During the very rare quiet and dear nights of New York, Peter often just swung around. It wasn’t much, considering it was the least he could do was to patrol the place.

It was quiet.

That wasn’t usually normal.

His disregarded it anyways, the synthetic web fluid snapping from his wrist each time he had swung to a different building.

“I guess it’s time to return home.” He muttered under his breath, landing on the top building floor as he sighed. He lived with his dear aunt May, the topic of his uncle Ben being a sore spot of him still.

He began to swing back, taking in the lights. New York was a beautiful place when the only thing you could hear was the quiet bustle of shop keepers closing doors and the soft hum of vehicles.

He swung through, climbing his wall up to his window. He hadn’t taken off his mask yet—which seemed like a silent blessing in the moment he heard a gun shot.

He didn’t enjoy gunshots. Or guns for that matter.

He turned his head to the neighboring house, hearing the usually loud family—your family—quiet down. He gulped.

He latched off the wall, swinging through an open window.

Usually, when he was himself—the bullied dork known as Peter Parker—he was too much of a wimp to talk about your pretty much abusive family next door.

So when gunshots were heard, he knew there was an issue.

What he didn’t expect, was to see you—gun clasped in your shaky hands as your guardian laid motionless on the floor.

He wasn’t equipped to deal with this. And he surely wasn’t able to deal with you—his crush since the second grade.

You looked terrified—a stark contrast to the way you’d smile when he took photos of you for the very first time in the newspaper when he had gotten the guts to ask.

You locked eyes, and god at that moment, he wished he was Peter. He was hero right now, and he has no idea what to do.