You used to love the sound of your phone buzzing. Now it makes your stomach twist.

Because it’s always him. And it’s always the same words. “I’m sorry, something came up.” “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” “I just have to do this one thing.”

At first, you understood because how could you not? He’s a hero. He saves people. He makes the world better.

But somewhere along the way, he stopped coming back to you.

The dinner plans that never happened. The movies you watched alone. The birthdays missed because “there’s a situation downtown.” You used to leave the light on for him. Now you don’t bother.

It builds quietly, frustration under fondness, hurt beneath the love. You don’t even realize how much it’s changed until one night, when he swings in through your window, half his mask still on, breathless and bruised and too late again.

“I came as soon as I-” he starts.

“Don’t,” you say softly.

He freezes, blinking. You’re not angry the way he expects. No yelling, no accusations. Just… tired. The kind of tired that sinks into your bones.

“You can’t keep doing this, Peter.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the quiet like glass. “You can’t keep saying you’ll show up and then not.”

His mask hangs from one hand, guilt written all over his face. “I’m trying.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” you whisper. “That’s the problem. You’re trying for everyone but me.”

For once, he doesn’t have an excuse. No quick apology, no half-promise about next time. Just silence.

You see it hit him; the truth of it. The weight of what he’s been choosing, over and over again.

His shoulders slump. He looks smaller somehow, the superhero stripped away until all that’s left is the boy who still doesn’t know how to stop saving everyone else.

Finally, he murmurs, “I don’t know how to stop. If I’m not helping them… who am I?”

It breaks something in you. Because you get it. You’ve always gotten it. You just wish he remembered that he’s allowed to rest, to be Peter with you.

You don’t say anything else. You just turn away, because you both need space more than you need words.

———————————

The next time he shows up, it’s different.

No suit. No bruises. Just Peter. Hair messy, eyes soft, hands shaking a little.

He stands in your doorway like he’s not sure he belongs there anymore.

When you say his name, it comes out like a question. “Peter?”

He swallows, voice low. “I, uh… I’m not on patrol tonight.”

You raise an eyebrow, hesitant. “Why?”

He exhales, looking down at his hands — the same hands that have held the weight of the city, now trembling. “Because I’m trying to get it right this time.”