Disclaimer: I do not own the rights for any of the preexisting characters. This novel is made merely for entertainment purposes.
...
The tension of the moment melted slowly as their footsteps echoed against the sidewalk. The artificial illumination of the street lights stretched their shadows long behind them. Mary Jane walked beside Damian, her arms crossed. Not from the chill, but from the way her heart still raced.
She peeked at him from the corner of her eye. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, eyes steady on the road ahead, jaw relaxed but unreadable. Not angry nor smiling either. Just… calm. Which somehow made it more unsettling. She wasn't used to the men in her life having so many faces and nuance, nor arriving in the nick of time to save her like that.
"So…" she began, breaking the silence with a little forced nonchalance, "You always have a sixth sense for saving damsels in distress, or am I just special?"
Damian cracked a small smirk. "Little bit of both."
She huffed a laugh. "No, seriously. You popped out of nowhere like–bam–bodyguard mode. What, you got psychic powers now?"
"Maybe," he said, giving her a side glance, "Or maybe I'm just observant of my surroundings."
She narrowed her eyes playfully. "Observant doesn't explain how you showed up so fast after I got off the station. That's Batman-level timing."
He shrugged, the irony of all her remarks not lost on him. "Guess your just that lucky."
"Uh-huh," she muttered, unconvinced but letting it slide for now. She changed the subject, falling into step beside him. "So… birthday boy. How'd you prep for the big day? You cook everything yourself again?"
Looking ahead, he answered. "Yep. Got started yesterday with with the lengthy parts and cooked it all today." He paused, then added, "Still got to finish some small stuff as I ran off to the mini-mart for the ice cream."
With a smirk on her face, she said. "That's impressive. I expected pizza and chips," then, nudging his arm, she asked. "So who's coming, then? Half the school? Party full of all your 'acquaintances'?"
He shook his head with a smile. "Nah. Just the usual crew. Peter, Ned, Miles, Gwen. My aunt, too."
MJ nodded, though she caught the faint shift in his voice when he mentioned the aunt she hasn't met in person yet. A softness, almost imperceptible, subtle… a tone she couldn't pin to a specific feeling, as it felt like a mix of them. So she decided not to ask. Not yet.
"Wow. Real VIP list." She teased lightly, walking backward for a moment to look at him. "What, no popular kids, no hot female seniors, no mysterious plus ones?"
'Wait till next year for those.' He thought. Still, Damian raised an eyebrow at her odd words. "You disappointed or some?"
"No," she said too quickly. Then caught herself. "I mean, just curious. You've been a little… I dunno. Different lately."
"Different how?" He faked obliviousness.
MJ studied him for a moment, then smiled like she was brushing it off. "You just don't flirt back as much anymore and you look even more distracted in class than usual. I was starting to wonder if I should file a complaint."
Damian chuckled, thinking she really was as perceptive as ever. "Didn't know it was mandatory."
"It is," she shot back with a grin. "Unspoken rule. Catch a hint, Rossi."
"Maybe I was just waiting to see how long it'd take you to notice." He quipped as a smirk slid on his face again.
"Oh, so you were pulling back on purpose!"
He gave her a sideways look, his face shifting to be unreadable again. "Maybe."
She rolled her eyes. "God, you're such a pain."
"This 'pain' drives you home almost everyday though." He shot back.
MJ lifted her arms in mock surrender. "...Touche."
They reached the end of their little walk, his house coming into view. The yard was freshly mowed, lantern lights glowing softly near the porch. The scent of food wafted faintly from an open window, something rich and perfectly spiced. The inside seen through the windows flickered with warmth.
Mary Jane glanced at him, a quiet thought brewing in her chest. So there's no other girl… Or if there was, she hadn't been invited tonight.
That thought alone sent a strange kind of flutter through her chest–relief mixed with… something she didn't want to even think about.
"Well," she said, tossing her hair back, "I'm glad you're not throwing some massive blowout. I brought wine. Thought I was gonna have to fight for fridge space."
"You brought wine to an underage party?" He asked, one of his eyebrows lifting in mock judgement.
But she doubled down. "I'm classy like that."
To which he laughed. "Guess that makes me the irresponsible host for not checking your bag."
"Exactly. Shame on you." She smirked, then tilted her head. "You know, despite the near-trauma at the station, this night's starting off pretty good."
"Let's hope it stays that way," Damian replied as he unlocked the front door and held it open for her. "But if it doesn't… well, you've always got me." He smiled.
She stepped through, eyes flickering up to meet his. "Yeah," she said softly. "I've got you."
And for once, neither of them had a comeback.
…
After MJ helped him set up the decorations and silverware as he finished cooking the feast, with his hands this time. Spreading the dishes in the long wooden table his parents used for party dinners, the scent of roasted meat, melted cheese, and fresh tomato sauce danced through the house as if he was manipulating the air to do so. And Damian could swear he saw Mary Jane staring at the food like it would disappear if she stopped looking, but he couldn't blame her.
The dishes he prepared were all his favorites from the local cuisine of his second homeland: Pastel de papa, ham & cheese tart, lasagna, beef and ham & cheese empanadas, and homemade pizza. He also remembered to make/buy everybody's favorites.
Including some borscht for Natasha, though the probability of her attendance was dubious at best, but he did so anyways, in the off-chance she comes early, or at all.
As Damian set the last empanada tray on the table just as the doorbell rang.
MJ raised an eyebrow at the sound. "Guess the cavalry's here."
"Right on time." Damian murmured, brushing his hands on a kitchen towel before walking to the door.
When he opened it, Gwen stood there, her outfit making her look more beautiful and pristine than usual. Her long blonde hair softly curled over her shoulders while two bangs highlighted her face, with a touch more make up than usual, looking dazzling.
She was wearing a white colored knit cardigan over a black form fitting top, giving a small peak to the rift that divided her toned mid section. High waisted black jeans that gracefully demarked her curves and white canvas sneakers. To finish the outfit, she had a pair of teardrop white opal earrings, a silver pendant necklace and a bashful smile that flickered brighter the moment she saw him.
She greeted him almost in a whisper. "Hey."
Beside her stood Captain George Stacy, arms crossed, his police badge barely hidden beneath his coat, eyes quietly sweeping over Damian with that firm, paternal gaze only non-corrupted cops and protective fathers ever mastered.
"Evening, Damian." Captain Stacy said, offering a short nod.
"Evening, sir. Thanks for dropping her off." Damian said with a polite smile.
The older man gave a faint grunt of approval. "Don't mention it. Just figured I'd drop her off and come to congratulate you myself." He narrowed his eyes slightly, not unfriendly but unmistakably measuring. "Still looking after your folks' place, I take it?"
"I am." Damian replied, the corners of his smile softening.
"Good." George muttered. "Keep doing that. World's messier than it looks, son. But you've got a good head on your shoulders. Don't forget to use it."
Raising his hand in military salute, he said. "Yes, sir."
A rare, almost-smile crept onto Captain Stacy's face before he clapped Gwen gently on the shoulder. "Have fun, honey. Don't give this guy too hard a time."
Gwen rolled her eyes fondly. "No promises."
As Captain Stacy walked back to his car, Gwen lingered in the doorway, shifting her weight as if waiting for some kind of cue. Damian stepped aside and gestured for her to come in.
"You look nice, by the way," he said without thinking.
Gwen froze a moment too long. "Oh-uh, thanks. You too. Smells amazing in here." She quickly stepped inside, cheeks flushed pink.
Yet, before he could close the door, another car parked next to the police car–as shortly after–Ned got out of said car, with his usual goofy grin. As he walked to them, Damian could see Ned's mom from the car waving and saying "Happy birthday," just loud enough for Damian to hear.
As he waved back, he could hear Ned greeting them both. "Yo, seems like I got here right on time."
"You're talking as if you'd miss out on a chance of eating my food for free, Leeds." He joked with him.
"It's called being respectful. You know, in some cultures it is considered disrespectful to the host to not empty your plate," he joked before catching a whiff of the aroma coming behind Damian's open door.
"And it seems like you cooked a whole test for my respectfulness. Smells like an entire country in there."
"I'll take that as a compliment." He said, signaling for him to step in.
As they entered, Ned's eyes darted immediately to the table. Then to MJ, who was leaning casually against the kitchen counter, pretending to be nonchalant.
"You got here first?" Ned asked her with exaggerated mock suspicion. "Wait, don't tell me you've been here since school ended."
MJ, caught off-guard, flushed instantly. "I-what? No!" She laughed nervously, trying to summon a retort, but nothing came. "I just got here a bit earlier to help, that's all."
Ned raised an eyebrow but said nothing, grinning knowingly. Gwen, however, caught the flicker of heat that touched MJ's cheeks. Her own smile dimmed slightly as she looked between them.
Still, before she could say anything, Damian clapped Ned on the shoulder and said with a smirk on his face. "What, you jealous? Sorry buddy, but I don't swing that way."
Ned responded at him by giving Damian the middle finger as he swatted his hand away before laughing. "You wish, buddy. This sharp intellect of mine is reserved for the hot babes only."
"And for Star Wars." Said MJ, trying to recuperate her usual attitude while looking gratefully at Damian for diverting the attention from her.
Nudging Ned, Damian said. "Well, how about you try some of my homemade empanadas, they taste best when they're still steaming hot."
"Oh say less," Ned said, marching past.
As he sat down and grabbed an empanada, he asked. "Are Peter and Miles on their way?"
Checking on the phone in his pocket with the help of his technokinesis, he glanced over the chats and answered as Leeds was struggling while blowing the hot air out of his mouth, seemingly having forgotten that Damian said the empanadas were 'steaming hot'. "Miles said he's on his way. Peter will probably be fashionably late, as usual."
Chuckling at his comment, MJ said. "Well, you better tell him his fashion can't help him if the lasagna runs out, and tell him we don't do share reservations."
Looking around at the variety dishes, Gwen's eyes widened. "You made all this by yourself?" Pausing to turn to look at him, she said with a cheeky smile and pink tinted cheeks, fueled by a sudden sense of competition. "Are you perhaps looking for a wife?"
"Get in line," MJ muttered before she could stop herself.
Earning a side glance from Gwen and Ned as well as a smirk from Damian, which made her blush slightly again.
[Damn, the legendary trope of saving the damsel in distress is working overtime.] Commented Eva, amused at the developments of the night.
'Well, it works wonders when the hero is as good looking as me.' Responded Damian, half joking and half narcissistically.
Noticing his joking mood, she pointed out. [You seem awfully calm for someone that is in the middle of a soon to start cat fight while having an uncertain relationship with yet another woman.]
'Nope, I know I'm in deep shit, neck-deep I'd say. But I'd much rather turn my brain off for my birthday and leave the problems to future Damian.' He said, trying to act blissfully unaware, like the dense isekai protagonists he used to hate so much.
[You know this is a direct result of leaving your problems for future Damian to deal with, right?] But Eva refused to let him escape.
And consequently, he defended himself. 'Yep. But to be fair though, Gwen's crush is 100% her doing. MJ never really looked seriously interested until what happened today and Natasha was quite literally limit-testing my patience as a man.'
[Boohoo, poor Damian. Hot women just can't stop throwing themselves at him.] She mockingly said.
Getting serious for a second, he sighed as he started. 'For one, that is actually a problem when you have a real relationship beyond physical attraction with those women. Second, you already used that one before. You gotta up your game, Eva.'
Laughing darkly at his self-induced misfortune, as much as he tried to gaslight himself into a victim role, she said. [Well, my instincts are telling me the only thing that is gonna get 'upped' after tonight are your love problems, darling.]
And to that he had no retort, feeling to his dismay that she was probably right as his current brain didn't let the slightest behavioural cue go unnoticed, even if he wanted to.
*Knock* *Knock* *Knock*
Getting interrupted out of his conversation, Damian heard the door, and said. "That must be Miles, I'll open it." Before walking towards the door.
As he pulled it open, there stood Miles in a black jacket with red accents and a graphic tee, albeit a tasteful one, unlike Ned's usual graphic tee's. He had black pants with a wallet chain hanging at the side and a pair of what looked like low dunks in white and black.
Overall, the fit was looking good, but a little weird in contrast to the supposed year they were living in, though Damian made a mental note of asking Miles where did he shop at.
Still, he couldn't say the same for Miles himself, as the teen had a faint sheen of sweat clung to his forehead, suggesting he'd jogged the last few blocks.
"Yo, birthday boy!" Miles greeted with a broad grin, bumping fists with Damian. "Hope I'm not too late to grab the good food."
Damian grinned. "Barely 15 minutes late, I'd say you're right on time, for you. Gwen and Ned are already here. Peter's trying to be even more fashionably late than you."
Miles laughed. "Sounds about right."
As they stepped inside, the savory scent hit Miles right on the nose. "Bro," he said, dragging the word as he stared at the table. "You cooked all this?"
He walked over slowly, taking it all in like it was a museum exhibit made of cheese, dough, and meat. And then his eyes stopped cold.
"Wait are those pasteles?!" He turned back toward Damian with an expression of sheer excitement. "You made pasteles?! Man, you cooked these?"
Damian smirked. "Of course I did. I saw how you were practically inhaling them on your birthday so I tried to make some myself."
Miles placed a hand dramatically on his heart. "I take back everything I ever said about you not being latino enough."
"Thanks, I guess." He chuckled.
"Don't even worry about it." Miles shook his head reverently. "After I show abuela pictures of how you cook she will adopt you on the spot."
MJ chuckled from her spot at the counter, arms crossed. "Guess we should be grateful Miles didn't get here first, or none of us would've gotten to taste any of this."
"Speak for yourself," Ned added, biting into another empanada despite the steam still rising. "I'm already in too deep."
"Honestly," Gwen said, giving Damian a sideways glance as she leaned closer to Miles, "we're starting to think he's practicing for being a stay at home husband."
"I'm saying," Miles agreed, nodding. "This is some next-level spouse energy. Like, you're out here throwing 'I love you' in the shape of a casserole."
Damian rolled his eyes, but his grin betrayed him. "Maybe I'm just a good host."
"Good host?" MJ quipped. "You're giving grandmother-on-holiday levels of commitment here."
As everyone laughed at her comment, Miles walked up and gave Damian another fist bump. "Seriously, man. This is amazing. Happy birthday."
"Thanks, bro." Damian replied. And for a moment, in the middle of the chaos of simmering emotions and unchecked tension, he felt grounded. Not as the mystic prodigy, the uncanny mutant, or the man intrinsically tied to the world of supers. Just as… Damian. Among friends. Where things made sense.
"Well." Miles said, looking around, "I'm calling dibs on at least two pasteles before Peter shows up and tries to put half of it in his backpack."
"Fair enough." Damian said, stepping aside. "Just don't burn your mouth like Ned did."
"Worth it." Ned muttered through a full mouth.
Damian took a deep breath, letting the moment settle. His gaze wandered to MJ and Gwen again, each smiling, but both just a little too focused on the food to meet each other's eyes.
Eva's voice hummed softly in the back of his head. [So... when's the real drama starting?]
'Hopefully never.' He answered, more a prayer than a verdict.
[Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment, my dear sorcerer.]
'...I swear the old man's speech rubs off like the plague.'
And then, just as the laughter died down and Miles took a seat, another knock came at the door.
Damian raised a brow. "And that must be Peter."
"Finally." Said Mary Jane, with an edge of theatrical exasperation. "I was worried we'd have to start without him."
Miles looked up, grinning. "Ten bucks says he brought his gift in the backpack."
Ned raised his hand. "I'll take that bet."
Damian sighed as he made his way to the door again. Opening the door, Damian let in a slightly winded Peter in a charcoal-gray hoodie, black jeans and some beat up sneakers, his hair a mess. "Sorry! Sorry! Traffic was a nightmare and then the bus broke down and-"
"You're thirty minutes late." MJ said without looking at him.
Peter raised a finger, prepared to launch into another excuse, but Ned cut him off with a grin. "She's been waiting to roast you since you got off the bus, man. Just give it up already."
Peter sighed in defeat and dropped onto the couch beside him. "Happy birthday, Damian."
Damian gave a warm smile. "Glad you made it."
As Peter helped himself to some food, MJ moved to stand by Damian again, watching their friends chat and settle into the night.
"You sure this is how you wanted to spend your birthday?" she asked quietly, just for him to hear.
He looked at the scene in front of him. Laughter, warm food, casual teasing and familiarity. Then back at her.
"Yep." he said. "This is exactly how I wanted it."
As the night went on, they fell into a comfortable rhythm, joking, eating, and playing some family friendly party games. Overall, having a good time. Yet, while everyone was having fun on the surface, some party members had troubling thoughts beneath their smiles.
…
The sound of laughter and the clinking of cutlery filled Damina's home. The table had long since become a battlefield of stories, empty plates, and scattered napkins, each voice trying to outdo the last with jokes or memories. MJ sat curled up at one end of the couch, as they had moved towards the living room at some point. A drink in her hand she hadn't touched in minutes, watching the scene unfold.
Damian was leaning back in one of the dining chairs–as there weren't enough couches for all of them to sprawl around otherwise–animatedly recounting something to Peter and Ned, his hands moving as he spoke; graceful, confident, totally immersed. Gwen sat on the other end of the couch, to one side of him, watching with that soft smile she always seemed to wear when he was near, her chin in her hand. Miles was cracking up at something Damian said, nudging Ned with an elbow.
MJ exhaled quietly through her nose and looked away.
She'd been the first one to arrive today. Saved from some weirdos by him. Helped him prep the table, teased him about how serious he looked while controlling that the food doesn't get overcooked, caught him smiling when he thought she wasn't paying attention. She knew the way he crinkled his nose when he was focusing. The way he ran his fingers through his hair or rested his hand on his chin when he was thinking. The way he always made sure to check on how spicy the dishes made for her were. The way he-
She stopped that train of thought with a sip of her now warm drink.
He was just being polite. That was who Damian was: kind, thoughtful, a little intense, but he didn't play games. So why was she suddenly second-guessing every smirk and shoulder bump they used to toss back and forth like it was nothing?
Suddenly, Gwen made her way next to her side of the couch and let out a soft chuckle.
"You've been watching him like a hawk all night." She said casually, yet in a low enough tone for only the two of them to hear clearly, taking a sip from her glass and raising an eyebrow at MJ.
MJ blinked. "What? No. I'm just…" She gave a small shrug. "Observing the chaos. It's my journalistic instinct." She responded, keeping the same low tone.
Gwen smirked, twirling her straw. "Sure. The 'chaos' that just so happens to be wearing a black button-up over a white tucked tee while plating food like he's auditioning for a cooking show?"
"Did you ask him if he had help making all this?" Gwen asked with a knowing smile, twirling her drink.
Hearing her, Mary Jane gave a dry laugh. "Please. Damian? He probably grew a second set of hands and did it all himself."
"Wouldn't surprise me," Gwen said, then her voice softened. "But you've been quiet. You okay?"
MJ shifted her weight, eyes on the rim of her glass. "Yeah. Just… thinking."
Gwen gave a pause, watching her more carefully now. Then, teasing, but not too much. she asked, "You don't like him, do you?"
MJ scoffed a bit too quickly. "What? No. I mean, come on, it's Damian. He's just… Damian."
Gwen's smile didn't quite fade. "Right."
MJ laughed again, but it was weaker this time. She set her drink down on the side table and crossed her arms over her knees. "Besides, I'm pretty sure you like him."
That made Gwen blink. "I never said I didn't."
MJ looked at her, caught off guard. Gwen's eyes were level, unreadable. For a moment, she remembered how Gwen acts when Damian's not around, not the clumsy enamored high school girl, but the confident and brilliant honorary student Gwen Stacy.
Then neither of them said anything for a moment. Gwen leaned back, her voice gentle. "Whatever you feel or don't feel… just make sure you're honest with yourself about it. It gets harder the longer you're not."
MJ didn't answer right away. She just looked across the room again. At Damian, laughing with his head tilted back slightly, Peter swatting at his arm, Ned already asking for thirds. The sight made something inside her stir and ache at the same time.
She turned back to Gwen and forced a smile. "Don't worry. I'm always honest with myself."
But this time even she herself didn't quite believe her words.
…
As the clock showed it was already past 10:30 p.m., they decided to wrap things up. As Captain Stacy came to pick Gwen up, she ran to his car before picking up a small wrapped box and going back to Damian, saying she had kind of forgotten to bring the gift.
And before Damian could say thank you, Gwen simply hugged him tightly, giving him a kiss on the cheek before turning around, rushing for the car to hide her embarrassment and pink tinted cheeks, saying "See you on Monday." As she went.
This of course earned him a stern and narrow-eyed stare from George, to which he could only put his hands up, silently pleading his innocence.
Yet, Captain Stacy decided to avoid commenting on it, simply saying. "Are you coming or not, son?"
Then, an equally awkward Miles stepped up, regretting having agreed to hitch a ride to his house with Gwen's father. On account of Captain Stacy being acquainted with his dad.
Turning around he said. "Thank's for the food, bro. Mom will love it!"
"No worries, send my regards to your parents. Oh, and do take this too, it's for Gwen's dad." Said Damian as he extended a hand with another bag packed with food.
Hearing his words, George's expression softened the slightest bit as he gave him a nod before getting in the car, only waiting for Miles to enter.
After they left, it was the turn for Ned, repeating the process. But this time, Peter refused the ride as he said he had a place to stop by before going home. Understanding his real motives, Damian didn't protest and simply gave him a bag for Aunt May and after he said his thanks, Parker took off on foot to continue his nightly spider-duties.
Afterwards, Damian offered to take MJ home, yet she insisted on staying to help him clean up. Something he kindly refused as it would've been much easier to do so with his powers when alone, but she wouldn't budge, thinking this was a weird hill to die on, he finally relented.
By now the house had quieted in the aftermath of the party, the warmth and noise fading like steam from a cooling cup of tea. Outside, the distant sound of a car turning a corner was the last sign of the night winding down. Inside, Damian stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he rinsed off plates with practiced focus.
Mary Jane stood beside him, towel in hand, drying the dishes he passed her one by one. They'd already cleared the table, tossed the garbage, and boxed up the leftover desserts. It should've been a simple rhythm–pass, dry, stack–but the silence between them was louder than it had any right to be.
She glanced sideways, watching the steady way he moved; intent, focused, a little distant. He hadn't joked or teased her once since they started cleaning. No sly comments about her almost starting a fire with the microwave earlier. No smug smile when she accidentally spilled soda on the floor. Just this quiet, almost… careful energy between them.
She broke the silence first. Tried to, at least.
"So," she said, drying a plate and placing it aside. "You survived your birthday. Not bad for an old man."
Damian gave a short laugh through his nose. "Barely. I think Ned was planning to smother me with the couch pillow when I refused him a fourth slice of cake."
That earned a small smile from her. But it faded quickly. Another dish passed between them. The hum of running water filled the gap again.
MJ bit the inside of her cheek, trying to ignore the little knot in her chest that had been growing all night. This wasn't like her. She was good at keeping things light. She didn't get nervous. And yet. "Can I ask you something?" she said after a moment, a little too quickly.
Damian paused mid-rinse, glancing at her with mild surprise. "Sure."
She looked down at the plate she was drying, tracing a bit of leftover soap suds with her finger. "How would you react if… let's say… a classmate suddenly made a move on you?"
There was a beat of silence in which Damian froze, caught off-guard. "That's… oddly specific." He answered in a non committal manner.
On the other hand, he could hear someone laughing in his head. [Oh boy, here we go.] Eva said, materializing a fake popcorn bucket and a pair of fake 3D glasses.
"I'm asking for science." She said flatly, then rolled her eyes. "Just answer the question."
[Yeah, give the woman an answer!]
Trying his best to ignore Eva right now, he turned back to the sink, the water continuing to rush under his hands. "I guess it depends. That's kind of a vague scenario."
MJ gave a faint sigh, then tightened her grip on the towel. Her tone came quieter this time. "Okay. What if it wasn't just any classmate. What if it was… a friend. Someone close. And they said they had feelings for you."
She didn't look at him. Couldn't. Her voice remained casual, but her stomach had tied itself into a knot.
Damian didn't answer right away. As he had feared, the worst scenario was thrown at him at the worst possible time, as usual. Murphy's law really was an overused trope in his life(s).
The plate in his hand went still under the faucet, and the sound of the water suddenly felt too loud. He finally turned it off and placed the dish carefully in the drying rack.
He glanced over at her–at the way she avoided his gaze, eyes on the towel, fingers fidgeting.
"...I think I'd want to understand why they feel that way." He said after a beat, his voice quiet. "I'd want to know if it's just a passing thing. If it's a spur of the moment. Or if they feel pressured. If they feel like they have to say something."
"That's not really fair." MJ murmured.
"Maybe not." Damian said gently. "But I wouldn't want to hurt them. Or lose them. Neither would I want to be hurt by stepping into something that is ephemeral at best. So I'd want to be sure I'm not mistaking what they really feel."
MJ gave a soft laugh, but it didn't reach her eyes. "So you'd overthink it to death, basically."
He smiled faintly at her words. "Well, I am me."
That pulled a real laugh from her–quiet and breathy, but real. Then the silence returned, softer this time. Easier, almost.
She finally looked at him, and for once, he was already looking back. His expression wasn't teasing or aloof. Just calm. Patient. The same way he always was when he was trying to understand something deeper than what was being said aloud.
Her fingers tightened on the towel.
"…Hypothetically," she added, voice low, "would you want to know? If that friend had feelings?"
Damian's gaze held hers for a long moment.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I'd want to know. Even if it changed things."
MJ looked away again, feeling her heartbeat pick up. The words stayed lodged in her throat, heavy and unspoken.
Instead, she reached for another plate. "Right. Hypothetically."
They stood there, side by side again. Cleaning dishes. Saying everything, and nothing at all.
The silence after Damian's answer lingered like the aftertaste of something unspoken. The soft clatter of plates was the only sound between them. Mary Jane stared down at the glass in her hands, heart thudding a little too loudly in her chest. She was weighing something. Gathering courage or brushing it off, not even she knew.
Damian was still rinsing the last of the dishes, quiet and thoughtful, but not cold. Just… careful. That's when it happened.
A third voice sliced through the hush, low and precise. "Well, I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
The suddenness of it made Mary Jane nearly drop the glass she was holding. She turned sharply, and there, leaning against the open doorway to the kitchen, stood a striking redhead dressed in black jeans and a sleek dark coat. Her hair, usually loose or tied lazily, was pinned back with calculated neatness. The way she held herself was too poised, too exact to be casual. Her eyes, the color of a storm behind glass, landed on Mary Jane like a blade.
"So… how was the birthday party?" she asked smoothly, though the iciness underneath was unmistakable. Then, gaze never wavering, she added. "And who's the young lady left all alone here with you?"
[Holy shit, it's really happening.] Said Eva from the sidelines. 'Evangeline, please.' Damian muttered, not willing to deal with extra shit.
Scoffing, Eva said. [Fine, I'm sorry. I was just trying to alleviate your mood.]
'I know, but right now I don't need more one liners to remind me how fucked I am.' He said, and it looked like she understood him, as Eva went silent after that.
Damian exhaled slowly through his nose, setting the last dish aside before turning toward her, face calm, almost resigned. Of course it had to happen now. Worst possible timing. Again
"It went well," he said evenly, brushing his damp hands against a dish towel. "And this is Mary Jane Watson. A friend of mine since middle school. I've mentioned her before."
The woman who she presumed was Natasha, Damian's aunt, though no name had been given, tilted her head ever so slightly, still holding MJ in her sights.
"That doesn't answer my question, Damian." Her tone sharpened. "What is she doing here?"
Mary Jane stiffened, unsure what to do. There was something dangerous about this woman. It was subtle, controlled, like someone trained to read a room in one glance and dismantle it in three. She wasn't just judging her. She was dissecting her.
Damian's jaw tensed for the briefest moment before he sighed, taking half a step forward, subtly shielding MJ with the shift of his stance.
"She's my friend, Nat." His voice was firm, edged with steel. "She didn't have anyone to take her home, so I offered. As thanks, she insisted on helping me clean up. That's all."
For a beat, the room was thick with unsaid things. Mary Jane's heart beat unevenly. Natasha's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes did–a flicker, quick yet charged.
Then, as if by flipping a switch, the tension evaporated."Is that so?" she said with a small, professional smile sliding into place. "You should've said so earlier."
She turned away from them both, walking to the counter with a sudden ease that was almost too fluid to be real. "I'll take care of the rest. You better take her home before it gets any later, Malysh."
That last word lingered, a Russian endearment. But there was weight behind it. Possessiveness, maybe. Or something more protective. MJ couldn't tell. She didn't know what this woman meant to Damian… only that the shift in atmosphere had stolen the words from her throat.
Still holding the kitchen towel, Mary Jane exchanged a brief glance with Damian. He gave her a tired, apologetic smile. Grateful, but strained.
And though she said nothing, she realized something sharp and undeniable in that moment.
She didn't want to be just his friend.
Not anymore.