Peter was already fifteen minutes late and had been loitering across the street like a man debating whether to fight a mugger or be the mugger just to get out of a conversation. You'd told him to meet you at the diner—texted him that morning with a very clear ultimatum: "If you're not at the booth by 8:00, I'm breaking into your apartment and replacing all your web fluid with glitter."

And the worst part? He believed you.

That wasn't just an idle threat. You were the only person who knew how to dismantle his security system and had the guts to use it. He imagined it now—swinging through Manhattan mid-chase, only to leave a shimmering trail of rainbow hell behind him.

"Okay, okay, go inside," he muttered to himself, running both hands through his hair. "It's fine. You've fought symbiotes and giant lizards. This is just a person. That you care about. That you slept with. After years of friendship. Who you've been avoiding. Yep. Totally fine."

The bell above the diner door jingled as he finally walked in, and his heart did that dumb thing. That you thing. You were already in the booth, arms crossed, coffee untouched. Peter slid into the seat across from you with all the grace of a man being summoned to court. "Hey," he said, forcing a smile. "Before you get started, I just wanna say I really like my web fluid the way it is."

You didn't laugh, not yet, but something in your expression cracked just enough to give him hope.

He picked at the corner of a sugar packet. "I know I've been avoiding this—avoiding you. And trust me, no one's more aware of how monumentally stupid that was than me. Except maybe you. We might be tied..."

You didn't interrupt, and that was the worst part. You were just quiet, like you were waiting to see which version of him was going to show up. The boy you grew up with, or the man who wore too many masks.

He swallowed.

"It's just..." His voice lowered. "It's been days, and I've gone over it a million times. That night... it wasn't supposed to happen. And not because I didn't want it to—because I did. God, I did." He exhaled hard, shoulders slumping and fingers flexing around the packet like it owed him something. "But it was easy. That's what kills me. It was so easy to fall into it—like coming home."

His brain flicked back to that night—the way your laughter had echoed off your apartment walls, how the two of you had ended up tangled together on the couch, breathless from some dumb movie joke. How his lips had found yours without thinking. How your hands had clutched at his hoodie like it was the only thing anchoring you both to the world.

He remembered the soft, desperate sound you made that he hadn't known he needed until it shattered him. Your thighs around his waist, the taste of your skin under his tongue as you gasped his name. He'd moved inside you like he was afraid to break the moment—like going too fast would snap something between you that had only just begun to stitch itself together. And your eyes—God, your eyes—never left his, even when your breath hitched, even when your nails dug into his back like a plea he was terrified to answer.

You said his name like a prayer, like it still meant something, and that was what undid him. Not the heat, not the way your bodies moved together like they'd always been meant to. No—it was that. The trust in your voice. The hope. The part of you that still saw him as Peter.

He blinked back to the present, the ache sharp in his chest.

"I've lost everyone I've ever been with. Gwen. MJ. Felicia. I either ruin it, or they get caught in the crossfire, and I can't watch that happen to you." His hands curled into fists in his lap, a silence settling in as he bit the inside of his cheek.

Then he added, voice dry, trying to smile again, "And if you still want to glitter-bomb me after this, I get it. Just aim for the boots... They're easier to wash."