Insight smelled like ink, burnt coffee, and the cheap floral air freshener Clara insisted kept the place "civilized." Phones rang. Printers spat out drafts. Someone was arguing about whose turn it was to buy donuts. It was loud, lived-in, imperfect — and for the first time all week, Peter breathed easier just standing inside it.
He needed noise. He needed motion. He needed anything that pushed the ache of MJ out of his chest.
Felicia was already there, legs up on one of the office chairs, flipping through a stack of his photos like she owned them and the rights to the printer they came from. Her hair fell over one eye; the curve of her smirk was pure provocation.
"You're late," she said.
"I'm thirty seconds early."
"Mm," she replied, standing anyway. "Good. I hate waiting."
She tossed him a memory card. "Alison took these, but she's being dramatic about the lighting again, so we're editing together."
As if on cue:
Across the room, Alison shouted, "IF ONE MORE PERSON TOUCHES MY LIGHTING BOARD—"
Clara yelled back, "It's a newspaper, not the Louvre!"
A stapler flew. Peter didn't look to see who threw it.
He turned to Felicia. "You really enjoy stirring things up here."
"It's a service. Keeps morale from dying." She bumped her shoulder into his. "Besides… it gets you to smile."
He tried not to smile, but he failed.
They fell into their usual rhythm: Felicia leaning close enough that her perfume brushed against his skin, Peter arguing with her about contrast and shadow depth, the two of them sharing such easy, natural laughter that even Mark muttered, "Unbelievable. Actual flirting before lunch."
Everything felt alive again.
Everything felt possible again.
Then the front door jingled.
Peter didn't look up at first.
But the room did.
The drop in noise hit like a pressure change — subtle, sharp, unmistakable.
When Peter glanced toward it, he saw her.
Mary Jane.
She wasn't furious, or glowing, or dramatic. She looked soft around the eyes, hair a little unbrushed, wearing jeans and a jacket too thin for the weather. The kind of outfit she wore when she didn't sleep well.
The breath left Peter's chest.
Felicia felt him go still before she turned. When she saw MJ, her smirk faded. Her expression didn't turn hostile — Felicia wasn't built for jealous theatrics — but something cold and assessing woke in her gaze.
MJ's eyes scanned the room.
And landed on them.
Felicia was sitting on the corner of Peter's desk, leaning into his space like she belonged there.
Peter was close enough that his knee brushed hers.
Two hands too near.
Two hearts too close.
The pain that flickered across MJ's face wasn't loud. It wasn't explosive.
It was quiet, and somehow worse.
She took a breath, "Hi, Peter."
His voice cracked, "MJ."
Felicia didn't move. Not even an inch. She cocked a brow with territorial calm, like a cat sitting between two rivals, unwilling to budge.
Peter stood too fast, almost knocking over the rolling chair. "I—uh—didn't know you'd be here."
"Yeah." MJ smiled without strength as she glanced at Felicia. "Neither did I. I just found myself here. It's the first time I've been here. The place looks nice. I see why you like spending time here."
The room watched without watching. Alison pretended to scroll her camera, Mark pretended to drink his energy drink, Clara pretended to read an email with the intensity of decoding an alien language.
"Can we talk?" MJ asked softly.
Peter's stomach twisted. He looked at Felicia.
Felicia drew one long breath through her nose — not possessive, not defeated — simply evaluating what he needed.
She hopped off the desk gracefully. "I'll grab a coffee." She brushed his hand in passing, subtle, grounding.
MJ watched the touch.
Watched the way Peter's shoulders eased when Felicia did it.
Her throat bobbed.
They stepped toward the hallway near Peter's office. He didn't close the door; closing it felt like a betrayal in every possible direction.
MJ folded her arms, staring somewhere near his collarbone. "I'm not here to fight. I'm just here to talk."
"I know." He ran a hand through his hair. "But I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything." MJ's voice wavered — the tiniest tremor. "I just… wanted to see you. To see how you were."
He felt the old instinct rise — to comfort, to apologize, to fix something broken. But the words he needed weren't there anymore. They'd been replaced by what Felicia sparked in him. Ease. Electricity. A sense of being seen, not judged. Something new, something raw, something he didn't want to lose.
"I'm okay," he said quietly.
MJ nodded. "Good."
She took a breath like she was stepping off a ledge, "So… you and Felicia…"
He flinched.
"You two are—?"
"I… yeah." He didn't sugarcoat, "We're together. Or trying to be. It's new."
Her eyes closed, briefly, "Right. I'm guessing it's fairly new since it hasn't been that long since we split up, right?"
Silence stretched between them — years of history bending around it, reshaping it.
"I'm not angry," MJ said. "I'm not… anything bad. I just…" She searched her words. "I didn't think you'd move on so fast."
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
"It's okay," she said again, but her voice said otherwise. "I left. I said I needed space. I meant it. I just didn't realize someone else would fill that space so quickly."
"MJ—"
"No," she whispered. "It's alright."
Her eyes glistened, but she didn't cry. Mary Jane Watson didn't cry over endings.
She just looked at him one last time — not with anger, but with acceptance that hurt worse, "Take care of yourself, Peter. I hope she can make you happy in a way I wasn't able to. You deserve happiness out of all the people I know."
She walked away, shoulders stiff until the front doors closed.
When they did, Peter leaned against the wall, breath shaking.
Felicia approached silently, two coffees in hand.
She didn't gloat. Didn't smirk. Didn't tease.
She just tapped his arm and handed him a cup, "You okay?"
He nodded.
Then added, truthfully, "Yeah. I think I am."
Felicia's expression softened — really softened, in a way she rarely let anyone see, "You handled that better than I expected."
"You thought I'd crack?"
"I thought you'd panic and start giving a TED talk on feelings. I at least expected some tears and moping."
He laughed — actually laughed.
Felicia bumped her hip against his, "For what it's worth… I'm not trying to replace anything. I'm just… here. And I want to be. I hope you also want me here too."
Peter looked at her — really looked.
At how she stood near him, but not clinging.
At how she didn't push him to explain anything faster than he was ready.
"I want you here," he said quietly.
Felicia blinked — once, slowly — as if absorbing the weight of the words, "Good. Then we're on the same page."
She leaned in, brushed his cheek with her thumb, and kissed him — not flamboyantly, not seductively. Just soft. Real. Honest.
The newsroom erupted in a mix of cheers and groans.
"Get a room!" Mark shouted.
"Or let me photograph it!" Alison added.
Clara tossed a pen at both of them. "Back to work! We publish tomorrow!"
Peter broke the kiss, laughing. Felicia smirked against his mouth before stepping back, reclaiming her usual bravado.
Then a soft ping sounded from his computer.
A new encrypted file appeared on the screen:
Sender: E.K.
Subject: For your next big scoop
Attachment: Watanabe Raid Coordination – Monday Targets
Felicia peered over his shoulder, "The kid strikes again. Here I thought he'd be quiet for a few weeks with the I.M.A.G.I.N.E. project of his."
Peter exhaled, the weight of MJ slowly giving way to the thrill of breaking news, "Looks like Insight's getting another big exclusive."
Felicia laced her fingers with his under the desk, "Guess we are too."
For the first time in days, Peter felt the world stop collapsing and start unfolding.
Crossed lines had a way of becoming new paths.
And he wasn't walking them alone anymore.