Chapter 162 - 8-9

Chapter 8: Back to School

September 9th, 2024

I wake up before my alarm.

It's not a brag—more like a problem. My body's done sleeping, but my brain is throwing a full-on protest, flinging thoughts around like bricks through windows for the next ten minutes while I stare at the ceiling and think about last night.

Whatever I might've imagined wall-crawling would feel like—it didn't even come close. There's no blueprint in the human brain for that. My muscles still remember it. I… I want to feel it again.

I slide out of bed and stretch, just a little. It's a habit I'm still working on—trying to remember that I'm not invincible and that if I don't want to tear something important, I should probably act like I've got bones.

The floor is cold, but only for a second. I barely notice it compared to the itch in my brain as I glance toward the wall.

I step up beside it and press my palm flat against the paint. The grit against my skin comes back instantly, but it's changed now—like there's a pull. Like the wall isn't just a surface, it's an invitation.

So I answer it.

My hand sticks. Then the other. My foot locks next, and my knee bends in this awkward, not-okay angle that should've hurt—but doesn't. Gravity tilts, the room skews sideways, and then I'm crawling up like it's nothing. Like I've always known how.

Once I'm on the ceiling, I roll onto my back, arms folded behind my head, staring down at my bed with a smile.

The weirdest part? It doesn't feel impossible. Doesn't feel like I'm breaking the laws of nature or cheating gravity. It just feels… right.

No. It feels good.

Like this is what I was made to do.

The pressure's different here—not like I'm lying down, more like I'm being held. Like the ceiling's got me. Like I couldn't fall even if I wanted to. The skin on my back tingles faintly where it meets the plaster, every nerve alive and checking in. There's this warm, magnetic sensation running through my limbs. My fingertips buzz like they've got tiny engines under the skin.

I close my eyes.

And for a moment, I let myself feel it all—the silence of the room, the faint creak of the house settling, the slow rise and fall of my chest. The way the ceiling accepts me, no questions asked.

I don't want to come down.

Not because it's cool.

Because right now—I feel complete.

I've never felt more like myself.

The ceiling holds me like a hammock, like a giant palm cradling me above the world. I don't feel weightless—but I don't feel heavy, either. I just feel held.

The drywall under my shirt is faintly warm from the rising heat of the house. There's a texture to it—fine grit and imperfections I never noticed from the floor. I can feel every one of them now, mapped out along my spine like braille.

I stare down at the room below, watching the way the soft morning light spills across the bed. The shadows look different from up here—longer, deeper, stretched like the edges of a dream I haven't quite woken up from.

I don't know how long I stay like that—could be thirty seconds, could be ten minutes. Time's a little sideways in this position.

But eventually, I feel the world creeping back in. The weight of the day pressing in from the edges.

I sigh.

Then, I hop back to the floor with a confidence I didn't know I had, landing softly with barely a sound. I could have gone back to sleep on the ceiling, but truth be told, I'd rather not have May or Ben walk in and see that.

I get into one of the tank tops and shorts Harry bought for me and go for my morning run with the wolf necklace swinging comfortably against my chest. I'm still half asleep, but I'm moving. Bettering myself demands sacrifice, and today, sleep's the lamb.

I hit the street, and the cool autumn air brushes against my face like a pillow I don't want to leave. I sleep great when it's cold, so it's not exactly helping me wake up. So, I shake my head, and start jogging. My feet still haven't found their rhythm yet, but it's starting to feel less awkward. Though, it still fucking sucks.

Every step is a reminder that I'm not built for this yet. The first few blocks feel like my legs forgot what they were supposed to do, like they're running on rusty gears that haven't been oiled in years. The burn creeps up from my calves to my thighs, and my shoulders start burning like I'm carrying a backpack full of bricks.

I'm doing this wrong. I shouldn't feel like this, right?

It's only been a few days. It's gotta be the quitter in me crying out. I need to keep going. Even the part of me that hates running begrudgingly knows it's the only way forward.

So, I grit my teeth, ignore the protest from every muscle screaming at me to quit, and push through.

Queens flies by. The chipped stop sign. The guy walking his dog with too many leashes wrapped around his legs. The old lady watering her plants like she's been doing it since Eisenhower was in office.

None of it matters right now.

I'm pretty sure my grandpa would be thrilled to know I'm finally exercising. He was one of the ones always pushing me to take care of myself.

In a weird way, I think I'm doing this for him.

Even if he doesn't know it, he's with me every step of the way.

Just as I start to drift into autopilot, the sound of pounding footsteps catches my attention—a quick, familiar rhythm beside me.

"Well, at least you look the part today!" a voice teases—light and breezy, like the morning.

I turn to see MJ racing to catch up with me, hair whipping around her face, grin stretched wide like she doesn't have a care in the world.

"Oh. Hey!" I wheeze.

Talking while running. Yeah, that's a new level of torture.

She drops into pace beside me effortlessly, and dammit—she's not even breathing hard.

"Seriously? You're actually doing this? I didn't think you'd stick with it."

I grimace. My lungs feel like they've been through a cheese grater.

"Yeah? Well, it still sucks."

MJ snorts.

"You'll learn to love it, trust me. Though… maybe slow down. It's not meant to be a sprint the entire time."

"I've only been jogging," I mutter, slowing beside a lamppost. "I'm just an idiot who doesn't know what he's doing."

"Oh… that's not good," she laughs—not mocking, just kind of… pitying.

And that's somehow worse.

MJ's looking at me like she's genuinely concerned I might crumple into the sidewalk and start leaking spirit energy. It only makes me want to keep moving more. Because if I stop now, I'm honestly tempted to just sit down next to this pole and let it be my final resting place.

...Which is probably in poor taste, considering where I was a week ago.

Yeah. I know.

"Well," she grins, jogging backward a few paces so she can look at me while I die, "if anyone can make running look this miserable and still keep going—it's you."

I want to argue, but my lungs are doing their best impression of a collapsed accordion.

Instead, I just give her a tired smile.

"Thanks… I think."

"So, how are you feeling?" MJ asks.

I hack out a breath.

"Like I'm about to cough out my lung, thanks for asking!"

She laughs, bright and easy.

"No, silly. I meant in general."

"Oh!" I chuckle, dragging a breath and channeling my inner Chandler Bing. I'm pretty sure I look like he did in that one episode of Friends right now. "Uh, prett—pant—pretty good. You?"

"Now that you're here, I've got my entertainment for the morning, so I think I'm good."

I roll my eyes, smirking.

"Haha."

As we head back toward Forest Hills, the city waking up around us like it's shrugging off sleep, I decide to ask the question that's been hovering since I last saw her.

"So… you living with Anna?" I ask, trying to keep it casual, but honestly just curious.

MJ nods, her steps falling into rhythm beside mine.

"Yeah. For the next few months, at least. My parents are in the middle of a nasty divorce, and I didn't want to be a part of all that. Anna's letting me crash there."

"Ouch," I say, wincing like she just told me she stepped on a LEGO barefoot. "Sorry."

She shrugs, but there's a flicker of something behind her eyes—like maybe she hasn't had a chance to talk about it out loud yet.

Or maybe she's just really good at pretending it doesn't bother her.

"Don't be," she says. "Honestly, Anna's place is kind of a sanctuary compared to the screaming matches I was waking up to back home. She bakes when she's stressed, too, which is, like… the best coping mechanism ever. The woman made blueberry muffins last night because she saw a political ad she didn't like."

I let out a weak laugh.

"That's almost too wholesome to be real."

"Oh, it's real," MJ says with a grin.

"Still, though. I'm sorry about your parents. I know how divorces can be." I say quietly. "I saw what it did to my cousin's kids after she and her husband split. It's rough."

"What's that line people say nowadays?" she scrunches her nose, thinking for a second. "It is what it is? Not much I can do about it."

Oh if my mother had heard that, she would have visibly recoiled over that one. She hated that phrase.

She looks back at me, curiosity flickering.

"But what about you? What's your deal?" she asks. "How come you live with your aunt and uncle?"

I chuckle, pointing to my head like it's some kind of mystery box.

"Uh, well… kinda foggy there, you know?"

She frowns.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"No, you're good. My parents went on a business trip to South America when I was young. Their plane crashed. I've been staying with Ben and May ever since." I pause, eyes distant for a second. "I wouldn't change a thing though. Just wish I could remember more about them, you know?"

MJ nods slowly, like she gets the weight behind that. And maybe she does. Truth is, I know what it's like—wanting to know a parent more than you ever got to. My father wasn't around when I was a kid. I mean, he was there for the conception, probably, but after that? Ghost. By the time I met him, I was ten, and I didn't even know he was my dad until a few months later—right before he disappeared again.

My family was always my grandpa, my mom, and my little brother. Now? It's Ben and May. And despite the fact I miss them more than anyone could ever know—honestly, I think I won the lottery with them.

We turn a corner, gravel crunching under our shoes as the sidewalk shifts from uneven concrete to that smoother slab near the nicer houses. The air smells like cut grass and leftover rain. Somewhere a car door slams, and wind chimes rattle half a block away.

"You close with your parents?" I ask, quietly. Not nosy—just wondering if she got a better hand than I did.

MJ breathes out slowly, her ponytail bouncing once as she gives a small shake of her head.

"My mom tries," she says after a beat. "She really does. She calls, checks in, sends me stuff. But my dad..." Her mouth tightens for half a second. "It's like he doesn't even want to be there. I mean, maybe it's because things with him and Mom got so rocky, and he's just tired of it all—but it never really felt like he cared that much."

Her voice is steady, but there's something hollow around the edges. Like she's said all this before, but it still stings every time.

"He never told me goodbye when I left to come to Anna's, either."

I glance over at her, lifting a brow.

"What? He didn't say anything?"

She snorts, but there's no humor in it.

"Not a word."

The breeze picks up then, just enough to tug at the edges of her tank top and send the faint scent of lilacs and car exhaust drifting past us. I watch her for a second—how she keeps her face calm, even though I can see the tension in her jaw.

"I'm sorry," I say, because that's all I can really say. And yeah, I know that phrase gets overused and tossed around like a band-aid, but I mean it.

She shrugs, like it's fine, even though we both know it's not.

"It's whatever. I'm used to it."

But nobody should have to get used to that.

We walk in silence from there. The air's already warming, the sun climbing higher now, turning the rooftops gold and pulling long shadows from the parked cars along the curb. A robin darts across the sidewalk in front of us, wings flicking so fast they're just a blur, before it vanishes into a hedge.

Up ahead, the houses start to look familiar.

I can see the peak of the Watson place just above the trimmed hedges—its shutters freshly painted, flower boxes clinging to the windows like they're auditioning for a Home & Garden cover. Right next door, our place looks almost rustic in comparison.

I know that I'm only fourteen now, but the moment I can get some money, I'm going to fix the house up. I owe Ben and May that much.

"Are you going to school today?" MJ asks, cutting through the quiet.

I glance at her, nodding with a little shrug.

"I've got the all-clear, so… might as well get it over with."

She grins faintly.

"Nothing says 'welcome back to life' like a pop quiz."

"Oh, if there's a quiz, I'm faking another coma," I mutter, and she actually laughs at that—just a short, surprised little bark that makes me feel like I've won something.

"What about you?" I ask, wiping a line of sweat from my brow with the edge of my shirt.

"I start at Midtown today."

I blink.

"Wait, seriously?"

"Yep." Her smile tightens a little like she's still trying to decide how she feels about it. "Anna figured it'd be good to get back into a routine. You know. New environment, clean slate, all that fun stuff."

We slow our steps a little as our houses come into full view, the last stretch of sidewalk framed by creaking trees and dappled sunlight.

"Well," I say, trying not to sound weirdly excited even though, internally, I absolutely am, "guess I'll see you there."

"You better." She jabs a finger in my direction. "I didn't move to Queens just to get ghosted by the one person I know."

"Oh no," I say, holding up both hands like I've just been accused of a crime. "You are definitely stuck with me now. That's the deal."

"Deal, huh?" Her smirk returns, sharper this time.

"Full disclosure, if we're going to be friends I want to warn you. You're going to hate me just a little." I smile.

"That so?"

"It's kind of a rule I have with my friends. We're not really friends if you don't hate me just a tiny bit."

"That's an interesting rule."

"But it's served me well, or so I'm told." I chuckle.

"Well, then. I'll see you here after a bit."

As I watch her step onto Anna's porch, I find myself grinning. By the time I realize it, my face turns red. I probably look like an idiot right now, and god help me if May is watching. The ache in my legs is still there, and my lungs feel like they've been run through a paper shredder, but frankly, it doesn't bother me.

I turn toward the Parker house and jog the last few steps. The porch creaks under my weight as I step up onto it, and I see the door's already cracked open an inch.

Did I not get it shut all the way before I left? Grandpa would have said something in this situation. Hopefully it was just Ben getting the morning paper.

Crossing the threshold, cool air hits me first.

Ben must've clicked the AC on when he got up. The smell of coffee drifts in from the kitchen, mixing with the faint scent of toast and whatever detergent May uses that somehow always smells like sun-warmed linen and safety.

Ben's at the table, still in his worn robe and flannel pajama pants, a steaming mug in hand and the morning paper folded into fourths on the table in front of him.

"You're back early," he says without looking up.

I shrug, kicking off my shoes and letting the door thud shut behind me.

"Didn't want to collapse on someone's lawn and get reported."

Ben hums.

I pass through the living room, grabbing the towel May left draped over the banister—she always leaves one for me when I run. I don't know how she's already figured out my schedule, but I'm grateful for the assistance. I swipe at the sweat clinging to the back of my neck.

"How long have you been up?"

"Woke up about an hour early. Couldn't sleep."

He finally looks up at that, his eyes sharp in that way they get when he's picking up on something I haven't said. But he doesn't press. Just nods, like that's all he needed to hear.

Bathroom. Quick shower. No time to linger unless I want to start the day looking like a gremlin that crawled out of a drainage pipe. The water's hot—thank God—and it works out the worst of the soreness, though my calves still feel like overcooked noodles.

By the time I'm out and dressed in clean jeans and a fresh shirt, May's downstairs, hair up in a messy bun, frying something that smells aggressively like turkey bacon. She turns when she hears my footsteps

"You look alive," she says, voice light but eyes warm. "That's an improvement."

"We'll see how alive I am in a few hours," I snicker as I sit at the table and swipe a piece off the paper towel-lined plate she sets down.

"So… today's the big day," she says, nudging a mug of coffee toward me.

"Mm-hmm." I sip. It's too hot. I don't care.

Ben chuckles from behind the paper.

"Just make sure you take it easy, today. Don't get overwhelmed."

Easy enough for him to say. He isn't the one going back to school for the first time since he was eighteen.

"I'll try."

In a few minutes, I'll be walking into Midtown for the first time since everything changed. I'll barely know anyone's names and I won't know my teachers. Hell, the fact I gotta go to the office before class starts to get my locker and schedule is going to be awful enough as it is.

I finish the last bite of bacon, still chewing as I lean back in the chair and let the heat of the coffee cup warm my hands. It's not the best brew in the world—I'm pretty sure May's never measured a scoop in her life—but it's hot, it's strong, and right now, that's all I need.

Across from me, Ben rustles the paper as he flips to the next section. Probably the obits. The one thing I've found he does every day is check the obituaries. He says it's because he'd rather know if somebody he knew was gone. I get that, but I never looked because I was terrified to see someone I was close with there.

May moves around the kitchen like she's gliding, not rushing anything, even though the stove's still hissing and the coffee's cooling by the second. But she's watching me now—really watching—like she's just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

And then it happens.

She turns off the stove, leans against the counter with her arms crossed, and lifts one eyebrow like she's the protagonist in a family sitcom that's been waiting three seasons for this payoff.

"So… was that Anna's niece I saw heading up to the porch next door?"

I freeze mid-sip. The mug nearly slips from my hand.

"Maybe?" I try, like there's some universe where that answer won't unlock a full nuclear launch.

May's smile spreads slowly, like butter on warm toast.

"I thought so."

Ben's still reading his paper, but I can feel the shift in the air, like he's tensing up for cover fire.

"She's the one you bumped into on that run the other day, right?" May asks, far too casual.

"She bumped into me," I mutter.

"Mmhmm." Her smirk is a blade. "Funny how you never mentioned it."

"Wait… I never told you I bumped into someone." I turn towards Ben, who mysteriously is looking away in a totally inconspicuous way. "You told her?"

Ben doesn't even lower the paper.

"All I said was that you met somebody."

"Traitor," I mutter.

"I'm sitting right here," he says, unbothered. "And I stand by it."

May's practically glowing now.

"I just think it's nice," she says, pouring herself coffee like she isn't detonating my morning. "You've been through a lot, Peter. And MJ's a sweet girl. Bright, thoughtful… pretty."

"Okay," I say quickly, holding up both hands like I'm defusing a bomb. "Let's not plan the wedding just yet."

May sips serenely from her mug.

"I'm just saying, it wouldn't hurt to let people in."

"She lives next door," I reply. "I think that already qualifies as let in."

Ben finally lowers the paper, just enough for his eyes to peek over the top.

"Just be glad she didn't walk you back holding hands, or you'd already have a photo on the fridge."

May smiles into her cup like that's not the worst idea she's heard this week.

I sit back, mug in hand, and groan into the steam. Not only am I uncomfortable because of the age difference between us, but the fact I'm getting Vietnam flashbacks to my sorta-not ex. That's a lot to explain, and I'd rather not go into that. Just know that everything went downhill when she said "Hi Mom" in the background of a phone call when I was on break at work one day.

Mom made it her personal mission to refer to her as 'future daughter-in-law.' This is giving me serious whiplash.

"I'm gonna go grab my bag," I say, standing from the table. I shouldn't be this nervous or embarrassed. Damn teenage hormones.

"Don't forget your lunch," May calls.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I say, already halfway up the stairs.

God help me.

By no means was high school the worst part of my life. But standing in front of the double doors of Midtown High, it might as well be the gates of Mordor. There's no Eye of Sauron peering down from a flaming tower, but it still feels like I'm being watched.

I'm frozen on the sidewalk, bag dragging at my shoulder like it's full of bricks, just staring up at those doors like they're going to open and swallow me whole. I shouldn't even be this nervous.

Nerves don't care about logic, though. The idea of walking into a building full of people who all know me, while I don't know a single one of them, is intimidating as hell. My stomach's practically doing laundry on spin cycle.

Sure, I've gone through it before, but that was my school. That was my name, my face, and my semi-functional friend group. Now, I'm walking around in someone else's skin.

Back then, I was a loner, but at least I knew who I was avoiding. Even if I didn't like being around people, they knew me. I wasn't nearly as much of a fly on the wall as I like to believe. So, the idea that these kids will smile at me in the hallways, call me by name, and maybe even expect me to sit next to them like we're best friends… it's more than a little horrifying.

I suck in a breath, and step forward anyway. The doors groan open, and walk into the chaos.

The hallways are packed. Sneakers squeak, lockers slam, and some overconfident kid's blasting music from his phone like it's a party. It smells like cafeteria grease, cheap perfume, and something I'm pretty sure is rotting gym socks. A girl with coffee nearly baptizes me in caramel drizzle and doesn't even look back when I mumble a reflexive "Sorry."

The sheer volume of it all makes me flinch—shouting, laughter, slamming doors, buzzing conversations. A kid rushes by with a skateboard tucked under one arm, earbuds in, hoodie up, like he's trying to outrun the concept of attendance. A girl's yelling about mascara. Someone's phone goes off in a bass drop.

Social anxiety's clawing at my ribs. I've never felt more like an alien in a place I'm supposed to be familiar with.

Technically, I'm not new. But it might as well be my first day all over again. I don't know the layout. I don't know my teachers. I don't even know where I'm supposed to be right now. For all I know, I'm going to stumble into AP Chemistry and accidentally burn the school down trying to light a Bunsen burner.

I don't recognize a single face.

From what I've been able to piece together since the hospital, the only people I really "know" are Harry, Lonnie, and Flash... kinda. And now, MJ. Sort of. I think? That one's complicated.

I edge along the wall like I'm in a stealth mission, head down, trying not to make eye contact. Which probably makes me look even sketchier. My goal's simple: main office.

I pass a group of guys yelling about last night's game—or a fight, I can't tell. One of them glances my way and does a double take. I keep walking like I didn't see it. But he definitely recognized me.

Finally, I spot a sign that says ADMINISTRATION and follow it through a set of quieter double doors. It's like stepping into a completely different building. Carpeted floors. Fluorescent lights. Silence, blessed silence.

The main office smells like paper, printer toner, and vanilla—thanks to a scented plug-in humming by the front desk. Talk about priorities.

The secretary looks up, her hair twisted in a tight bun, glasses low on her nose. She smiles like it's automatic.

"Morning, Peter," she says, like she's said it a hundred times before. "Glad to see you back."

I blink, thrown for a second. But I nod and try to smile like someone who isn't quietly preparing to bolt through the nearest window.

The nameplate on her desk says Ms. Diaz.

She pushes a manila folder toward me with practiced ease.

"Schedule, locker assignment, homeroom—everything you need. Your teachers have notes about your... situation. Just take it slow. And if you need anything, we're here, okay?"

I nod and glance at the folder. First period: Biology. Room 214. Top floor, apparently. There's a stapled map on the back. It might as well be a treasure hunt.

I'm halfway to the door when she calls out again—without looking up.

"Oh—and welcome back, hon."

Yeah.

Welcome back.

"Thank you." I manage on my way out.

Biology.

God help me.

Dropping into the plastic chair by the window, I crack open the folder May helped me organize last night. AP Biology. The syllabus for the class is in the front, four sheets of pages printed front and back. Midtown doesn't screw around. I was lucky to get to one or two sheets maximum from my previous classes.

I skim the first line.

This is not your standard biology class.

Yeah, no shit…

By the time I hit "signal transduction pathways" and "Hardy-Weinberg equilibrium," I'm wondering if someone put this in here as a joke. I used to be in college-prep courses. Standard stuff. Nothing special. And even then, toward the end, I'd dropped down to general classes because my grades had started slipping. Everyone called it out for what it was, but I didn't care. I didn't have the drive, the focus… I simply didn't care.

But this? This is above my pay grade, entirely.

Photosynthesis light curves? Population modeling? Gel electrophoresis? I barely remember how to spell mitochondria, how am I supposed to know how to say electrophoresis? I swallow hard and set the paper down on my desk, my face scrunching in disgust. I don't belong here…

At least—not the new Peter.

I'm not going to flunk this, though. I've got work to do, gaps to fill. I'll probably need to teach myself entire chapters at home. It's going to suck, but I'm going to do it. I wasted my life. I'm not afraid to admit it. It shouldn't have taken me dying and getting a second chance to try and fix it, but it's too late for regrets. If I'm going to make the most of this, I need to step up my game.

Midtown is full of geniuses, and if there is one thing I hate more than anything, it's people making me feel like an idiot. If I have to stay up late at night doing extra work, so be it.

Shifting in my seat, I notice that the classroom's still filling up. Someone behind me is complaining about their SAT tutor. A pencil snaps. I watch Harry slide into the seat beside me with a forced smile, and I give him a nod back.

Then, the bell rings.

Mr. Larson is already at the front of the room, scribbling a diagram on the whiteboard. He doesn't say hello. Doesn't ask us how our weekends were. Just jumps straight into a chalk-dry monologue like he's been rehearsing it in the mirror.

"…in the cell cycle, mitosis is essential for growth and repair. But what happens when the cell forgets how to stop dividing?"

I blink. We're talking about cancer. Cool. Totally a relaxing way to start my day.

One thing I learn about Mr. Larson is that Harry was right. He really wasn't kidding about him being a dick.

He's got a stick so far up his ass I'm surprised it isn't poking out of his mouth.

Beyond the initial "Welcome back" when I walked in, Larson's left me alone. Which, great… I love it.

What I don't love is the way he keeps treating Harry like a crash test dummy. Harry's not dumb, but holy hell—pick someone else to answer a question for once.

At one point, he turns around, marker in hand, scanning the class like he's searching for a victim. His eyes land on Harry.

Of course they do.

"Mr. Osborn," Larson says, that familiar faux-friendly venom in his voice, "why don't you tell us what causes a tumor to become malignant?"

Harry freezes.

I can practically see the gears trying to turn in his head, but they're not catching. I don't blame him. Half the class is pretending to not exist right now.

Harry fumbles out a half-answer. Something about cells dividing too much. It's not wrong, but it's not what Larson wants.

The older man sighs, loud and theatrical, like Harry's just ruined his day.

I raise my hand.

Larson's brow lifts, surprised.

"Yes, Mr. Parker?"

"Loss of regulation in the cell cycle," I say. "Specifically, when tumor suppressor genes like p53 are mutated. That's what lets the cells divide uncontrollably and invade other tissue. That's what makes it malignant."

I say it without second-guessing myself. I know this. Grandma was sick for a long time. She had lung cancer—I remember sitting in the hospital at seven-eight years old when she was there for chemo and radiation treatments. After she passed away, I became interested in the subject and started learning about it. One of the few times I had initiative for something more than superheroes and video games during my adolescent years.

Larson blinks.

"…Correct," he says, almost grudgingly.

Harry lets out a tiny breath, and I glance over at him with a shrug.

"Thanks," Harry whispers, and I merely nod.

The rest of the class keeps moving, but I catch the look on Larson's face. The way he lingers on me for just a second too long. Like maybe—for now—he's reconsidering what box to put me in.

And that's fine.

I'm not going anywhere, regardless of what anyone expects.

The rest of the day starts to go by quickly, surprisingly. Harry and I have most of our classes together, and that includes Geometry. Let me tell you, Harry might have not been on his A-game with Larson, but in Geometry the guy is the equivalent of a demigod. Seriously, it's like that's all he's ever known. Meanwhile, I'm staring at Ms. Grant's notes on the board like they're ancient hieroglyphs.

Math's always been my Achilles heel, which—let's be honest—isn't exactly uncommon. But still, I feel like I've been thrown overboard. Why couldn't I have been blessed with Peter's brains?

Right now, I feel like I got the short end of the web.

It's during PE that the day shifts to a better mood, though. Which is weird, seeing as I hated PE back then, mostly because I had self-esteem issues and didn't like to sweat at school.

By the time I get changed into my gym clothes—gray Midtown shirt, black shorts, sneakers that still have showroom shine—I'm already regretting whatever sadist put Physical Education at the end of the day. My body's running on fumes, my brain's half-fried from Bio and Geometry, and now I get to exert what little bit of energy I have left with more exercise.

I let my head tip back and stare at the ceiling. Big metal rafters. Flickering lights that belong in a horror movie. Faint echo of a whistle somewhere in the distance. God, I hope this isn't one of those days where they make us run the mile. I'm not trying to become a chalk outline today.

"Hey, Peter."

I sit up a little too fast, almost flinching—because of course it's MJ. She's already dressed down for class, Midtown tee tied in a small knot at her hip, her red hair pulled back into a ponytail that somehow makes her look both effortless and like she could outpace me in a footrace without even trying.

She flashes a warm, casual smile as she steps up onto the bleacher beside me.

"How's it going?"

I exhale slowly.

"Feeling a bit overwhelmed, but I'm managing," I say, trying to sound chill and not like I just finished reliving every academic trauma I've ever had.

She nods sympathetically and glances toward the far side of the gym, where a few kids are already jogging half-hearted laps.

"What about you? Enjoying Midtown so far?"

She shrugs, settling onto the bench beside me with her elbows on her knees.

"It's not bad. At the end of the day, it's school. Nothing special. But I've already had two teachers mispronounce my name and one kid spill Gatorade on my sneakers, so, you know—pretty on-brand."

I grin.

"Well, lucky for you, you've got me here to lower the bar."

"Oh, absolutely," she says dryly. "You're ruining the curve just by existing."

Wow… she's a bit snarky. It reminds me of my old friends, and I think that's why I'm actually comfortable around her. Despite the fact we've only seen each other during physical activities, she makes it a bit better.

She nudges her knee against mine, and I glance down at the gym floor, smiling despite myself.

"Seriously, though," she adds, voice a little softer, "you hanging in there?"

I glance over at her—and yeah, she means it. She's not just making conversation.

"I'm trying," I say. "Homework's gonna suck, but… I'll figure it out."

"Better you than me," she jokes, then stands and stretches like a cat, eyes on the coach setting up cones across the floor. "C'mon. Let's go get tortured together."

I groan as I push up from the bench.

"Misery loves company, right?"

"Exactly," she says, flashing me a grin over her shoulder. "And if we have to run laps, I'm drafting off you."

"If I drop dead halfway through, avenge me," I mutter.

She laughs as we head down the bleachers together.

"No promises."

Then came lunch.

I don't know why I expected it to feel different. It's still a cafeteria with the smell of grease and bleach colliding, and a hundred teenagers trying to out-shout each other before fifth period.

Harry and I manage to snag a decent spot at the end of a long table, near the windows. I barely have time to unwrap the foil on my sandwich before I realize we're not alone.

"Hey, scooch over," comes a voice behind me.

I glance up.

Blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Denim jacket. Eyeliner so sharp it could cut glass. She's got a confidence in her stride that I would die for. My self-esteem would never let me look so proud.

She drops her tray next to Harry with a subtle smile, and I swear to God he nearly short-circuits.

"Oh, hey," he says, and it's almost impressive how hard he's trying not to sound flustered.

This has to be Gwen Stacy. She doesn't even need to introduce herself. The way Harry sits up straighter and forgets how his hands work pretty much confirms it. They talk like they've done this a hundred times, but there's still this energy between them, like every sentence is being balanced on a wire.

Hell, I almost forget my food is in my hand. They're so adorably distracting that I almost want to gag.

Then the table creaks under a thud, like a small meteor just landed across from me. The guy's built like a fridge. Shaved head, thick neck, massive shoulders barely contained by a green and white Midtown lettermen jacket, with the big M stitched on the left breast.

"Yo, Osborn," he says around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "You see the hit from last night? Rangers smoked 'em."

Harry grins.

"I was trying to do my homework, man."

"Lame." he says, but with a fondness that makes it feel like he's said it every day since middle school.

I'd have to guess this is Kong... Flash's best friend. I've only seen him in the Spectacular Spider-Man and the Ultimate comics, but the resemblance is uncanny.

Then, as if summoned by the sound of testosterone and cafeteria-grade starch, the chair next to Kong scrapes across the floor. And here he comes.

Flash Thompson.

I recognize him immediately from Peter's photos—same cocky smirk, same athletic build. He's wearing his own letterman jacket open, sleeves pushed up, and his face? It honestly does give off Alan Ritchson energy. He's even got that overconfident frat-boy grin to match.

"Hey Parker," he smiles at me. "I didn't even know you were back. I've missed seeing you around, dork."

"Thanks, Flash. I guess I missed you too," I say, giving him a smile that's about as fake as margarine.

He points a finger-gun at me like I just admitted a deep emotional truth.

"Of course you did. Everybody loves me."

"Please, Flash…" Gwen rolls her eyes. "Let's not pretend that you're Midtown's sweetheart."

Flash clutches his chest like she shot him.

"You wound me, Stacy."

"Not enough," she mutters.

I'm trying not to laugh.

"How are you feeling, Pete?" she asks, turning back to me with a softer look.

"Been better," I admit. "But I'm doing alright."

We fall into easy conversation after that.

Well, I say we, but I really mean they.

I mostly just sit there quietly and occasionally blink, watching them all banter, half-dazed by the fact that I'm actually in this group. How the hell did this happen? Everything I'd seen from Peter's computer made it seem like I was going to mostly be around Harry and potentially MJ.

Flash is posturing like an idiot, but it's more bark than bite. He and Kong trade one-liners about the gym teacher, and to my shock, Kong might be the most wholesome behemoth I've ever seen. He keeps offering me pieces of food from his tray and asking if I'm "getting enough protein," like I'm his smaller, more fragile cousin.

Harry leans over and mutters something under his breath to Gwen, and she laughs. I wouldn't have pictured them together before. But now? It works. It really does.

And selfishly, it's a relief. If something ever happens—if I ever put the mask on and step into the line of fire—I won't have to worry about her the way Peter once did. She's not the girl I'm supposed to save. She's just... Gwen. Sharp, funny, and probably smarter than all of us combined.

I'm just starting to think this might be the most bizarre thing I've lived through all day when Gwen turns to me, brows raised in amused interest.

"Peter," she calls my name. "Who was the new girl you were talking to in PE?"

My brain throws up static.

"…New girl?"

"Yeah. Red hair? Ponytail? Midtown tee tied at the hip?" she adds, nodding toward the gym wing like I didn't just mentally black out the entire class. "The one that had you in a smile the entire period?"

"Oh…" I say slowly, blinking. "That's MJ."

Gwen's eyes light up with something that gives me an uneasy reminder of May's own face on the topic. That same I'm-not-saying-it-but-I'm-absolutely-saying-it kind of look.

"You know her outside of school?" she asks, too casual to be innocent.

"Uh," I clear my throat. "She's staying next door."

Gwen raises an eyebrow like she just cracked a case.

"So she's your neighbor?"

"Technically," I reply, trying very hard not to sound like that makes it anything more than a geographical coincidence. "Her aunt is close friends with May. She's been crashing there for a bit."

"Interesting," she says slowly, dragging the word out like she's tasting it. "Very interesting."

I glance to Harry for backup, but he's no help—too busy trying to hide a grin behind his sandwich. Kong, meanwhile, is mouthing ooOooh around a bite of mashed potatoes like this is a soap opera. Flash just raises an eyebrow, amused, but says nothing—maybe the one thing he's smart enough to keep his mouth shut on.

"She seems cool," Gwen continues, swirling her juice box like it's a glass of wine. "Cute, too."

"I—I guess," I mumble, suddenly hyper-aware of literally every eyeball at the table. "We talked a little. That's all."

"You smiled the whole time," she sing-songs, just enough to make me want to slide under the table and never come out.

"I was trying not to throw up from Coach's suicide drills."

"Uh-huh." Gwen smirks, nudging Harry with her elbow. "Sounds like a crush to me."

"I don't have a crush," I say firmly, and maybe a little too quickly. "I barely know her."

Flash snorts.

"You kidding me? Red was in fourth period with me. She's out of Parker's league."

"Are you just scared that Peter might get a girlfriend before you do, Flash?" Gwen asks, and Flash's cheeks turn red.

"Uh, excuse me?! I can get any girl I want, thank youuuu!" He draws the word out like he needs the extra emphasis. "I just don't want the little guy to get hurt."

"Right…" Gwen deadpans.

Harry finally cracks and snorts into his sandwich, trying and failing to cover it up with a cough. Kong lets out a wheeze that sounds like a balloon giving up on life.

I sigh and rub the back of my neck.

"Can we please talk about anything else? Literally anything?"

Flash leans back in his seat, shrugging.

"Hey, I'm just looking out for you, Parker. That's what friends do."

The table pauses for a second.

Even I blink at that.

I watch him for a second, waiting for the punchline. But it doesn't come.

Instead, Kong jumps in, pointing his fork like it's part of the conversation. "He's been a little extra sentimental since Liz turned him down for Homecoming."

Flash's head snaps around.

"Dude."

"What?" Kong grins. "You have."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have. You bought cologne for her. Cologne,Flash..."

Gwen perks up.

"Wait, Liz turned you down?"

"Can we not turn this into a school-wide bulletin?" Flash grumbles, folding his arms. "I'm just saying… comas are serious, alright? And Pete's… Pete. He's one of us."

"When have you ever said that?" Harry asked. "Aren't you the one that makes him the butt of every joke you can?"

"Peter, come on… help me out here." Flash motions towards the rest of the group. "We were friends when we were kids, rememba?"

"Uh, sorry to disappoint… but I have amnesia, Flash. I don't remember much of anything."

"WHA?!" Flash's eyes widen like a cartoon character. "You're pulling my leg, right?"

"Nope," I say, popping the P. "Don't even remember my own locker combo. You could tell me we used to do gymnastics together and I'd just have to believe you."

Flash looks visibly distressed by that. Like I just told him hewas the one in a coma.

"Dude," he says slowly, "you don't remember anything?"

"Bits and pieces," I admit. "Faces are mostly familiar. Names, too. But… memories? Not really. It's like someone hit a reset button up here." I tap the side of my head. "I thought you knew, everybody else does."

"Apparently, I didn't get the memo." Flash frowns and leans forward on his elbows, glancing between me and Harry. "That's messed up, man. Seriously. You—uh, you doing okay with that?"

That... wasn't sarcasm.

"Yeah," I say, nodding a little. "It's been weird, but… I'm figuring it out."

"Good," Flash says. Then, after a pause, he adds, "For what it's worth… you were kind of a nerd before."

Kong makes a choking sound, like he tried to laugh mid-chew and almost died.

"But you were our nerd," Flash adds, tossing a grape at Kong like it'll cancel out the accidental sincerity.

"Wow," Gwen says, mock-clutching her chest. "That might be the most emotionally honest thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth."

"Don't get used to it," Flash grumbles, clearly already regretting letting the sentiment slip.

I lean back in my seat, glancing over at Harry. We lock eyes for a second, both of us quietly stunned by the social miracle happening in front of us.

Harry just shrugs, mouthing, I don't know either.

Kong breaks the silence by sliding his chicken strips across the table toward me.

"You need protein," he says seriously.

"Thanks…" I reply, taking them cautiously.

As I eat the strips, I realize that out of everybody I've seen today, there's only one person from Peter's computer that I haven't seen: Lonnie.

"Hey, where's Lonnie?"

Everyone looks surprised that I brought him up.

"He's out of town on vacation, visiting his aunt in Tennessee." Kong explains. "He should be back next week."

I nod, not wanting to push any further. I was actually hoping to get to meet him, because he's the only one out of the entire group here that I can't imagine interacting with Peter. Though, I can wait a week. It'll give me a chance to get used to the others.

I finish off the strips Kong gifted me, watching the rest of them talk. I lean back a little and just... take it in.

How the hell did this become Peter's lunch group?

Like seriously. Gwen Stacy, who could easily be sitting with the AP crowd or the student council. Flash Thompson, literal high school jock archetype. Kong, who looks like he should be lifting trucks for fun. And Harry—rich kid royalty, somehow managing to act like the most normal one out of all of them.

This should not work. On paper, it's a mess. A half-step away from a sitcom cast that got assembled by throwing darts at a yearbook.

Hell, to top it off you got an amnesiac Peter Parker among them.

How did this happen?

I don't bother to question it right now—I'm just thankful that I get to finish my lunch in peace.

As the school day closes out, I'm walking down the front steps toward the sidewalk where Harry is already waiting. He's got his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, looking a little too relaxed for someone who definitely just bombed a pop quiz in third period.

"Hey," he says when he sees me. "You survive?"

"Barely," I mutter, hoisting my backpack higher before it dislocates a shoulder. "I think if I don't spend every waking second tonight studying, I might actually drown under the makeup work."

Harry winces in sympathy.

"You want help?"

"Tempting. But then we'd both fail."

He chuckles and starts walking with me, heading toward the street.

There's a beat of silence before he scratches the back of his neck.

"Hey, uh… sorry about lunch. I didn't know they were all gonna sit with us."

I shrug.

"Why would you apologize for that? It was weirdly… decent."

"Yeah, but I know it was a lot. Gwen, you know why she was over there." He glances at me meaningfully. "Flash and Kong, I don't know. Maybe because you're back?"

I shake my head and let out a dry laugh.

"I wasn't expecting that. Felt like getting adopted by a pack of wolves mid-meal."

Harry snorts.

"Well, wolves don't usually offer you chicken strips."

Before I can reply, the sound of sirens cuts through the air.

We both glance toward the street as a cluster of squad cars speeds past the school, lights flashing, engines howling. It's not subtle.

"Wonder what that's all about?" I ask, squinting as they disappear down the avenue.

Harry just shrugs.

"It's New York. Could be anything."

Could be.

Could be another robbery. Could be a car crash. Could be a mutant bear loose in Queens for all we know.

I keep watching the lights fade into the distance anyway, that part of me—the part that wants to do good—itching to go after them.

But I can't, right now. I'm not ready for that.

I'll get there, but not today.

"I'll talk to you later," I tell Harry, stepping off toward Forest Hills. "I need to get a jump on this schoolwork before it jumps me."

"If you need anything," he says, "just call."

I nod and start to turn—then feel his hand tap my arm.

"Hey," he says, voice low. "Is that her?"

I glance back, following his line of sight.

It's MJ.

She's walking down the stairs alone, earbuds in, denim jacket slung over one shoulder. The breeze catches her ponytail just enough to make it sway. She doesn't even notice us.

"Yeah," I say. "That's her."

"That's MJ?"

"Yes," I repeat, already bracing myself.

Harry lets out a low whistle.

"No wonder Flash looked like he was gonna short-circuit during lunch."

I give him a look.

"You're with Gwen."

Harry lifts his hands innocently.

"Hey, I'm not doing anything. I'm just saying… if your aunt's trying to set you up with that…"

He trails off and grins.

"…you might've hit the jackpot, man."

Oh, you've gotta be shitting me.

Chapter 9: Every Parker Has His Watson

I drop my backpack next to the desk with a heavy, defeated thud, and stand there for a second. Part of me wishes the bag would unzip itself and do the work for me. It doesn't, obviously. So I drag the chair out, sit down, and peel open the folder Midtown has so generously filled with three weeks' worth of work. Because nothing says welcome back from a near-death experience like a mountain of homework.

It's not even one subject. It's everything. Geometry, Biology, English, World History—an entire cross-section of academic suffering, lovingly preserved on crumpled worksheets and photocopies that smell vaguely like printer ink and despair.

I exhale, long and slow, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. My brain already feels like it's leaking out my ears just trying to look at all this. And the worst part?

I'm not even starting yet. I'm stalling, because of one goddamn sentence.

"You might've hit the jackpot, man."

Why did he have to say that?

It keeps floating back in, circling like a fly that won't leave me alone. Not in a serious way. Not even in a particularly Harry way. He grinned when he said it. He knew what he was doing. But still—still. It stuck. It lodged itself in the back of my head like gum under a desk, and now every time I try to focus on quadratic equations or osmosis or whatever the hell Emerson was talking about in that essay, all I can hear is Harry's voice, smug and amused and perfectly oblivious.

You might've hit the jackpot, man.

I want to throw my head through this desk.

Instead, I crack open the first binder, grab a pencil, and force myself to start on the math. Because if I don't, this pile is going to outlive me.

Fucking hell.

That was not what I wanted to hear come out of Harry's mouth. Of all the things he could've said. He could've said MJ was cute. He could've made a joke. He could've said nothing. But no—he had to use that line. That specific, stupid, iconic line. Like the universe gave him a script with one job: emotionally sabotage me.

Why the fuck did he have to say it?

Don't even think about it.

You are twenty-four. You are not fourteen, no matter what your bone structure and backpack say.

You are twenty-four.

Do. Not. Even. Think it.

Shit, I might kill him. No, don't get mad at Harry. He doesn't know-nobody does. Peter's fourteen, and it was probably a joke.

Well, it doesn't matter if it was a joke, it still makes me sick to my stomach to comprehend it. Why can't I just be friends with someone? That's possible, right? Come on, "Parker," focus dammit.

I shake my head, turning back to the work on my desk.

Right, focus.

I grab the Geometry worksheet first.

I crack the textbook open and skim the chapter—slowly at first, like my brain needs a warm-up lap just to remember what a transversal is. It's been years since I touched any of this. I find the example problem, line it up against the worksheet, and work through the first proof with all the cautious precision of a guy trying to pick a lock he's only pretty sure won't explode.

Then I check it.

Then I check it again.

Then I triple-check it, just to be safe.

Next is Biology. Somehow worse. The entire section on meiosis reads like someone threw every science word they knew into a blender and called it a study guide. I bounce between the glossary and the diagrams, translating it line by line like I'm trying to decode an alien language using duct tape and blind optimism.

But I get through it. Two whole assignments.

Two more than I thought I'd manage.

And just as I start mentally squaring up against the third one like it's some kind of miniboss, I hear her voice from downstairs.

"Peter! Dinner!"

I exhale, drop the pencil like it personally wronged me, and sink back in the chair.

Saved by the aunt.

"Coming!" I call back, already on my feet. I glance at the stack of assignments—still monstrous, still judging me from across the desk—but I give it a nod, like, I see you. You'll get yours.

Dinner might be a break.

But the night?

The night's just getting started.

That evening, I'm sitting on the roof with only a textbook, a notebook, and my last hopes and dreams because this is a lot to deal with. God, I hope Anna doesn't see me. The last thing I want is her calling May.

It's not even the work, really. Okay—it's partly the work. But mostly, it's the fact that my brain's been doing mental gymnastics all day and now expects me to solve triangle proofs like I'm some kind of academic Spider-Man. Which I'm not.. Yet. Hopefully.

God, I hope Anna doesn't see me. The last thing I need is her calling May like "Your nephew's having an episode on the shingles."

I just wanted fresh air. That's all. Some kind of reprieve where the walls weren't closing in and the light wasn't that awful, yellow ceiling glare that somehow makes me feel like I'm in detention even when I'm not. The porch light wasn't cutting it either—too dim, too buggy, and definitely still within range of being "checked on."

So now I'm here. On the roof. Cross-legged, textbook open, pencil dangling in one hand, and trying to figure out how angle C connects to angle F.

I'm up there for about another twenty minutes, watching the sun bleed out across the horizon like someone knocked over a jar of peach and violet paint. It's quiet up here. Just the sound of distant traffic, the occasional bark, and the steady scratch of my pencil against paper as I pretend to understand what a corresponding angle is.

Then, I hear it.

"Peter?"

I glance over.

There's a window open next door—second floor, facing mine. MJ's leaning on the sill, one elbow propped up casually like she's been there a minute. Her ponytail's a little looser than it was earlier, like the wind's been playing with it. She looks genuinely curious.

"Hey," I say, lifting a hand in a little wave.

She tilts her head.

"What are you doing up there?"

"Homework," I reply, holding the textbook up like a flag of surrender. "Not a cry for help, I swear."

That gets a small laugh out of her—just a little huff through her nose, but I'll take it.

"You always study on rooftops?"

"Couldn't tell ya," I smile, poking the side of my head.

"Right…" she lowers her head, again. "I'll stop asking that eventually, I promise."

I grin, feeling the corners of my mouth tug up despite myself.

"No rush."

She watches me for a moment, like she's weighing whether to say more or just let it sit.

Then she sighs and leans back, resting her forearms on the windowsill.

"Honestly, you look like you could use a break."

I glance down at the textbook, then back up at her.

"Yeah, tell me about it."

She smirks. "Well, if you ever want to study somewhere with better lighting and fewer falling hazards, my porch is not too far."

I raise an eyebrow. I'm not sure whether I want to take that offer up. After my freakout earlier, I don't think I should push the matter further.

"I'll keep it in mind."

She nods, like she gets it. Doesn't press.

"Cool," she says softly, almost like she's filing it away more than anything.

A pause stretches between us. Not awkward. Not yet. Just… quiet.

She glances down, fiddles with a loose thread on the window curtain. "Well. I'll let you get back to it."

"Yeah," I say, tapping the edge of the notebook with my pencil. "Big night of thrilling academic success ahead."

MJ grins.

"Try not to fall off the roof."

"No promises."

She lingers just a second longer—like maybe she wants to say more—but then gives a two-finger wave and pulls the window mostly shut, not slamming it but letting it click closed with finality.

And just like that, I'm alone again.

Just me, the textbook, and a mind that won't shut up.

I sit there long after MJ's window closes, letting the pencil rest idle in my hand. The sky shifts slowly, colors draining from warm peach and violet into deepening shades of indigo and midnight. The sun slips completely below the horizon, and night stretches itself across the city like a thick, velvet blanket.

The city lights flicker on one by one — street lamps, apartment windows, distant car headlights weaving through the streets. From up here, the noise softens to a distant hum, like a lullaby for the restless. Queens feels alive but calm, caught between the chaos of the day and the stillness of night.

I lean back on my hands and let out a slow breath, chest rising and falling. I look out over the rooftops, the patchwork of buildings, the glowing windows like tiny stars pinned against the dark.

It's beautiful.

And for the first time since I woke up in this body, I get why Peter loved this city so damn much. I might not understand everything about it yet — the people, the dangers, the history — but this view, this moment, it's enough to die for.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails—a reminder that this city never really sleeps. But up here, with the night wrapped around me, it feels like the world has paused just long enough for me to catch my breath.

I close the textbook with a grimace, reluctantly admitting it's time to call it a night. Standing up, I scan the rooftop—empty. No wandering eyes, no unwanted audience. Good. I don't need Anna or May catching me doing whatever dumb stunt I'm about to attempt.

I glance over at MJ's window. Curtains drawn tight. Perfect. She won't see this.

I step toward the edge of the roof and peer down at the yard below. It's maybe a little higher than I'd like. Okay, a lot higher. Heights aren't exactly my thing. Well, not exactly. It's not heights themselves — it's falling. The idea of landing wrong and breaking something stupidly.

And yeah, I'm used to breaking bones. But I'm not eager to add a new "fun" injury to my collection just yet.

I mean... What's the point of this rooftop perch if I can't make a little leap? Might as well try it. Besides, I'm hoping Peter's legendary healing factor is as real as the spiders that bit him.

I take a deep breath, steady my nerves.

One foot forward.

Then the other.

It's not quite a skyscraper, but I suppose every Spider-Man has to take a leap of faith, right?

The world seems to slow down as I launch myself off the edge.

A sudden buzz prickles at the back of my neck—spider-sense kicking in like some weird built-in alarm system. Panic floods my chest, but I focus on the fall.

I clutch the textbook and notebook tight under my right arm, bracing for impact.

And somehow—somehow—I do a front flip midair.

I hit the ground on one knee, hand pressed firmly against the pavement, textbook still in one arm like a trophy.

HOLY SHIT.

I sit there for a second, heart hammering, the rush of adrenaline sharp and loud in my ears.

Did I just... stick the landing?

I actually might have.

I push off the ground to stand, chest still pounding—and then, because of course, my foot catches on something invisible, and down I go, face first into the grass.

"Of course…" I mutter, mouth full of dirt and my shattered dignity.

Because why wouldn't I fall after doing something like that? Way to keep my ego in check, universe.

I stand up, wiping the dirt off of myself, still processing the fact that I just stuck a front flip off a rooftop. My heart's still hammering when the Watson's front door swings open. MJ steps out. She doesn't notice me at first. She's in her pajamas, moving to a chair on the porch. MJ looks a bit off. I don't know, like she's got something on her mind.

I drop my textbook and notebook carefully on the bottom step, the worn wood creaking under the weight. The night air feels cooler now, carrying the faint scent of cut grass and something faintly sweet—maybe lilacs from a neighbor's garden.

MJ's sitting on the porch chair, knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs like she's holding herself together. Her pajamas aren't the typical flannel kind—more like soft cotton, loose and comfortable, the kind that's clearly seen a dozen restless nights. The fabric wrinkles where her elbows press in, and the pale blue of the top makes her pale skin look even softer under the porch light's glow.

Her hair's a little tousled now, strands escaping the ponytail to frame her face in a way that makes her look… less guarded, somehow. She's staring out into the street, but her eyes aren't really seeing it. There's a weight there—something heavy but quiet, like she's carrying it all on the inside.

I clear my throat and tap the wood beam beside her. The sudden noise snaps her out of whatever she's wrapped up in. Her eyes flicker toward me, surprise flashing briefly before she masks it with that familiar half-smile—the one that says, "I wasn't expecting company."

"Hey," I say, voice softer than usual.

She straightens a little, but still keeps her legs hugged close, like the chair's the only thing grounding her.

"Hey," she replies, voice low.

The porch light flickers once, casting brief shadows across her face, and for a moment, I just watch her—not wanting to pry, but wanting her to know I'm here.

"What are you doing here?" she asks. I can't help but notice the softness, almost withdrawn tone of her voice. It's almost like she's on the verge of crying.

"Well, I was seeing if that offer went beyond studying." I say, not moving from my spot.

MJ doesn't say anything.

"Okay... I saw you come out, and I guess I wanted to talk to you."

She blinks slowly, like she's processing more than just my words. The faintest tremor catches the edge of her lip before she clears her throat.

"Talk, huh?" she says, voice still low but steadying. "About what?"

I shuffle my feet, suddenly aware of how loud the night feels—the crickets, the distant hum of traffic, the faint buzz of a streetlamp above us. It's like the whole world's waiting for an answer.

"Honestly? I don't really know," I admit, voice rougher than I want it to be.

I take a slow step forward and lower myself onto the railing below her. The rough wood presses against my back, steadying me after that not-so-graceful fall. She's perched just above, legs curled close, arms wrapped around her knees like a shield. Somehow, that makes me feel less awkward.

She looks down at me, her voice soft but pointed. "Seriously, Peter... what are you doing here?"

I meant what I said, I really don't know. I guess I wanted to extend the same kindness she gave me earlier.

I run a hand through my hair, shrugging.

"Like I said, I wanted to talk to you."

Her gaze flickers away for a moment, like she's wrestling with something she doesn't want to say. Then she meets my eyes again, voice quieter now.

"I'm not really in the mood to talk."

The pause stretches. I glance toward my house, then back at her.

"If you want me to go, I can."

She shakes her head, but there's no smile.

"I didn't say that."

Her words hang in the air, fragile and a little hesitant. And just like that, the quiet between us feels less like a wall, and more like an invitation.

I settle into the silence, letting the night stretch out between us. For a few minutes, I don't say a word—honestly, not sure what to say anyway. The crickets chirp steadily, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wails like a reminder that life keeps moving.

Then, something catches my eye. The faintest glimmer of redness rims the corners of MJ's eyes, subtle but unmistakable. Like she's been wiping away tears.

"MJ?" My voice is quiet, cautious. "Are you okay?"

She gives a small nod, like she's trying to agree with me, trying to convince herself more than me. But there's that tremor again—right at the edge of her lip, betraying everything she's not saying.

I push up from the porch floor and lean against the railing beside her, a little closer now. Not close enough to crowd her, but enough that I'm not just a background noise in her evening anymore.

The wood's cool against my back, grounding. My palms itch with the urge to fidget, to say something stupid, or to run—but I don't. I stay.

I'm not good at this. Never have been. Comforting people isn't my specialty—I'm more of a nervous joke guy or someone who panics at the exact wrong time. But I can't just sit here and pretend everything's fine when clearly it's not.

After too long debating it, I let out a quiet sigh and glance her way.

"You don't have to pretend with me, okay?" I say. "I'll admit, I'm not the best at this, but… I'm here. So, if something's eating at you, I'm all ears."

She doesn't answer right away.

Her arms are still curled around her knees, knuckles faintly white where she's gripping tighter than she probably realizes. Her eyes don't meet mine—just stay fixed somewhere off in the dark, like there's something only she can see.

"I shouldn't let it get to me," she murmurs finally, her voice quiet. Flat. "It's just… he called earlier. My dad."

I don't move. Just lean slightly closer, not crowding her—just enough so she knows I'm still here.

She swallows hard, eyes still distant.

"He was drunk. Or... I think he was. He always is, lately." A pause, then a shallow breath. "He said they were happy. That everything was fine until I came along."

That lands like a rock in my chest.

She says it like she's quoting a voicemail. Like it's not the first time she's heard it.

There's no drama in the way she delivers it. No tears. Just that same hollow edge I remember from when we walked together—like she's already done all her crying behind a locked bathroom door somewhere, and now there's only the ache left behind.

I don't say anything.

Instead, I just stay where I am—leaning on the porch railing, letting the silence hold its shape between us.

"Peter, it... it hurts," she says, barely above a whisper.

I glance toward her again—and that's when I see them. Fresh tears slipping quietly down her cheeks, like they've been waiting for permission to fall.

Her voice cracks as she asks, "Why does he hate me?"

It's not rhetorical. Not said with bitterness. Just raw confusion. Like a kid trying to solve a math problem that never had an answer to begin with.

And God, I want to say something. Anything. I want to tell her it's not her fault, that her dad's a coward, that no child deserves to carry blame for grown-up failures. But my mouth won't move. My chest feels tight.

Fuck, I hate being in these situations. I don't even realize I'm doing it, but I find myself wrapping my arms around her, bringing her into a hug.

She doesn't pull away. That's the part that gets me.

She just lets herself fold into me—quiet at first, but then the sob hits, deep and shaking, and she clutches the front of my shirt like it's the only thing keeping her tethered to the Earth.

I don't know what I'm doing. I really don't. I've never been great at comforting people—never had the right words, never knew when to speak or when to stay silent. But right now, it doesn't matter.

My arms wrap tighter around her, and I rest my chin lightly on top of her head. I can feel her shoulders trembling against me.

She smells like lavender shampoo and the faint musk of worn cotton, and something in my chest aches because she shouldn't have to feel like this. Not tonight. Not ever.

"I'm sorry," she whispers into my chest. "I didn't mean to dump this on you."

"You didn't," I murmur. "You didn't dump anything."

She sniffles, but doesn't let go.

I rub my thumb gently along her arm—slow, steady, grounding. I don't even think about it. It just feels like the only thing I can do while she breathes ragged into my shirt. Her hand still clutches the fabric like it's the only thing keeping her upright, and I let her. I let her hold on as long as she needs.

The porch light hums quietly above us. A car drives by down the block, tires whispering along the asphalt, but otherwise it's just the two of us here in this still, quiet night.

After a while—maybe minutes, maybe longer—I finally manage to find something to say. Something I won't regret.

"MJ…" I whisper, voice low and careful, "if he can't appreciate you, that's on him. It's not your fault, okay?"

She doesn't move, but her fingers twitch against my side.

"As far as I'm concerned," I continue, "he doesn't deserve to have a daughter like you if that's how he feels."

Her breath stutters, like my words hit something locked up for far too long.

But she still doesn't let go.

I only found those words because I had to say them to myself before. My dad wasn't around much, and some days, I wondered why I wasn't enough for him to stay. It stung even more knowing he had another kid years later, and called them his 'first kid.'

It's rarely the kid that's ever the problem.

She sniffles, and in a whisper that I can barely catch, says:

"Thank you…"

I may not be good at this, but I know what it's like being in that position. I didn't get a chance to let my emotions out over this, but if I can help her with it, then that's perfectly fine. Even if she ends up crying all over one of my brand new shirts.

Eventually—after what might be a minute, or maybe two—she pulls back. Not abruptly, not like she regrets it—just like the storm inside her has finally passed. At least for tonight.

Her eyes are still red, lashes damp, but now her face is red too—a blush creeping in around her cheeks as she avoids my gaze. She clears her throat, rubbing the back of her wrist across her face as if she can erase what just happened.

"Thank you, Peter… I mean it."

Her voice is steadier now, but there's something delicate beneath it—something raw and real that she's still holding onto, even if she's trying not to show it.

I don't say anything right away. I just smile.

"You don't have to thank me," I say quietly. "Least I could do."

She finally looks at me—just for a second—and the way her eyes meet mine? There's a kind of quiet understanding there.

She exhales slowly, like she's been holding her breath for longer than she realized.

Then, as if to reset everything, she stretches her legs out and stands. Her movements are slower than usual, like she's still shaking off the emotional weight.

"Sorry about your shirt," she murmurs, glancing at the wrinkled mess of cotton clinging to my chest.

I glance down at it. Yup, it's definitely tear-stained, with bits of make-up mixed in.

"Eh," I shrug. "Gives it character."

That gets the tiniest laugh from her, and for a second, the heaviness lifts.

We stand there together, not quite brushing shoulders, watching the quiet street stretch out in front of us.

"Are you going to be okay?" I ask, my voice soft as I glance at the time and realize how late it's gotten.

MJ wipes her face one last time with the edge of her sleeve and nods, a little too quickly.

"You sure?" I press gently, not accusing—just checking.

"I will," she says, then adds with a small, tired smile, "I'm going to stay out here a bit longer. That way Anna doesn't see me like this."

"Okay." I nod. "I think I'm gonna head home… don't want May getting worried."

She gives a small huff of acknowledgment, the barest ghost of a laugh, but it's real.

She shifts on her feet, like she's not quite sure what to do next. Then she looks at me—really looks at me.

"Thank you again," she says softly.

I smile, tilting my head just a little.

"That's what friends are for, right?"

Before I can react, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me again. It's gentler this time—less desperate, more grateful. I hug her back without hesitation.

"Goodnight, MJ," I murmur.

"Goodnight, Peter."

I step down from the porch and start walking back toward the house, the grass cool beneath my feet and the night air brushing gently against my face.

But just before I reach the door, something tugs at me, and I glance back.

She's still standing there, arms loosely folded now, watching me go. There's no smile, no wave—just her, quiet and present in the moment.

"Hey, MJ…" I call.

Her head lifts a little.

"Yeah?"

I let a grin tug at one side of my mouth.

"I might take you up on that study offer next time."

This time, she does smile.

"I'll be here," she says.

And with that, I head inside.

I sit down on my bed, the springs creaking softly beneath me as I let out a breath I didn't realize I was still holding. The room is dim, lit only by the faint orange glow leaking in from the streetlamp outside my window. It casts soft shadows across the walls, turning everything just a little more surreal.

I can still feel MJ's hug.

The warmth of it lingers like heat from a blanket that's been pulled away. The weight of her pain settles somewhere deep in my chest. The crack in her voice when she asked why he hated her—it hits harder now than it did in the moment. I wasn't ready for how much that would stay with me.

As I stare at the ceiling, I find myself thinking about something I hadn't planned on.

Maybe… I was meant to cross paths with MJ.

I mean, sure—every Peter Parker has his MJ. That's almost a law of the multiverse, right? But maybe it's not always some tragic romance with tears and broken promises and too many missed chances.

Maybe this version—my version—can be different.

I roll onto my side, the pillow cool against my cheek, finally ready to let the day go. Sleep is already starting to tug at the edges of my mind when—

Bzzt bzzt.

The phone buzzes on my nightstand, cutting through the silence. I groan softly, reach for it, and squint at the screen.

Harry…

I sit up, rubbing a hand over my face before answering.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Pete…" Harry's voice is quiet, hesitant. "Hope I'm not waking you."

"I just laid down, but it's fine," I say, straightening. "What's up, Har?"

There's a pause. Then, "Uh, I—"

"You okay?" I cut in gently, noticing the tension bleeding through the line.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. It's… it's Dad. Something's going on with him."

I feel my chest tighten, but I don't let my thoughts jump to the worst just yet.

"What do you mean?"

"He's been acting differently since you stopped by the other day. And he just left the penthouse without telling me anything. Didn't even tell me he was leaving."

"Wait—left?" I sit up straighter. "He didn't say anything at all?"

disappeared. I asked the staff, they didn't know either."

That's not like Norman. Everything I've seen and heard so far tells me he's a man who doesn't do random.

"Okay," I say slowly. "How exactly has he been acting? What's different?"

Harry exhales into the phone, and I hear the scrape of a chair or something shifting on his end.

"He's… I don't know. Shifty. Distant. Jumpy, almost. I've never seen him like this, Pete."

"Could it be health-related?" I ask. "Bad news from a doctor or something?"

"If it is, he didn't tell me," Harry mutters. "But he's been keeping things from me for a while now."

I rest my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. The shadows stretch long beneath me. Something's not sitting right about this.

"Alright," I say quietly. "Let me think for a minute."

There's a silence between us. Not awkward—just heavy. Like we both know we're circling something bigger than either of us wants to admit.

"This isn't normal, Pete," Harry says, his voice tightening. "He doesn't just leave. Not like that. He always tells me. Or has someone tell me."

"Yeah," I murmur. "I know."

He's nervous, and for good reason. Norman's sick, so if he's hiding something, that could be really bad. Then again, it could be something worse. I immediately think back to the guy in the lobby that I'd seen. Had he been part of Norman's change in behavior? Maybe I need to talk to Norman, if I can get the chance.

"Call me if he comes back, okay?" I ask.

"Sure, no problem." He pauses. Then, in a quieter voice: "Pete… Dad would tell me if his health was declining, right?"

I hesitate.

That hesitation says more than I want it to. I rub my forehead, wishing I had an answer that didn't feel like a coin toss.

"Yeah," I say, because it feels like the thing I'm supposed to say. "I think he would."

But the truth is—I don't know. I've known Norman Osborn for maybe a few hours total. Harry's known him his whole life, and he's not even sure.

"I just don't want to lose him," Harry says finally. His voice drops to a whisper, like saying it too loud might make it real.

My chest tightens, because I get it. That fear? It's not just about sickness—it's about watching someone you love become someone you don't recognize.

"I get it," I say softly. "You're not going to… I'm sure Norman's fine, and he'll be back before you know it."

️ ️Meanwhile

The building was quiet this time of night—quiet in a way only glass and steel could be. Cold. Controlled. The kind of silence that echoed in the bones and clung to the walls like a secret.

Norman Osborn stood in the center of his old office, a place he hadn't set foot in for months—not since he stepped down as CEO to begin treatment. The walls were still lined with accolades and innovation, etched metal plates and framed patents. They stared at him like ghosts.

The city stretched out beyond the glass wall, lights flickering like fireflies over the East River. He didn't care to look at it tonight.

Instead, he waited.

He stood near the bar cart, one hand resting on its edge, the other loosely curled around a heavy tumbler of whiskey. The ice had mostly melted. The drink was warm now, bitter with time.

Norman took a slow sip and let the alcohol burn its way down. His posture was steady, but his eyes kept darting—barely perceptible shifts as he watched the shadows cast by the tall shelves and the darkened corners of the room.

His reflection in the window didn't look like the man who used to command boardrooms. He looked... thinner. Paler. Tired. There was a dull sheen in his eyes—not quite fear, but something adjacent. Dread, maybe.

There was a flicker of movement.

He didn't jump, but he did turn—calmly, mechanically—just in time to see a figure drop silently from the ceiling, landing with a whisper-soft thud against the polished floor.

The man was dressed in black from head to toe. Skin-tight fabric. Tactical gloves. A ski mask obscured his face, but his gait gave him away before the voice did.

"Sorry I'm late," the intruder said, peeling the mask off with practiced ease.

Underneath was the grinning face of Walter Hardy—older now, streaks of gray in his slicked-back hair, but still carrying himself with the kind of sharp confidence that only came from decades of slipping past lasers and locks.

Norman gave the faintest nod.

"You're fine, Walter. Were you successful?"

Walter's grin widened, cocky and dangerous.

"You know me, Norman. The Black Cat always gets his prey."

He slung a small black satchel from his shoulder and unzipped it. From inside, he carefully withdrew a reinforced, temperature-controlled vial—about the size of a thermos—and handed it over like it was a bomb.

"Though, I'll admit… paying me to rob your own company is a strange request."

Norman took the container and held it up to the light, turning it slowly in his hand. The fluid inside shimmered faintly, preserved in whatever solution the Oscorp vaults had been using.

"It might be strange," Norman said, his voice low, grave, "but I promise you—this asset is far too important to fall into the wrong hands."

He unsealed the top with a hiss of released pressure, peeled back the containment lining, and inside… was a spider.

Not just any spider.

The spider.

The one that bit Peter Parker.

Its curled legs were still intact, its red-and-blue markings preserved perfectly. Lifeless, but no less dangerous. It looked like something out of a nightmare—half science project, half divine accident.

Norman stared at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The light glinted off the glass, casting a warped silhouette across his face.

Walter shifted on his feet, the silence stretching.

"So," Walter said eventually, "what's the next step?"

Norman sealed the container again and set it down on the edge of the desk with delicate precision. Then he took another sip of whiskey, slower this time.

"I need to make sure this never falls into their hands," he said, more to himself than to Walter. His voice was softer now. Tense. Like he was admitting something aloud for the first time.

Walter arched an eyebrow, brushing invisible dust from his gloves.

"This was Richard's project, wasn't it?"

Norman's expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. He turned back to the window, but his reflection didn't look any steadier than before.

"Yes," he said finally, voice hushed. "It was."

There was a pause, as Norman closed his eyes.

"I would never see his work corrupted."

Walter didn't respond right away. He just watched Norman, carefully. The way his shoulders tensed when he said Richard's name. The weariness that wasn't just physical—it was guilt. It was grief.

"Funny," Walter muttered, stepping away from the desk. "People on the outside think Oscorp was always your baby. But I remember the early days. It was yours and Richard's. He had the soul. You had the spine."

Norman gave the faintest twitch of a smile.

"And now there's too little of either."

He picked up the container again, holding it carefully in one hand, like it might wake up and bite.

Walter took a step closer. His voice was low, but edged with something genuine.

"I know you, Norman. You wouldn't ask me to commit a crime unless you had a damn good reason. I came out of retirement because of you. I swore when my daughter was born that I would never put the claws back on."

His tone sharpened. Concern rippled just beneath the surface.

"Who are these people?"

Norman's eyes darkened with something unspoken.

"I can't tell you, Walter," Norman said finally. His voice had shifted—colder now, distant, like a shadow creeping over a fading light. "But all you need to know is that they were willing to kill Richard and Mary Parker to ensure this spider was never created."

Walter's eyes narrowed, the weight of the truth pressing in like a vice.

"What? They were the ones that killed Richard?"

Norman didn't flinch. Just met his gaze with a hollow calm.

"Yes."

For a moment, Walter said nothing. His jaw tightened. The confident veneer—the veteran thief, the legend of the underworld—slipped, just a little.

"My daughter…" he said slowly, voice quieter now, like he was already imagining worst-case headlines. "Is she in danger?"

Norman turned back to the window, his reflection fractured by the city lights flickering in the glass. He swirled the whiskey in his glass once, then answered without looking:

"So long as your involvement tonight is never discovered... no."

Walter stood still, tension rippling under his skin like a wire pulled taut.

"But if it is?" he asked.

Now Norman looked at him. Just for a second. A tired, weathered glance that carried far too much understanding.

"Then God help us both."