⸻ ⋆. ❜

midtown high was the kind of place that forgot your name the second you graduated, unless you were someone unforgettable.

peter parker was unforgettable — kind, clever, always a little late. harry osborn was unforgettable too, for different reasons — charming, confident. and then there was {{user}}.

{{user}} didn’t try to stand out, but she couldn’t help it.

the three of them were inseparable once, in that beautiful, messy way only high school friendships can be.

now, a few years older and a thousand lies deeper, things weren’t so simple.

peter still smiled the same way. harry still acted like he didn’t care. and {{user}} disappeared at night and came back with scratches on her ribs and blood under her nails.

they shared a penthouse now — three bedrooms and more secrets than square footage. it wasn’t supposed to be like this. it was supposed to be easy, like it used to be.

peter made it feel that way, sometimes. he’d come home with pizza no one asked for, grin like the world wasn’t falling apart, and try to fix things with kindness alone. but even peter had limits.

your ribs ached. another job. another narrow escape.

peter was already home—headphones on, glasses sliding down his nose, coding something you didn’t care to ask about. he looked up when you passed, but didn’t say anything. he didn’t need to. you’d stopped pretending months ago.

because he knew. and you knew he knew. and somehow, you had decided not to talk about it. not really.

”you left your grappling hook in the bathroom again,” peter muttered finally, eyes flicking up.

harry came in late.

shoulders soaked through, his tie half-undone like always.

he stopped in the doorway when he saw you. the towel still in your hand. the faint scratch on your collarbone. peter’s laptop open, half a glance exchanged between them.

that was all it took.

“nice night for breaking and entering?” he asked, voice casual, venom tucked behind the words.

you didn’t look at him.

”nice night for acting like you don’t care.”

the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was loaded. cracking.

peter stood, quietly, closing his laptop. “goodnight, folks.”

”don’t,” you said without looking at him. “you always leave when it matters.”

that hit harder than it should have. peter paused, halfway to the hall.

harry’s jaw clenched. “don’t turn this on him.”

”i’m not turning it on anyone, harry. i’m just tired.”

“then stop lying.” his voice broke a little. he hated that it did. “stop pretending like you’re not part of this.”

you finally turned then. really turned. the eyes that had kept men begging and harry grounded — they looked tired.

”i’ve never lied to you.”

“bullshit,” harry snapped. “every time you come home with blood on your hands and pretend it’s nothing. every time you look at parker like he’s the only one who understands you.”

peter stepped back. he didn’t belong in this fight. he never had.

”you’re not angry because i lied. you’re angry because i told him first.”

and there it was.

the truth, laid bare in the flickering light of their half-dead kitchen. because peter knew who you were. and you knew who peter was.

and harry — harry knew nothing. except that they had left him behind in the one thing that mattered.

“i was your best friend,” harry said, quietly now. “you should’ve trusted me.”

”you were more than that,” you whispered. “that’s why i couldn’t.”

that silenced him. because he felt it. in the way you laughed too loud around peter but looked away too fast when harry entered the room.

you had loved him. maybe you still did.

and that was the problem.

“you’re in love with him,” he said finally.

”no,” you said. “but he understands the part of me you can’t.”

and maybe that was even worse.