The morning felt awkward but in a good kind of way—The kind of way that meant things were healing. Slow and fragile. But healing.
For a moment, I didn't know where I was.
Then the weightlessness of my body reminded me of the soul-healing conversation I had with the Parkers last night.
Sunlight filtered lazily through the Parker's curtains, warming the blanket bunched at my chest.
The soft, muted sounds of a house waking up—floorboards creaking, the clink of a spoon against a bowl, a distant mug being set down—wrapped around me like another blanket.
This wasn't just a house that sheltered people.
It was an actual home.
---
I sat up slowly, my back sore from the couch. A yawn escaped its way out of me, and I shoved my hair back with one hand, hoping I didn't look like complete shit.
The smell of toast pulled the rest of me awake.
The toast weren't the burnt kind—these were golden, warm, the kind of toast that said someone actually cares.
When I wandered into the kitchen, May Parker was already moving around the stove, humming something soft and old-school. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled like she'd been expecting me.
"Morning, Wade. Hope you slept okay."
"Uh—yeah, yeah. Thanks for having me. I should probably get going..." I said while rubbing the back of my neck.
"Oh, no no" she said, waving a hand like that was the silliest thing she'd heard all week. "Eat breakfast with us first."
"I appreciate it, I really do, but I don't wanna overdo it with your kindness, Miss Parker."
She turned around, pointing a spatula at me menacingly. "I insist, Wade."
I sat down at the table faster than what should've been humanly possible.
Peter was already there. Spoon dangling from his hand, eyes barely open.
"Hey…" he mumbled through a mouthful. "We saved you toast. Don't touch the jam. It's mine."
"Noted" I said, grabbing a piece and biting into it plain. No butter, no jam, just golden toast—and still better than anything I'd had from takeout in weeks.
"So… you got anything to do today? Errands? Chores? Anything I can help with?"
He blinked at me, groggy. "Uh… I was gonna help out with some groceries."
"I'll tag along" I said before I could overthink it. "I owe you one."
"There's no need for that, Wade" Ben Parker said as he walked in from the kitchen, setting down a steaming mug of coffee before taking a seat.
"I know" I said quickly, maybe too quickly. "But I want to."
Ben raised an eyebrow over his mug. "You sure it's not just guilt talking?"
I froze mid-bite. I swallowed hard, the toast suddenly dried in my mouth.
May didn't turn around from the stove, but her voice came gently over the sizzle of eggs. "That's okay, Wade. Wanting to help is still wanting to help. Just don't turn it into punishment."
Ben took a sip of coffee, gave me a small smile over the rim. "But hey. If carrying groceries makes you feel better about it all… knock yourself out."
---
We grabbed our jackets. May handed Peter the grocery list with a gentle warning not to forget the eggs this time, and Ben gave me a pat on the back like I was family.
"Keep him out of trouble, Wade" he said with a grin. Peter rolled his eyes at that.
As soon as we stepped outside, the air hit me—cool, crisp, the kind of weather that made you feel like you were finally awake.
It felt good. Just breathing.
We were halfway there when I nudged him with my elbow.
"So… how are things going with Gwen?"
He glanced at me. "Huh? What do you mean?"
"Y'know..." I wiggled my eyebrows. "Y'know?"
Peter blinked. "What?"
"Dude, she's pretty, smart AND nice. She's 10. Come on."
Peter shook his head. "Gwen's a friend. Besides, I like Liz."
I blinked. "No offense to you, but you're not Liz's type, dude. Come on, it's obvious."
Peter stopped walking. "How is that not offensive?!"
I shrugged, smirking. "See, that's why I said no offense. It's a legal shield."
"You're an idiot."
"An idiot who's right."
Peter huffed and kept walking. "Whatever. You don't know everything."
"True" I said, adjusting the grocery bag in my arms. "But I do know the look someone gives when they're trying not to crush your feelings. And I know the look of someone with a crush. Gwen has that look—for you."
"...shut up Wade."
---
As we reached the corner store, Peter squinted at the list. "Okay, eggs, milk, flour, salt, sugar and something called 'that brand of rice I like'—very specific, May."
I leaned over his shoulder. "Is it the blue one?"
"There are like six with a blue bag."
"Then we're gonna wing it."
My arms were full of groceries. Peter gave me a curious glance. "Have you ever done this before? Y'know, errands."
I shrugged. "Not really. My mom and dad are too busy for that. They usually just let me buy some takeout."
He was quiet for a beat. "Well… it suits you."
"What does?"
"This. Being normal. Walking home with groceries."
A fond smile tugged at my lips. "You want me so bad."
Peter groaned. "Shut the hell up, Wade."
---
We were halfway back. The city was alive in that weird, layered way only a place like Queens could be.
Not perfect. But weirdly comforting. Real.
But I couldn't fight back the necessity to ask. "What would you wear to fight a fire?"
Peter blinked, thrown off. "...Huh? Where's that coming from?"
"Just curious."
He gave me a worried side-look. "You're not thinking of doing the hero thing again, are you? Wade, youalmost died."
I shrugged, shifting the grocery bag in my arms. "Almost, that's the key word. And I'm just... thinking out loud."
Peter stared for a second, trying to read me. "Seriously, man."
I shrugged. "I'm not throwing myself at buildings on fire anytime soon, dude. Just saying—fire's no joke. You'd need the right gear to deal with it."
He shook his head. "You need therapy."
"And you need cereal that doesn't taste like the literal definition of bland. But we all have our struggles, okay?"
Peter let out a snort, despite his worry. "So this is your thing now? Throwing yourself into danger cuz' you feel bad about yourself?"
I hesitated. "It's not that."
He glanced back at me. "Then what is it?"
I thought of the Parkers. Of warm toast, morning sunlight, and the way the couch made my back ache in a kind of comforting way.
"…Maybe it's just about doing the right thing. Just because someone should."
Peter was quiet after that. But not the bad kind of quiet. Just… thoughtful. "You can't keep throwing yourself into danger just to balance some imaginary scale.
But I guess... I'm still the guy in the chair after all. And you still need therapy."
"...Thanks Peter."
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