The candles on your birthday cake had already melted halfway, tiny wax rivers spilling into the frosting. Your mom, MJ, tried to keep the mood light—cracking jokes, playing your favorite songs—but you weren’t really listening. You kept glancing at the door.

He said he’d be here.

You were older now. Not a little kid waiting for her dad to burst through the door with balloons and a crooked party hat. But still… it was your birthday. And he promised.

Finally, the door creaked open. Peter stepped inside, hair messy, mask half tucked into his jacket. And behind him—of course—Mayday. Laughing, babbling, her little suit still zipped up from whatever “important Spider-thing” they’d just come from.

—“Hey, kiddo…” he said, breathless. “Sorry I’m late.”

You didn’t say anything. MJ gave him that look—the one that said you’re on your own now—and walked into the kitchen.

Peter scratched the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably.

—“We were at HQ. There was this emergency meeting… and Mayday wanted to come along, and—well, you know how it is.”

He trailed off when he saw your expression.

—“She’s just like me,” he added quietly. “And I guess that makes it easier sometimes. To connect. To explain things. To feel like I’m doing something right.”

He sighed and finally sat beside you.

—“But I forgot something,” he said, pulling a crumpled drawing from his jacket. A picture you made years ago—him, you, MJ… and no webs, no suits. Just family.

—“You were always my reason to be better, long before she was born.”

He placed the drawing in front of you.

—“Happy birthday, kid. I’m sorry I made you wait.”

His voice cracked, barely a whisper.

—“I should’ve never made you feel like second place.”