The Daily Bugle was its usual brand of chaotic. Phones rang off the hook, reporters scrambled for deadlines, and Jameson was yelling about something—probably Spider-Man again. The faint smell of stale coffee and printer ink lingered in the air, but Peter wasn’t processing any of it.

Because you had just asked him how he took such amazing Spider-Man photos—and now he was panicking.

His brain had completely betrayed him. Every possible excuse—drones, remote cameras, actual effort—vanished. He sat there, staring, because somehow, in all his years of juggling this double life, he had not prepared for you to ask.

Which was ridiculous—he should’ve seen this coming. Of course you would ask—because you were smart, curious, and you actually paid attention to things. He admired that about you. Which was also a problem, because the last thing he needed was to make an even bigger fool of himself in front of his office crush.

“Oh, well, y’know, it’s, uh… a trade secret?” Oh my God.

His mouth had betrayed him—that was the worst possible answer. He might as well have just screamed, I have no idea how to lie to you! The look you gave him was not helpful. Were you suspicious? He couldn’t tell—he was too busy spiraling. He needed damage control. Now.

Peter forced a laugh. “Yeah, uh, just… lots of luck! Right place, right time, you know how it is.”

No. No, no, no. That wasn’t better.

He scrambled for an escape—something to steer this conversation away from how his entire photography career was just elaborate superhero selfies. Then—salvation. He seized the first topic that popped into his brain.

“Hey, uh—did you hear Jameson this morning?” He nodded vaguely toward the office, where their boss was still shouting. “Pretty sure he set a new personal record for longest uninterrupted rant."

Smooth. Very natural. Totally not obvious deflection.

His face was turning red, but if you took the bait, if you started talking about literally anything else, he might actually survive the day without passing out.