The dawn came soft, muted through low‑hanging clouds and the distant roar of helicopters. In the living room, the sofa cushions still bore the imprint of the night's stress—Ethan had parked himself there, laptop abandoned, eyes hollow. Now sunlight slanted across the floorboards, light but not warm.
His mother's voice floated from the kitchen. "Ethan? Breakfast."
He rubbed his neck, trying to twist out the tension knot. Bruises—thin purples tree‑lining his forearm—were hidden beneath a long sleeve, but he felt them with every movement. He'd gotten them yesterday when a hotel guest panicked and, trying to flee the city, crashed into him, causing him to fall and hit a table.
In the kitchen, the air smelled of toast and strong coffee. His father was at the table, his sports section of the newspaper folded neatly next to his plate. The world outside was shut down—schools cancelled, offices closed, streetcars silent. The previous night's chaos hovered in memory like smoke.
Ethan sat, his mother pouring syrup over waffles. She set one in front of him. "You're awfully quiet," she said. "We should move. The city hasn't been safe lately."
His father looked up. "Next week, son. I found a nice place out in Long Island—quiet, green, nothing like Manhattan." He grinned. "You'll love it. Although you'll have to commute about 30 minutes to and from school."
Ethan forced a smile. "That's fine, I don't mind. It sounds good."
But in his head, he thought, 'I'll have to make sure to get them to leave on vacation and add some protective measures later in the future.' The commotion yesterday in the city was his doing. He'd stolen billions of dollars, toppled a corporate empire, and now he sat here eating waffles pretending he was just a kid with normal problems.
His mother leaned across the table, fingers brushing his arm. "You okay, sweetie?"
He flinched slightly—the touch soft, familiar. "Yeah," he said. "Just… a long night."
Her eyes searched his face. "You've been staying up late lately—more than usual."
He exhaled. "I'm sorry to worry you, Mom. I won't be doing that anymore."
"Really?" she asked quietly.
He didn't answer.
After breakfast, he drifted into the living room. His parents had started pack a few things. The boxes he'd debated packing sat in one corner—empty, unused. The television flickered headlines: "City Under Siege" "Oscorp Attack: Casualties Unknown" "Spider‑Man Returns". He sat, remote in hand, wondering if the Insight crew managed to get another story ready this morning.
His father came back and sat beside him. "Want to catch the morning game?" Ethan thought, then nodded, but stared through the screen.
His mind was thinking of the goblin serum glowing in the vial, he ran through the formula and tried to identify possible improvements to be made to eliminate its glaring side effects. He then soon found himself thinking of his parents laughing about Long Island, about weekends in green suburbs. He thought, 'When they finally move… will I still be their son?'
After a while, he handed the TV remote to his father. "I'm going to get some air."
Outside, the city was quiet but loud. Windows were boarded. Smoke drifted under the tunnels. He kicked debris off a sidewalk, watched a newspaper flutter in the gutter, the headline: Heroes or Monsters? He wondered where he fit in such a narrow catergory.
Then he heard laughter—two children chasing each other between parked cars, wind-up helicopter above them. Normalcy. He paused, heart heavy. He smiled genuinely for the first time that day, then turned away, back toward the hotel.
Inside, his mother was folding and packing clothes. His father was reading the paper. He sat on the edge of the couch. His mother then threw a shirt and glared at him. "Alright, alright, I'm coming to help."
When she asked again if he was okay. "I'm okay," Ethan repeated, though he didn't believe it.
But for now—this fragile morning, quiet and whole—was enough. He walked over and sat next to his mother and father and helped fold clothes too.
Peter Parker's footsteps were light, tentative. He hadn't slept much due to the incident with Mary Jane yesterday. His spider suit still lay on the floor of his bedroom, the mask tucked beneath the pillow. The world‑saving part of him had showered and changed; the man part felt raw, unchecked.
Aunt May welcomed him into her sunlit living room. The window was open. Birds argued outside. Curtains fluttered. The day was bright, but shadowed with the weight of last night.
"Peter," she said softly, "How did you sleep?"
He sat beside her on the sofa. She poured tea—ginger, soothing. "You look…" she paused. "You look like you've been running for three days straight."
He took the cup, warmed it between his hands. "Well, the city was in the middle of a war just yesterday. Since I had to report on it, I think I look okay, all things considered."
She nodded. "You carried the exhausted look very well."
He laughed and then looked away. "I'm sure you heard MJ and me fight yesterday. She said she needed space and left."
Tears streamed down his face as Peter said, "MJ left me. Aunt May, I don't think she'll come back."
Her hand dropped from his. "Oh, Peter. You've been through more than most. I don't know what happened between the two of you kids, but I can say you'll be okay. No matter what, I promise you'll be okay."
He sat back, head heavy. "She said I wasn't letting her in. She said she's always second to everything in my life."
May stood, moved to the window. "You've given so much of yourself. But remember, Peter, you have nothing left to give if you're empty. Take this time to rediscover yourself, Peter. Life has a way of making us forget who we are and why we're doing the things we do."
He closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm scared, May."
"Good," she said, turning. "Being afraid means you still care about losing her. Just don't let it bury you. Let it remind you why you fight and what you're fighting for."
He nodded, tears still falling. "I'll try."
She smiled. "That's all any of us can ready do."
Peter left the safehouse. He walked through the city slowly. The sky was pale. Voices of repairmen, murmurs of relief. He paused at a mural of Spider‑Man flying. Someone nearby whispered: "He saved the city." Another man spat under his breath: "What a menace."
Peter's chest tightened. He pulled his hoodie up, buried his hands in his pockets. No mask today.
He thought of MJ saying she needed space. Of the kiss with Felicia. Of his time helping Amy's. He lectured Ethan before that this wasn't just about stopping villains or protecting oneself. It was about keeping the people around close. Keeping himself connected to those around him, and here he was moping.
He found a quiet bench, sat. He looked at his hands—web‑cartridges empty, nails bitten. A kid rode by on a bike, hit the brakes to avert a collision, turned, and grinned.
"Sorry mister… I was looking at the picture of Spider-Man. He's the best!" the kid shouted after him.
Peter didn't respond. Not yet. He just watched the bike's spin fade into the distance. Peter smiled and slapped his cheek, got up, and continued to walk.
Felicia Hardy's voice was absent. The usual roar of rooftops, the adrenaline of the chase, the thrill of the heist—they were quiet today. The apartment was dark until mid‑afternoon; blinds closed, lights off. She stayed in sweats, hair in a messy bun.
She wandered the city pockets of normalcy—but didn't join them. A café filled with couples. A playground filled with laughter. She watched from across the street, one hand gripping the railing of a stairwell.
In the evening, she returned home. The apartment smelled like stale air and old leathers. She poured a glass of wine, sat down. The television flickered through footage of the Goblin attack. She muted it. The image hurt.
She laid back, eyes closed. The dream came again.
Once again, Peter Parker—not the suited vigilante—was there. They were at a rooftop edge, laughing after a job. He tugged at her hair, she leaned into him, his arm around her. No masks. No claws. Just two people.
She woke up gasping. Blankets tangled around her, heart racing. She sat upright, wine cold on the table. She touched her neck. The dream felt like a confession.
She sat on the edge of the bed, one hand hovering over her phone. Peter Parker. Not the mask. Not the web-slinger. Peter, the man she always found so boring and unremarkable. That thought unsettled her in a way nothing ever had.
She glanced in the mirror, catching her own reflection like it belonged to someone else. Not the thief, not the flirt, not the cat-suited distraction. Just Felicia Hardy—tired, quiet, thinking too much.
The city outside pulsed dimly. She watched it for a long time, then whispered, "I need to know what I want… before I take it."