For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The phone, discarded and forgotten on the floor of Diana's room, remained silent. The outside world, having made its brief, unwelcome intrusion, was banished once more. They didn't speak. There was nothing left to say. They simply held each other in the gathering twilight, a silent, tangled knot of limbs and shared secrets, letting the last of the afternoon's golden light fade from the room.
The gravity of the real world, however, is an inexorable force. Midterms, family, the secret lives they both led—it was all waiting for them just outside the sanctuary of her door. The departure was a slow, reluctant unwinding. They dressed in a shared, comfortable silence, the air thick with the scent of them and the unspoken promise of their next meeting. Every touch was a lingering farewell, every glance a reaffirmation of the profound, unshakeable bond they had forged.
The kiss at her door was not a fiery, passionate affair. It was a slow, deep, and tender pressing of lips, a transfer of strength and a silent promise. Be safe. I am with you.
The subway ride home was a special kind of torture. The usual chaotic, vibrant energy of the city seemed muted, the colors washed out. Peter leaned his head against the cool, vibrating glass of the window, the city lights a meaningless blur. He felt like he was returning from a different dimension, a world of impossible sensation and profound emotional clarity, back to a place of shadows and lies. He could still feel the phantom weight of Diana's hand in his, still taste the unique, honeyed salt of her on his tongue. He was a ghost haunting his own commute, his body present but his soul still tangled in the sheets of her dorm room bed.
He walked the familiar blocks to his house in Queens, the quiet, tree-lined street a stark contrast to the high-stakes world he secretly inhabited. He was so deeply lost in the memory of Diana, in the soft, perfect curve of her hip under his hand, that he almost didn't notice it. The living room light was on.
A cold, sharp dread, entirely different from the kind he felt as Spider-Man, lanced through him. The bubble of his perfect day, which had already begun to deflate, now burst completely. May was home.
He unlocked the front door and stepped inside, the familiar, comforting scent of his own house now feeling alien, hostile. The house was too quiet. A plate with a dried-out sandwich and a glass of water sat on the coffee table, a silent testament to a long, anxious wait.
"Peter?"
The voice came from the kitchen. It was not the angry, terrified cry from the night before. It was something far worse. It was quiet, brittle, and utterly exhausted.
He walked to the doorway of the kitchen. May was there, not cooking, not cleaning, just sitting at the small table, a cup of tea held in her hands, her gaze fixed on nothing. The anger from their fight was gone, burned away, leaving behind the cold, heavy ash of a deep and profound hurt.
"Hey," he said, his voice a quiet, cautious thing.
She looked up, and the weariness in her eyes was a physical blow. "Hello, Peter," she said, her own voice meticulously polite. "I trust your… decompression… was successful."
The subtle, sharp twist of the knife was more painful than any shout. "May, I…" he started, but the words died in his throat. What could he say? Another apology? Another lie?
"I'm glad you did well on your exam," she said, her voice a monotone, her gaze dropping back to her teacup. "You've been studying so hard." The words were a minefield of unspoken accusations. You've been so busy, you've been so distant, you've been with her.
"Yeah, it was… it was okay," he mumbled, feeling like a stranger in his own kitchen. The vibrant, confident young man who had made love to a goddess just hours before was gone, replaced by a guilty, tongue-tied teenager.
"I made you a sandwich," she said, gesturing to the living room. "I wasn't sure when you'd be home."
"Thanks," he said. "I'm not... I'm not really hungry."
They sat in a silence that was louder than any argument. The scrape of her spoon against her teacup, the tick of the clock on the wall—every sound was magnified, a testament to the vast, empty space that had opened up between them. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell her everything, to burn down the walls he had so carefully built, just to see the warmth return to her eyes. But he couldn't. The weight of his promise to protect her was a gag in his mouth.
"I'm really tired," he said finally, pushing himself away from the doorframe. "I think I'm just going to... go to bed."
"Of course," she said, still not looking at him. "You have many responsibilities at the university. You need your rest."
He fled. He retreated to his room, the quiet, suffocating weight of her disappointment a physical presence on his back. He closed his door and leaned against it, his heart a heavy, aching thing in his chest. His room, his sanctuary, felt different. It was the place where he had wept in Diana's arms, a space that now held the memory of her comfort. But tonight, it was just a room, and he was alone in it.
He sat on the edge of his bed, the joy and profound connection he had felt just an hour before now a distant, painful memory. He had reached the highest highs he had ever known, and now he was crashing, hard. He was living two lives, a life of sublime, secret joy with Diana, and a life of corrosive, secret lies with May. And he was beginning to realize, with a chilling, terrifying clarity, that the two could not coexist forever. The signal and the noise were on a collision course. And he was standing right at the point of impact.
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