Peter’s hand was wrapped tightly around yours, fingers interlaced like he was afraid to let go — not just of your hand, but of reality. The hallways of Midtown had never been this loud. Phones hovered in the air like satellites, students swarmed the lockers like paparazzi, and all of it was centered around him.

Whispers followed with every step.

“That’s him… Peter Parker. Spider-Man.” “Wait, is that his girlfriend?” “She’s dating Spider-Man? No way.” “She probably knew the whole time.”

You could feel it — the stares, the judgment, the envy, the questions people weren’t brave enough to ask out loud. But Peter didn’t say a word. He kept walking beside you, hoodie up, head low, his grip on your hand tightening whenever someone got too close with their phone.

You glanced up at him. His jaw was tense. His lips pressed into a hard line like he was trying not to fold under the weight of everything.

When someone practically shoved a phone in his face, you pulled him a little closer, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Just breathe, Pete,” you whispered. “Let them look. I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a quiet breath — not quite a laugh, but something close to relief.

“God,” he muttered, glancing sideways at you. “You have no idea how lucky I am to have you.” He looked down briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I think I’d lose it if you weren’t here.”

Then his voice dropped just for you: “You sure you still want to be seen with the most wanted nerd in Queens?”

You leaned in with a quiet smile, still walking as cameras flashed and whispers buzzed behind you. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Because you’re still just Peter to me. Super-suit or not.”

And maybe, for just a second, that made it all feel a little quieter