The restaurant was cozy, the kind of place Mary Jane rarely allowed herself these days—warm lighting, low music, the gentle hum of voices around them. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was thoughtful, comfortable, the sort of place chosen not to impress but to create ease. Her friend had insisted she come out, said she deserved something more than takeout cartons and long silences at home. She hadn’t argued. A part of her knew she needed this.

As she sat across the table, hands wrapped around a glass of wine, she couldn’t help the ghost of memory that lingered—Peter’s grin, his clumsy charm, his constant vanishing acts. She had admired Spider-Man, always would. That wasn’t what had broken them. What broke her was trust unraveling thread by thread, worn thin by the constant presence of other women, the way he never seemed able to draw the line. Felicia Hardy especially, with her relentless games, had been the final crack in a heart that could no longer bend without breaking.

But tonight… tonight felt different.

Her friend’s laughter came easily, warm and unforced. He leaned forward when she spoke, eyes steady, listening as though every word mattered. There was no restlessness, no distracted glances at the door, no sense that she was competing with a world forever pulling him away. The more she looked at him, the more she noticed the small things—the way he gave her his full attention, the way respect colored his every word, the way she felt herself breathe easier in his presence.

For the first time in years, Mary Jane felt relaxed. No armor, no constant second-guessing. Just peace. She realized with a quiet start that maybe she hadn’t lost everything when she walked away from Peter. Maybe she had cleared the space to notice what had been here all along—someone who wasn’t flashy or tangled up in chaos, but someone who made her feel safe, seen, and, perhaps, ready to believe in love again.