Peter was mid-bite, a ridiculous amount of ketchup threatening to drip onto his already-questionable hoodie, when his stomach did something weird. Not bad burger weird—something else. A shift. A flicker of recognition.

His hand froze. Across the diner, past the neon lights reflecting in the windows, past Gwen rolling her eyes at whatever Miles was saying, there you were.

You hadn’t changed. Or maybe you had, but in a way only someone who knew you would notice. The way you held yourself, the slight tension in your jaw when you focused too hard. The way your fingers tapped absentmindedly against the table, like you were thinking of something else, somewhere else.

Peter swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how messy he probably looked.

Gwen must’ve caught his shift in energy because she kicked him under the table.

—“You okay?”

Miles followed her gaze.

—“Oh. Oh. Is that—?”

Peter looked away fast, shoving a fry into his mouth like it was some kind of shield.

—“Nope. Not talking about it.”

Gwen snorted.

—“You’re staring like a sad puppy.”

—“I am not—” Peter started, but then made the mistake of glancing back.

And that’s when you looked up. Right at him.