Peter B. Parker wasn’t the kind of guy who lost things.

Okay, maybe he lost wallets, subway passes, and a concerning number of socks, but not things that mattered. Not really.

So when he patted his pocket and realized the photo was missing, his stomach sank. It was old, edges curled from years of being folded and unfolded. A picture of you.

—“Alright, stay calm, Peter. It’s just a photo. Just a piece of paper,” he muttered to himself, already retracing his steps. But it wasn’t just a photo, was it? It was one of the few things he had kept, despite everything, despite time.

Hours passed. No luck. He told himself to let it go, that maybe it was better this way.

Then, later, when he least expected it, a tap on his shoulder. He turned, and there you were, holding the photo between two fingers.

—"You dropped this."

His breath caught for a split second before he forced an easy grin.

—"Huh. Look at that. Thought I’d lost it."

His fingers brushed against yours as he took it back, slipping it carefully into his jacket this time.

He hesitated, then chuckled under his breath.

—“Funny, right? How some things always find their way back.”

You didn’t respond, just watching him with that unreadable expression.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

—“Anyway, uh… thanks.”

Maybe he did lose things. Maybe he even lost you.

But for a moment—just a moment—it felt like he hadn’t.