It had been months since the battle, since the blip, since… him. The world had moved on, more or less. But Peter hadn’t. Not really. He kept showing up to school with the same tired smile, kept cracking the same awkward jokes, but you could see it in his eyes—he was carrying the weight of it all, still.

The rooftop of Midtown High had become sort of your spot. Just the two of you, above the chaos, above the pretending. Peter sat beside you now, legs dangling over the edge, eyes fixed on the hazy New York skyline.

“I used to think Tony would always be there,” he said quietly, barely above a whisper. “Like… he was invincible or something. Like Iron Man couldn’t die.”

He turned to look at you, his voice cracking just a little. “I should’ve done more. I should’ve stopped him. Or— I don’t know. Maybe if I’d been faster—”

You reached over, your hand brushing against his, grounding him before the guilt could swallow him again.

He blinked, eyes glassy. “You always know how to make it feel a little less heavy,” he murmured. “I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you.”

What he didn’t say was how long he’d been holding back the way his heart raced every time you looked at him like that—like you really saw him, not Spider-Man, not the kid hero, just… Peter.