As dusk fell, Joren opened the door to his apartment, a supermarket shopping bag slung over his arm.
He set the bag on the kitchen counter and began unpacking the evening's ingredients: fresh tomatoes, pasta, onions, and a bottle of olive oil.
A simple combination—but more than enough for one person's dinner.
There was something meditative about preparing food by hand: the quiet rhythm of slicing, the scent of herbs, the soft hiss of oil warming in a pan. For a few fleeting moments, the outside world faded away.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
Joren pulled it out. A message from an unknown number lit up the screen:
Hey handsome, are you free tonight? I know a great Italian restaurant… or… how about you come to my place and I cook?
😉🐱
No signature—but he recognized the sender instantly from that flippant, probing tone.
Felicia Hardy.
That damn Black Cat.
Yare yare.
Expressionless, Joren shoved the phone back into his pocket without replying.
The thing about women like her was simple: the more you responded—whether with acceptance or rejection—the more she'd see it as a game worth playing. And once she decided you were interesting, she'd never let go.
Best to treat her like static on a dead channel: ignore it, and eventually, it disappears.
He returned to the tomatoes, the knife tapping a steady rhythm against the cutting board.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound cut through the quiet.
Joren paused. His senses sharpened—not out of fear, but habit. A faint ripple of energy, subtle as breath, pulsed outward from him like sonar, scanning the space beyond the door.
Standing on the other side was someone he hadn't expected.
Peter Parker.
His heartbeat hitched—just slightly—and his breathing grew a touch uneven. Not from danger, but from the tangled knot of emotions bleeding through the threshold: confusion, frustration… and beneath it all, a fragile thread of hope.
Joren stood there for three silent seconds, weighing his options.
He could pretend he wasn't home. Let the trouble outside walk away on its own.
But Peter's presence wasn't like Felicia's. It wasn't playful intrusion—it was vulnerability knocking.
With a sigh, Joren set the knife down, wiped his hands on his apron, and walked to the door.
Peter stood there in his slightly wrinkled plaid shirt, eyes wide, expression caught somewhere between apology and desperation.
Before he could speak, Joren said flatly, "Have you eaten?"
"Ah?" Peter blinked, thrown off. "Not yet, I—"
"Come in."
Joren turned and headed back toward the kitchen. Peter followed, carefully closing the door behind him.
"Sit."
Joren gestured to the dining table before returning to the counter. Without hesitation, he grabbed two more tomatoes and a package of ground beef from the fridge. His hands moved with calm precision—portioning, chopping, heating oil—as if feeding a second person had always been part of the plan.
Peter sat stiffly at the table, hands folded on his knees, looking like he'd rehearsed a dozen speeches but forgotten all of them the moment the door opened.
The pot of water began to bubble. Joren dropped in the pasta, then turned to the sauce.
From his seat, Peter watched his classmate's back—the same guy who barely spoke at school, who radiated "do not disturb" like a force field—now standing in a quiet kitchen, apron tied neatly, dicing onions with unwavering focus.
The contrast was so jarring, so strangely intimate, that for a moment, Peter wondered if he'd accidentally stepped into someone else's life.
The olive oil shimmered in the skillet as diced onions hit the pan, sizzling softly.
"About last night…"
The rich aroma of simmering tomato and herbs eased the tension in Peter's shoulders—just enough for him to finally speak.
"I don't want to talk about it."
Joren didn't turn. His voice was flat, final.
Peter opened his mouth—then closed it again, words dying unspoken.
Ten minutes later, two steaming plates of pasta landed on the table.
Simple tomato-meat sauce over al dente noodles, but the scent was intoxicating.
"Thanks," Peter murmured, picking up his fork and taking small, careful bites.
Across from him, Joren rolled his noodles with effortless grace, silverware glinting under the kitchen light.
Silence settled between them, broken only by the soft clink of fork against porcelain.
After a few bites, Peter spoke again, voice low.
"Jojo… I feel like I'm too weak."
Joren—Joren, whatever name he wore today—paused. Slowly, he looked up.
"Last night… Daredevil almost died at Kingpin's hands. And I…" Peter's voice trembled. His knuckles whitened around the fork as the memory flashed: Kingpin's hulking shadow, Daredevil crumpled in a crimson pool. "I couldn't do anything. My strength, my webs, my spider-sense—it all felt like a kid's party trick. Useless."
"So?"
Peter blinked. "Daredevil said he'd train me once he's healed. Real fighting. Not just swinging and cracking jokes. What do you think?"
"Daredevil's style is technical," Joren said, setting his fork down. "He blends dozens of martial arts, reads environments like sheet music, and exploits every weakness—yours or your enemy's. With your reflexes and physical baseline? You'd learn fast. He'd be a good teacher."
Peter's eyes lit up.
"But," Joren added, tone sharpening like a blade drawn from its sheath, "his method runs on willpower and pain tolerance. Are you ready to be broken?"
Peter swallowed hard. "I can guess. Basically, he beats you into the ground, tells you why you lost while you're bleeding, and makes you get up until you stop losing."
Joren dabbed his lips with a napkin. "Precisely. He crawled out of hell. His training is hell."
"I can do it," Peter said, jaw set. "I have to get stronger. I won't let anyone get hurt because I wasn't enough."
Joren nodded once. Said nothing more.
Everyone walks their own path. And he had no right—no desire—to pull Peter off his.
They ate in silence again, plates slowly emptying.
Then, as if remembering something trivial, Joren said, "Oh, right. When did you start dating Gwen?"
"Pfft—cough! cough cough!"
Peter nearly inhaled his pasta. He choked violently, face flushing crimson from forehead to collarbone.
"No—no! We didn't—I mean…" He waved his hands wildly, eyes darting everywhere except Joren's knowing gaze.
Joren gave him a look that said I'm not blind, idiot.
Peter's voice dropped to a whisper. "It… only started last week."
"She knows you're Spider-Man?"
The question hit like ice water.
Peter froze. Panic flickered in his eyes. "How did you—?"
"Answer the question."
He exhaled sharply, then met Joren's stare. Defiant. Young. Hopelessly earnest. "Yeah. She knows."
Joren set his fork down for good.
Gwen Stacy knows Peter Parker is Spider-Man.
That wasn't just a secret shared.
It was a target painted on her back.
A liability. A vulnerability.
A name now etched in every enemy's ledger.
"How?" Joren asked quietly.
"I told her." Peter's voice softened. "I got hurt on patrol last week. She found me. Figured it out fast—she's Gwen." He looked up, stubbornness warring with guilt. "I think… she deserved to know the whole me. If we're together, she should know everything."
Ah.
The sweet, tragic logic of a fool in love.
Naïve. Noble. Dangerous.
"Peter," Joren said, standing to clear the plates, "from the second you told her, 'Gwen Stacy' stopped being just your girlfriend. She became a bullseye."
"I'll protect her!" Peter shot back.
"How?" Joren turned, eyes sharp as fractured glass. "You can't shadow her 24/7. You've got class, patrols, sleep. And your enemies? They only need one moment you're not there. One kidnapping. One threat. That's all it takes to shatter you."
He paused at the sink, back to Peter, voice low but carrying like thunder in a quiet room:
"Go home. Think. Hard."
"A hero's identity isn't a badge of honor."
"It's
a curse you drag everyone you love into."
"Right now, you don't need to figure out how to love someone."
"You need to learn how not to drag them into hell with you."
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