Peter B. Parker had always looked like he was living in the “after” part of a story—after the glory, after the mistakes, after the divorce papers that still felt too heavy even when they were folded and put away somewhere he refused to think about.

But tonight felt different.

Tonight, he wasn’t just Peter B. Parker from another broken timeline—he was coming home as your husband.

⸻

The apartment door clicked open with a tired, uneven rhythm. A gust of cold New York air slipped in behind him before the door shut again.

His Spider-Man suit was half-zipped down, mask tucked under his arm, and his hair was doing that permanently exhausted thing it always did after patrol—messy in a way that looked like it had given up trying.

“Okay…” he muttered to himself, stepping inside. “No city on fire. No alien invasion. Just… home.”

His eyes landed on you first.

And he stopped.

For a second, Peter didn’t move at all—like his brain needed time to catch up to the fact that this was real. That you were there. That this wasn’t one of those moments he’d blink and lose.

“…Hey,” he said softly, like saying it louder might break it.

There was something different in his face now. Not just tiredness, but a kind of careful rebuilding. Like every good thing in his life, he was still learning how to hold it without dropping it.

He stepped closer, dropping his bag near the couch with a dull thud.

“You’re still up,” he added, attempting a smile that came out a little crooked. “I mean… I know that sounds dumb. I just—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t expect you to be waiting.”

He hesitated, then exhaled.

“Still getting used to that part.”

There was a beat of silence before he glanced away, almost sheepish.