzy kind of happiness.
When the movie finally ended and the credits rolled, they walked out into the cool New York night air together, sharing an easy, comfortable rhythm under the streetlights.
“So” MJ said casually, hands shoved into her jacket pockets as they walked toward the subway.
“Are we getting food or are you going to stare blankly at a wall until your metabolism crashes?”
Peter grinned, shaking off his daze.
“Oh, I know a place. It’s super lowkey, looks kind of sketchy from the outside, but they honestly make the best cheeseburger in the entire city. My dad takes me there when we want to escape the Tower.”
MJ raised an eyebrow, a tiny, intrigued smirk touching her lips.
“Alright, lead the way, Parker. Prove it.”
Ten blocks later, they were sitting in a cracked red vinyl booth at a tiny, neon lit corner joint that smelled overwhelmingly of grilled onions, melted cheddar, and absolute heaven. Within five minutes, Peter had loaded the table with a double cheeseburger, a massive basket of fries, and a chocolate milkshake.
“You eat like a radioactive spider with a tapeworm.” MJ observed, taking a delicate sip of her soda while watching Peter inhale half a fry.
“Hey, metabolism is a cruel master.” Peter mumbled around his food, grinning so hard his face hurt.
They were just laughing over some ridiculous story about Ned trying to build a Lego Death Star in the school library when the bell above the diner door jingled. A tall man in an expensive suit, holding a half eaten burger in one hand and wearing absolute chaos in his eyes, strolled right into the establishment.
It was Tony Stark. Fresh off an early flight from Geneva, tie loosened, looking entirely too smug for 9:00 PM.
Tony’s eyes swept the diner, landed squarely on the booth in the back, and lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Well, well, well.”
Tony announced, walking right over and sliding uninvited onto the bench next to Peter, throwing an arm over Peter’s shoulders.
“If it isn’t my favorite neighborhood menace. And—oh! You must be MJ. I’ve heard so much about you. Geneva was boring anyway, but this? This burger is my absolute favorite. Didn't expect to meet you love birds here.”
Peter felt every drop of blood rush violently to his face. He choked on his french fry, pounding his chest with one hand while staring at Tony in sheer horror.
“Dad?! What are you doing here?! I thought your flight wasn’t until tomorrow!”
“Private jet, kid. Flight was early. And honestly? Best decision of my life.”
Tony took a casual bite of his burger, pointing it toward MJ.
“Classic diner cheeseburger. Excellent choice, MJ. You have good taste. Unlike this kid, who I hear has been making heart eyes all evening.”
Peter’s soul completely detached from his body. My life is officially over.
MJ, however, didn’t even blink. She calmly set down her cup, rested her chin in her hand, and looked Tony dead in the eye with a small, amused smirk.
“Honestly, Mr. Stark, I’m just glad someone in his life has decent taste” MJ said smoothly.
“Otherwise he probably would have tried to feed me cafeteria pizza.”
Tony let out a loud, barking laugh, pointing a finger at her.
“I like her. She stays. Parker, you actually managed to date someone cooler than you. Impressive.”
Ten minutes later, the scene inside Tony’s sleek black Audi R8 was a masterpiece of awkward seating arrangements.
Happy Hogan was behind the wheel, looking like he was actively absorbing physical pain through the dashboard. Peter was crammed miserably into the front passenger seat, staring straight ahead at the windshield as if it held the secrets of the universe, his shoulders tight up to his ears.
In the spacious back seat, Tony Stark fresh off his private jet was lounging comfortably, having effortlessly charmed MJ into riding shotgun back there with him. They were currently discussing the merits of abstract expressionism versus Dadaism, a conversation Peter was entirely incapable of participating in.
“Oh, please,” Tony scoffed, gesturing expansively with a half eaten fry he’d swiped from Peter’s bag.
“Dadaism wasn’t an art movement, it was a temper tantrum disguised as a critique of bourgeois sensibility. Brilliant, yes, but ultimately just high-concept trolling.”
MJ leaned back, crossing her arms and offering Tony a tiny, unimpressed smirk.
“Exactly. It was chaotic, cynical, and refused to take itself seriously. It's the aesthetic equivalent of one of your press conferences.”
Tony let out a sharp, delighted laugh, pointing a finger at her.
“I like her. She stays. Parker, you actually managed to find someone smarter and cooler than you. I’m oddly proud.”
Peter let out a low, strangled whimper in the front seat.
When Happy pulled the car to a smooth stop in front of MJ’s quiet Queens apartment building, the back door opened before Happy had even fully engaged the park gear.
Peter was already outside the car, having scrambled out of his door in a desperate move to salvage some dignity. He opened MJ’s door with a shaky hand, offering her a nervous, apologetic look.
MJ slid out, smoothing her jacket. She didn't seem remotely phased by the ride. In fact, she looked vaguely amused.
“Well,” MJ said, looking past Peter to where Tony was leaning forward in the back seat.
“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Stark. It was... educational.”
“Anytime, MJ! Keep the kid in line, he needs the supervision,” Tony called out cheerfully, waving with another fry.
MJ turned back to Peter. She hesitated for a second, a faint, dusty pink dusting her cheeks.
“It wasn't a complete disaster, loser,” MJ muttered quietly, stepping a little closer so Tony wouldn't hear.
“Thanks for the fries.”
Peter’s heart did a violent flip-flop in his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Thanks for... coming.”
He stood there on the sidewalk, watching her walk up the stairs to her lobby door. She turned right before entering, giving him a quick, subtle nod.
Peter grinned like a total idiot, watching the door click shut behind her before he finally turned and jogged back to the car, sliding heavily into the front seat.
As soon as the door closed, Happy peeled away from the curb with unnecessary speed, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Peter leaned his head back against the leather headrest, and he snapped.
“You are so embarrassing! You ruined my life! Why are you even here?!” his voice cracking with absolute teenage betrayal.
Tony snorted from the back seat, already pulling out his tablet to check stock prices.
“Oh, relax, Underoos. That went great. I charmed the pants off her metaphorically, keep your suit on and you got a little character building trauma for free. Happy, get us home. I need a real drink.”
Happy just muttered something unintelligible under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "not paid enough for this "
“I’m never speaking to you again,” Peter groaned, slumping face first into the car seat while Tony laughed all the way back to the Tower.