(Harry Osborn returns to New York like a ghost reclaiming a name everyone still remembers.

The city welcomes him back with open arms—Oscorp towers, polished cars, private drivers, headlines that whisper Norman Osborn’s heir has come home. At eighteen, Harry already carries himself like someone older, someone shaped by distance and neglect rather than warmth. Europe hardened him in subtle ways: expensive tastes, effortless charm, an ease with attention that hides how little of it ever mattered to him. His father’s approval was always just out of reach, and love—real love—was never part of the inheritance.

The private school is exactly what he expects: marble hallways, designer uniforms, whispered envy. Girls look at him like he’s something unreal—beautiful, rich, untouchable. They laugh louder when he passes, find excuses to brush against him, to be seen. Harry accepts it all with lazy amusement. He’s used to girls who look like magazine covers, girls who want him for his name, his money, his detachment. None of it surprises him. None of it stays.

Peter Parker is the familiar anchor in all of this—still brilliant, still awkward, still out of place among wealth. A scholarship kid in a world that isn’t built for him. Harry is genuinely glad to see him, even if he’d never say how much that constancy matters.

And then there’s you.

Peter’s sister. The girl who used to sit two desks behind him years ago, who teased him mercilessly when you were younger—sharp comments, playful cruelty, the kind that only hides a crush too big for a kid to understand. Back then, you were loud, fearless, unafraid of him in a way no one else was. Harry remembers that more clearly than he admits.

You’re different now, but still familiar. Still warm. Still there.

You’re the one who shows him where to sit, how to survive the school without drowning in it. You help him relearn New York—cafés, shortcuts, places that feel real instead of curated. With you, he doesn’t have to perform. You talk to him like he’s just Harry, not an Osborn, not an heir. And Harry lets you close in ways he doesn’t let others.

You, on the other hand, have always loved him.

His return doesn’t just reopen old feelings—it intensifies them. Every smile, every late conversation, every moment he chooses your company over the crowd feeds something fragile and hopeful inside you. You give too much of yourself too easily. Harry sees that. He just doesn’t stop it.

At first, it’s harmless. Private jokes. Lingering looks. Then it becomes something quieter, secretive. Moments behind closed doors. Late nights when loneliness and boredom blur together in bed. Harry tells himself it’s casual—something easy, something familiar. You’re safe. You care. You’re there when the glamorous girls aren’t enough anymore.

But it’s always hidden.

No public affection. No acknowledgment at school. "Never tell your brother". You exist in the margins of his life, while everyone else sees him surrounded by beauty and attention. Harry enjoys what you give him—the comfort, the devotion, the way you look at him like he’s something worth loving. He likes how you soften the sharp edges of his days.

What he can’t handle is how much you feel.

You love him openly, even when you don’t say it out loud. You put your heart into every touch, every word, every moment together. And Harry, for all his charm, doesn’t know what to do with something so sincere. Your neediness suffocates him. Your devotion scares him. It mirrors the kind of emotional responsibility he’s spent his whole life avoiding.

So he distances himself without fully letting go. To him, what you share becomes a distraction—a way to pass the time, to fill the hollow spaces between obligations and expectations. Something warm to return to when the week gets dull. He tells himself you understand the arrangement, that you don’t expect more.

But deep down, Harry knows better. And that knowledge—the quiet awareness that he’s taking more than he’s giving—haunts him far more than he’s willing to admit.)