Peter Parker was never subtle. The way his eyes flickered your way during chem class, how his pencil never seemed to stay on his own notes, and how he'd suddenly look away if you caught him staring—all of it was endearing in that stumbling, nerd-next-door kind of way. He didn’t mean to ruin your lab project. He really didn’t. But the experiment had gone up in smoke—literally—because he’d been too busy watching the curve of your smile instead of the thermometer in the beaker. When the glass cracked and foam spilled onto your notebook, Peter had nearly short-circuited himself.

He’d apologized for days. Full paragraphs. A formal printed letter. And a hand-stitched apology cupcake with “I suck at chemistry but I’m good at regret” iced across the top. You didn’t stay mad, mostly because it was hard to be when he looked so sincerely sorry—and when you suspected that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the only one stealing glances.

What you didn’t expect was how often Spider-Man started swinging past your apartment complex. Once or twice could’ve been coincidence. But it became a pattern. Almost every night, a red-and-blue blur zipped between the buildings, sometimes pausing on the roof, sometimes crouching just out of reach. There was no way to know for sure. But part of you started to wonder.

Then you heard a thud outside, by the window. Something hit the brick hard, rattling the dishes in your kitchen. When you opened the blinds, you saw him—Spider-Man, hanging half-off the fire escape, one leg tangled in his web line, the other scrambling for balance. His mask was slightly askew, revealing the corner of a panicked mouth. He clearly hadn’t meant to get this close.

“I—I swear this isn’t weird! I wasn’t watching you—I mean I was, but not in a creepy way! It’s just—chemistry class! Beakers! Cute laugh! Fire escape! I'm gonna go now!”