For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
Ignore Word Count
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.
The first thing to break through the fog of sleep wasn't the light, but the smell.
Bacon.
A scent so potent and perfect it bypassed Peter's nose and seemed to materialize directly in his brain. It was May's secret weapon, the nuclear option in her long-running war against his snooze button. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, a futile attempt to retreat back into a dream that involved acing his physics midterms and something vaguely pleasant about churros.
"If I can smell it, that means it's real. If it's real, that means it's morning." The logic was fuzzy, but inescapable.
The floorboards in the hallway gave a familiar creak—the one right outside his door that always sang a half-step flat. A soft knock followed.
"Peter? I've got bacon and a ticking clock. Your new life is about to get cold."
He peeled one eye open. The room came into focus as a collage of bad decisions and good intentions. A physics textbook, splayed open, served as a coaster for a sweating glass of water. His soon-to-be-worn "First Day of College" outfit was less an outfit and more a heap of denim and cotton that had lost a fight with gravity. This wasn't a room; it was the Parker Luck staging area.
"Coming," he croaked, the word scraping his throat.
Sitting up felt like a complex engineering problem. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, a souvenir from a late-night purse-snatcher who apparently moonlighted as a professional wrestler. Normal people wake up with hangovers, he thought wryly, I wake up with contusions.
In the shower, under a stream of water that was either scalding or freezing with no middle ground, the anxiety began its morning workout. It started as a low hum in his gut, right next to the bacon anticipation. ESU. Empire State University. It still sounded like a place other people went to. Smarter people. People who didn't have to secretly sew up bullet holes in their hoodies.
He rested his forehead against the damp tile, the porcelain cool against his skin. What was he even doing? He'd gotten in, sure, but that felt like a clerical error. He was about to be surrounded by certified geniuses, the kind who didn't get their best scientific ideas after being bonked on the head by a guy in a rhino suit. He was an imposter, and his only credentials were a knack for web fluid chemistry and an advanced degree in lying to his aunt.
"Peter, you're going to leave some hot water for the rest of the city, right?" May's voice, muffled by the door, cut through his spiral.
"Right! Sorry," he called out, shutting off the water.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she was waiting in the hall, holding out a plate with two perfectly crispy strips of bacon. It was a peace offering. A bribe. An 'I love you' served on a porcelain dish.
"Your brain food," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. They were tired eyes, he noticed, not for the first time. She worked too hard.
"The most important food group," he agreed, taking the bacon with the reverence it deserved.
At the kitchen table, the rest of breakfast was a comfortable routine. May moved around the small space with an unconscious grace, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, refilling his orange juice before he even realized it was empty. She didn't ask if he was nervous. She didn't need to. She could probably read his anxiety in the way he was tapping his fork against his plate.
Instead, she talked about Mrs. Henderson from next door and her outrageously loud new wind chimes. She talked about a sale on wheat flour. She built a wall of normalcy around him, and he loved her for it.
"You've got everything?" she finally asked as he slung his backpack over his freshly bruised shoulder. The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks.
"I think so," he said, doing a mental checklist. "Books, laptop, moral dread, impending sense of doom..."
She swatted his arm playfully. "Stop that. You'll be brilliant. Ben always said you had a mind that worked on a different frequency than everyone else's. It's a gift."
He just nodded, the mention of his uncle settling in his chest with its familiar, heavy warmth.
At the door, she stopped him, her hand on his arm. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, he wasn't a college kid or a secret hero. He was just her boy, impossibly tall and terrifyingly grown up. She reached up and planted a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. It smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
"Just... be Peter," she whispered. "That's always more than enough."
He gave her a quick, tight hug. "I will. Love you."
"Love you more," she called after him as he stepped out into the crisp Queens morning.
The air was sharp, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. The world felt too loud, too bright. Every car horn, every distant siren, every snatch of conversation from the sidewalk pricked at his senses. He pulled his hoodie up, a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sensory onslaught of the city and the crushing weight of a perfectly normal first day.