The key turned in the lock more easily than Peter expected. He pushed the door open and walked into the safehouse—the one Aunt May and MJ were laying low in for now—feet heavy, motion sluggish. His body ached in every direction: ribs, shoulder, hip. The fight with Norman had taken more than he'd admitted. He paused at the threshold, mask gone, suit jacket stained with blood from his wounds, hair damp with rain and sweat. The silence hit him first—no news tickers, no alarms, just the low hum of city lights through the blinds.
MJ sat at the table, her head propped on one hand, eyes tired but alive. Relief flickered across her face when she saw him—then something else. Wariness. Distance. The blend hurt more than any punch.
"Tiger," she said, voice soft, steady. "You're safe."
"Yeah." He closed the door behind him, leaned his head back. "I'm okay."
She rose and came toward him. "You look terrible." She reached out as though to touch his cheek, then pulled back. "I was so worried."
"I know." He took off his jacket, draped it over the chair. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" MJ asked.
"For dragging you into this again. For not being honest. For almost dying." He looked at his hands. Webbing residue still clung. "For making you wait."
"I watched the news," MJ continued. "They're calling you a hero again. 'Spider-Man saves the city from a biological disaster.' Nice headline."
He didn't smile. "It wasn't just me."
"I know," she said. "That girl and Felicia helped."
He flinched. "MJ…"
"Don't," she cut him off. "Not yet."
She stood, crossing to the window, looking out at the city. Helicopters hovered over Oscorp Tower. Sirens echoed far off, barely audible. "I'm not mad because you fought Norman. Or because you almost died again. That part comes with the territory. I'm mad because… I feel like I've already lost you."
Peter swallowed hard. "You haven't. I'm right here."
"Are you?" she asked, turning to face him. "Because every time something big happens, you shut me out. You go off, you bleed alone, and then you come back expecting everything to still be okay."
He took a step toward her. "I never meant to shut you out. I just—"
"You just want to protect me from everything except the loneliness," MJ said, eyes glassy but defiant. "I'm tired, Peter. I'm tired of wondering if the next time you walk out the door, that's it. That's the last time."
"I don't want to lose you."
"But I'm losing myself," she said. "Trying to keep up with your world."
Peter opened his mouth, but she raised a hand.
"I need a break."
The words hit harder than any punch Norman ever threw.
"I don't want to end things," she added quickly. "I just… I need time to think. To breathe. To remember who I am outside of being the girlfriend of Spider-Man. To remember who Mary Jane Watson is."
Peter nodded slowly. It hurt more because he knew she wasn't wrong.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry MJ," he said.
"I know, Tiger."
She kissed his cheek—soft, brief, and filled with a thousand things unspoken.
Then she grabbed her jacket and walked out the door.
Peter stood there, letting the silence settle again, heavier than before.
Meanwhile, in a penthouse across the city, Felicia Hardy sat on her bed, legs pulled up to her chest. She had barely slept. Her alarm blinked noon, but the weight in her chest hadn't budged.
She'd dreamt that dream again.
In the dream, she and Spider-Man were fighting on a rooftop under a full moon. She'd seen his mask first, then felt the softness of his voice when the mask slipped, revealing Peter Parker's face.
Soon, the scene shifted to Peter and her, laughing, eyes crinkling as they sat on a rooftop, eating takeout. The wind blew gently, and he looked at her like she was all he desired. He smiled at her, whispered her name, pulled her close. She'd never felt vulnerability like that. The kiss and night of passion that followed was greater than any she'd ever experienced. She'd never allowed herself to see if he could care for her beyond the night's shadows.
She woke up breathless.
She stood and walked to her bedroom, pulled out an old photo album wrapped in black ribbon. She sat on the edge of the bed and opened it. The photo she found: Spider‑Man and Black Cat, a rooftop heist, her hair flying. She touched his shoulder in the headline photo. The caption she'd scribbled: My Spider‑Man.
She then walked to the kitchen, poured a drink, and took a slow sip. "What the hell is that?" she asked herself, voice quiet. She rubbed her temples, looked at her fingers. She thought of all the times she'd inserted herself into Peter/Spider‑Man's life—because she was drawn to the mask, the speed, the thrill. But this … this was different.
She closed her eyes. "Who have I been falling for?" she whispered. Spider‑Man? Peter Parker? The thrill or the man. The mask or the heart.
She opened the drawer and pulled out the spare Spider‑Man mask Peter had left behind the last time he stayed over. Her fingers traced the webbing pattern. "When I look at you, who am I seeing?" she asked the mask softly.
Back then, it had been a game. The thrill. The mystery. The chase.
But now?
Now she couldn't stop seeing Peter underneath the mask.
He bled. He hurt. He smiled through pain and cracked jokes to hide the weight he carried. She'd seen his scars up close. Tended to his wounds. Fought beside him not just for money or a thrill—but for something that felt... right.
Tears threatened, but she pushed them back. She folded the mask, placed it carefully on the nightstand. She stood, resolved.
Walking to the window, she looked out at Manhattan's night glow, lights flickering, sirens distant. She lifted the glass again. "I'm going to figure this out." She sipped the wine. Then she set the glass down and climbed into bed, pulling the sheets around her like armor.
In the midnight calm, Peter stood on a rooftop far away that evening, the wind in his hair, mask pulled back. He watched the city breathe. The sirens hadn't faded yet, but the screaming had stopped. The Goblin was gone.
His arm still stung. His mind kept returning to MJ's words—'I just… I need time to think. To breathe. To remember who I am outside of being the girlfriend of Spider-Man.' He replayed the fight, Norman gasping, the rooftop crumbling, Amy's light. But none of it felt like victory tonight.
But the cracks he'd tried to plaster over—between MJ, between Felicia, between himself—had widened.
He was Spider-Man.
He was Peter Parker.
And for the first time in a long while, he didn't know if being both was still possible.
He picked up the photo MJ. He looked at their younger selves—before the nights, before the mask, before the lies. The smile frozen in time.
"I don't know who I'll choose," he said aloud. To the photo. To MJ. To himself.
In that quiet, he understood: he had two masks. One webbed and costumed, the other beloved yet buried. He let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped since the fight.
He didn't sleep.
But for the first time in a long time, he felt awake.