You'd think I'd be excited. I have Spider Sense.
That means I'm going to have the rest of it too—the strength, the speed, the agility. Superpowers.
And yet… I'm not even a little happy about it.
Because what set it off wasn't some falling brick or speeding car. Who the hell was he? Why did he make my skin crawl before he even looked at me? I didn't want to leave the plaza, but if I had tried to stay it would have tipped him off.
I couldn't risk it.
Was he watching me because of what Norman had told me? He said eyes were watching, but I don't know, it felt too on the nose. Maybe I'm being paranoid… but if I write it off and something does happen?
No. No, don't do that. That's a trap.
It's not your fault if something happens.
You're not clairvoyant, you're just—
Okay.
Okay.
I might get the chance to do whatever a spider can. But right now? I can't fight. Fuck, I wish I could.
Back in my own body, I didn't have to. Big guy like me? People thought twice. Now? I'd be lucky to intimidate someone now that I'm built like a praying mantis.
My cousins would suggest working out, getting muscle built up. That meant I'd actually have to put the effort in, and the lazy bastard in me is crying at the thought alone. I almost wish right about now that Mand's threats to haunt me would come true. He'd push me to work out. I work better with motivation, but then again, who doesn't?
My willpower sucks.
Yeah, that's always been a problem. I'm actually getting to live one of my greatest childhood fantasies, and I'm already on the verge of chickening out because it requires me to do something.
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!
Snap.
I blink, and suddenly Harry's fingers are waving in front of my face. He's close—closer than he was a second ago. I didn't even notice him lean in.
"Pete, you okay?"
"Huh?" The word stumbles out before I can catch it.
"Do I need to call May? You're starting to worry me."
His voice is gentler now, and he leans back into the passenger seat, watching me carefully.
"No, I'm good," I lie, trying to shake the doubt off my shoulders like it's something physical I can peel off. "Sorry. I'm just... getting tired."
If Harry could tell I was bluffing, he didn't say anything. Instead, he leaned back in his seat like nothing was wrong, gaze shifting to the window as he let it slide.
"As long as you're sure," he said, tone light but not dismissive. "Did May say when you're clear to go back to school?"
"Yeah. Monday," I replied, nodding like that was the part of my life that still made sense.
The rest of the drive turned into a blur—buildings sliding past the windows, the radio humming low, and Harry tapping his fingers against the door in a lazy rhythm.
But I wasn't there, not really.
I was back in the plaza again, mentally trapped in that moment where I felt something inside me shift. That buzzing… that feeling. It felt like a string inside my skull had been plucked, if that even made sense. It's hard to even describe. From a throbbing pulse that stretched across my skull to more of a ripple. A touch guiding me in a direction, like a hand running through my hair, but deeper.
It was sharp, instant, and directional—and somehow I just knew.
I don't understand how. I mean, yeah—I knew about Spider Sense. I'd read the comics, after all. I watched the movies and television shows. To be honest, I'd spent too much time arguing with my friends about Spider-Man facts during school. Still, though… that's a lot different from feeling it. Even then, I shouldn't have been able to follow it so quickly. I shouldn't have reacted like it was second nature.
It didn't feel like it was just instinct. It felt familiar, like my brain was hardwired for it already. Like I'd always had it—like it was dormant, waiting for the right moment to start screaming.
The part that concerns me? It didn't feel wrong.
It felt right, and I don't know if that makes it better or worse.
I won't lie, Spider-Man had always been my favorite superhero, and I fantasized about getting to be him so many nights as a kid. So, is it because I already had an idea of how it would feel to have those powers? Or maybe it's because I'm in Peter's body.
What I do know is this:
Norman was worried about something, which meant that guy in the lobby? He's probably involved.
So, I have to be careful.
The car slowed in front of the house, headlights sweeping across the lawn and the familiar shape of the porch. I could already see the warm glow in the windows, and something about it made the whole day feel a lot heavier than it had been a minute ago. We'd barely come to a full stop when I glanced over at Harry.
"Hey, uh... you free tomorrow?"
Harry looked up from whatever he'd been zoning out on, then gave a half-shrug.
"I think so. Got a date with Gwen in the evening, but if it's early, I've got time."
I blinked. "Gwen? As in Gwen Stacy?"
He raised an eyebrow at me.
"You remember her? Guess you weren't kidding about knowing names," he chuckled, clearly amused. "Yeah. It's our first date. I wanna make a good impression."
I didn't say anything at first. Just nodded a little. Gwen Stacy. If he's with her... then she's better off. There's less of a chance she dies because of Spider-Man. Maybe, just maybe, this version of her gets to live a quiet, long, completely normal life. The kind that never makes headlines.
"Huh…" I said, stalling for a second while my brain scrambled. Then it hit me. I snapped my fingers. "Take her to the Sea Fire Grill."
Harry tilted his head.
"Sea Fire Grill?"
"Yeah. I hear they have great branzino."
What I wasn't going to say is that I had made up my mind that if I ever went to Manhattan in my old life that I'd go to the Sea Fire Grill. It'd been one of the few restaurants I'd kept in the back of my head for years once I got the idea of becoming an author cemented in it.
Who knows, maybe Peter Parker could become an author in this world on the side? If I couldn't be a genius, being an author was certainly on the table.
"Really?" He gave me a look that was half confusion, half impressed.
I just smiled.
"Trust me on this one."
"I'll look it up," he said, then leaned forward a bit. "So, what's up? What'd you have in mind for tomorrow?"
I scratched the back of my neck, a little sheepish.
"Well… I kinda hate to ask, but do you think you could help give me a wardrobe update?"
Harry blinked like he'd misheard me.
"Wait. You… what?"
"Come on," I said, trying to play it off. "I'd like to try something different. But hey—if you don't want to be the guy responsible for a better-dressed Peter Parker, I totally understand…"
That's about as far as I got before Harry held up a hand like he was swearing an oath.
"Stop right there, Parker. I got you."
I grinned.
"I've been trying to get you to update your clothes for years," he said, already sounding way too hyped. "You've got it, buddy. I'll be here first thing in the morning."
He looked downright triumphant. Like I'd just agreed to let him makeover a cartoon character.
Honestly? I was kind of looking forward to it.
The door clicked open, and I stepped out into the evening air. It was cooler now, the sun dipping just below the rooftops, giving everything that soft orange tint that made the neighborhood feel like a painting. I was halfway to the gate when Harry leaned over to glance past me, then let out a small laugh.
"Should've known May would be waiting for ya," he said, nodding toward the porch next door.
I followed his gaze. There she was—sitting with Anna Watson on her front steps, arms folded casually, a cup of something in her hand. Her eyes found me in an instant, and there was something in her expression—warm, sure, but… playful. Mischievous, even.
Harry squinted.
"Why does she look like she's up to something?"
I sighed.
"Probably because she's trying to get me to meet Anna's niece. MJ."
His head snapped back like he'd just been handed a death sentence.
"Oh, she's trying to play matchmaker? I'm so sorry…" He gave me this mock-sympathetic frown, like I was marching straight to my doom.
I didn't correct him. I just smiled. Joke's on him—if he knew what MJ was actually like, he'd be the one knocking on her door.
But even still… not tonight. I wasn't ready for that.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Harry."
"You bet, buddy. Take it easy."
He gave me a two-finger salute as Bernard pulled the limo away, leaving me in the quiet hum of crickets and porch lights flicking on one by one. I made my way across the yard, and May called me out before I even had a chance to wave.
"Peter," she called gently. I veered over to the Watsons' porch.
"Evening, Anna," I said with a smile, stepping up and slipping my hands in my pockets. "How are you?"
She looked at me kindly, that sort of way older folks have of peering at your soul like it's written on your forehead.
"We've been wondering how you're feeling, sweetheart."
I gave a noncommittal shrug.
"Getting there," I said. "Some of it's still foggy. Feels like I woke up in someone else's shoes."
It wasn't a lie, technically.
She nodded, and—thankfully—didn't press. There wasn't any mention of her niece. I half-expected some forced introduction, a door opening, the words "Mary Jane, come say hello" flying through the air like a landmine. But it didn't come.
Maybe I got lucky.
"I think I'm gonna lay down," I told them before either of them could suggest anything else. "Long day."
May didn't argue. Just gave me that small, tight-lipped smile of hers that said she understood more than she let on.
I slipped inside through the front door, the scent of home wrapping around me like an old hoodie—faintly of coffee, wood polish, and whatever had been cooked earlier in the evening. The lights were dim, TV murmuring in the background.
Uncle Ben was in the living room, half-reclined in his chair, flipping through channels with a kind of practiced aimlessness that only dads and uncles seem to perfect. I dropped onto the couch beside him without a word, sinking into the cushions and letting the quiet buzz of the screen wash over me.
I don't even remember when it happened, but somewhere between a commercial for laundry detergent and an old sitcom rerun, my eyes drifted closed.
And I slept.
When I open my eyes again, I'm not on the couch.
I'm in my bed.
Upstairs.
What the hell?
It takes a second to register, but then it clicks—Ben must've carried me up. A wave of guilt rolls in before I can stop it. He shouldn't have done that. Not with his back.
I sit up, shoulders stiff, and glance toward the window. The sky's barely blue, just that early morning gray where the sun's about to make its entrance but hasn't quite pulled back the curtain. I didn't realize I'd slept that long.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I stretch once, then wander over to the desk. I queue up some beginner physics videos on YouTube, then crack open Peter's textbook with all the notes in it. I flip to a clean notebook and start copying things down in my own handwriting, trying to make sense of it in my way.
It's only after thirty minutes of scribbling diagrams and half-understood equations that I realize something.
I'm not wearing glasses, and everything's crystal clear.
I turn around in the chair, eyes landing on the glasses resting neatly on the nightstand. There's a pause—just a second—and then a smile starts to creep up.
So. My body's finally adapting? Guess I'll have to come up with a reason I suddenly don't need glasses anymore. Or... maybe not.
I look back at them, lenses catching the soft glow from the window. I could keep wearing
them. Pull a Clark Kent. Nobody expects a glasses-wearing "dweeb" to be anything super.
I mean, who would?
I pull the notebook back into my lap, spinning my pen between my fingers. The next YouTube video auto-plays, a soft British accent walking me through Newton's laws like they're bedtime stories. The equations in the book don't look as confusing anymore. Still complicated, yeah, but they're not gibberish. Like my brain had just… recalibrated overnight.
It's hard to explain.
There's this rhythm to it now. Like I'm not just reading—I'm following. Tracing paths I didn't see before. The formulas aren't second nature, but they click. I can look at a diagram and actually understand what it's trying to show me, not just squint at it until my eyes gloss over.
I pause the video, jotting down a few key terms in the margins.
Conservation of momentum.
Impulse.
Center of mass.
It feels less like I'm learning from scratch and more like I'm remembering the rules of a game I haven't played in years. I can't recite them blind, but once I see them… something just unlocks.
I check the clock—forty-five minutes in. I haven't zoned out once.
Weird.
Weird, but… exciting. I mean, if this is what it feels like to have Peter Parker's brain chemistry working with mine? No complaints. Maybe I can catch up to the guy he was supposed to be. Maybe I don't need to fake my way through this forever.
I scribble down a question in the margin—How does angular momentum affect swinging trajectory?
Part of me already knows what it's leading to.
I stare at it for a second too long, then shake it off and keep going.
There's a warmth creeping across the carpet now. That soft, amber pre-sunrise glow, the kind that makes you feel like the day's still deciding whether it wants to begin or not. It pours in through the blinds and hits the edge of my textbook, making the ink shimmer just enough to catch my attention.
I lean forward again, eyes narrowing as I start another problem. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I'm not doing it because I have to.
I'm doing it because I want to.
And that? That might be the biggest change yet.
I cap my pen and set it down with a quiet sigh, stretching back until the chair creaks under me. My back pops once, then twice. Yeah… that's the signal. I've officially hit the wall. Even my brain, now running smoother than it ever did in my old body, has its limits.
And yet—I've still got energy.
Like the kind that buzzes under your skin when you've had one too many cups of coffee and the walls feel like they're closing in. I drum my fingers on the desk, then glance over my shoulder toward the closet.
I know what I should do.
...but then there's the other voice. The lazy bastard. The one that whispers sweet nothings like, "We could just... lay down for a little while. Maybe catch up on some videos. No shame in that. Rest is productive, too."
Uh-huh. Real productive.
I push myself up and walk to the closet before that inner voice can drag me back to bed. Joggers. Faded gray. Worn-out t-shirt with a stretched collar and a graphic so faded I can't even tell what it used to be. Perfect. If I'm going to suffer, I might as well look like I'm halfway to the grave already.
I change, splash some water on my face in the bathroom, and run my fingers through my hair just enough to make it look like I meant to roll out of bed looking like this. Grab my phone, shove it in my pocket, and head out the door before I can talk myself out of it.
The air hits me first.
Cool and crisp, with that faint dampness still hanging in it from the dew. It wraps around me like a slap and a hug at the same time. The sky's still more pink than blue, and the neighborhood hasn't fully woken up yet. It's that magic hour—when everything feels like it belongs to you, even if just for a little while.
Oh, this is going to suckkkkkkkk…
I ease into a jog. Legs feel weird. Too long, too light. Like I've just strapped stilts onto my old self and dared gravity to notice. My knees wobble. My arms swing too much. This isn't running… I'm torturing myself.
But I keep going, because I need to.
Half a block in, I'm already hating it. The lazy voice starts making its comeback: "You've proven your point. Look at you, exercising. Let's go home and make a victory omelet."
Nope.
I push forward, even as my feet slap the pavement like they're filing a complaint with every step. A dog walker passes by—little brown mutt with a huge tongue and even huger eyes. The guy gives me a polite nod. I manage one back, trying not to look like I'm seconds from death.
A few kids speed past on bikes, one tossing newspapers like he's in a time loop from the '90s. The papers hit driveways and stoops with that satisfying thwap sound. I slow just long enough to glance at one sticking out of a mailbox—Daily Bugle.
Of course.
There's a guy sitting outside a café across the street, coffee in hand, reading the headline. I can't see it from here, but it makes me smile anyway. God, I hope Jameson's still around. The man might've been the human equivalent of sandpaper, but you couldn't say he didn't care. When he wasn't going full conspiracy theorist on Spider-Man, he actually was a great journalist.
Forest Hills starts opening up around me—more people out now, walking their dogs or stepping out to grab bagels. A group of pigeons scatter as I pass, and a chorus of birds up in the trees squabble like they're deciding who gets to chirp the loudest.
The streets are narrow but familiar. Rows of brick townhouses with little patches of grass out front, all damp with dew. Porch lights flicker off one by one as the sun inches higher, and every so often, I catch the faint scent of bacon wafting from a cracked kitchen window.
My pace evens out—barely—and I make it another few blocks before my lungs start sending angry texts to the rest of my body. The burn in my chest comes slow but sharp. My legs ache. My feet feel like they've turned into bricks. But somehow, I'm still going.
I pass Midtown High.
That's when it hits me again. I'll be walking through those doors on Monday.
God.
I was never a fan of school. In my old life, I treated it like a prison sentence. But now? I look at that building and wonder... if this really is Peter's brain working with me—if that switch is really flipped—maybe school won't be a nightmare this time. Maybe I'll get it. Maybe I'll even enjoy it.
Weirder things have happened.
I keep running. A little farther now.
Down the hill. Across the quiet intersection. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. My shirt's sticking to my back. My breath's ragged and shallow. Every muscle in my legs is cursing my name.
But I don't stop.
Not until I reach the top of the stairs that lead down to the waterfront. The air shifts again—cooler, wetter, and I can smell it before I even see it. The river. That mix of salt, stone, and something metallic, like old train tracks after the rain.
I walk the last few steps down and stop at the railing, sweat pouring off me, lungs ready to revolt.
But I smile.
Manhattan stretches across the water like something out of a postcard—buildings rising in silhouette against the early morning light. It's quiet. Peaceful. Just the sound of water lapping against the shore and a few gulls screaming like they're late to something important.
I lean against the railing, panting, shirt clinging to me like wet tissue paper.
Despite the burning lungs, the aching calves, and the fact I still look like someone dumped me out of a washing machine—I feel good.
Better than good.
Fulfilled.
It's been about a week since I woke up like this. Since I looked in the mirror and saw Peter Parker staring back at me. And for the first time… it doesn't feel like a glitch in the Matrix.
It feels real.
It feels right.
This is my second chance.
And I'm not gonna waste it.
"On your left!" a voice called out suddenly.
I turned, startled, just in time to jerk my body sideways and avoid getting shoulder-checked into the East River. A girl slowed to a stop next to me, her sneakers skidding slightly against the concrete as she leaned against the railing like she'd just run a marathon in fast-forward. She was panting hard, bent slightly at the waist, but grinning wide like it had all been some kind of thrill ride.
Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, bouncing a little as she caught her breath. Earbuds dangled from one hand, swinging lazily with each inhale. She looked over, still smiling.
"You good?" she asked between breaths, giving me a quick once-over.
"Oh, yeah," I huffed, trying not to sound like I was dying inside. I waved a hand vaguely toward the skyline. "Just... embracing the cardio-induced suffering."
She laughed—bright and easy, like it came from somewhere deep in her chest.
And then it hit me.
The laugh. The voice. Something about it flipped a switch in my brain, like a movie reel catching on a frame I'd already seen a hundred times.
I blinked. My eyes finally decided to catch up with my ears.
Her hair—how had I not noticed it sooner?
It wasn't just red. It wasn't ginger or strawberry blonde or that auburn shade people try to pass off as "copper." No. This was red.
The kind of red that cartoon characters had in the late 90s and early 2000s. That perfectly saturated, comic book, Hex Girls lead singer, stop-you-in-your-tracks red.
And it was all of it.
No roots showing. No fading. No accidental dye job. This was main character red. The kind that rewired an entire generation of kids into developing oddly specific taste in women by age nine.
I stared just a second too long.
No. No, no, no, no, no…
Oh, you've got to be kidding me.
Is the universe actually plotting against me?
Because unless the multiverse decided to shuffle the deck really weird this time, I'm standing next to Mary Jane Watson. On my first real run. In public. Dripping sweat like a human waterfall. Wearing a T-shirt older than time.
Cool.
Fantastic.
Exactly the kind of moment I didn't want to have today.
I swallowed hard, glancing back at her. She was focused on the skyline again, arms stretched out wide, eyes half-lidded like she was soaking in the sunrise.
God, she didn't even realize what she just did. She might as well have roundhouse kicked my brain. And of course... of course May had been trying to set me up with her. She probably would've waited until breakfast to spring it on me.
I turned back to the river, resting my forearms on the railing and exhaling slow. Maybe—maybe—if I played it cool, this would be just a blip. Maybe she'd run off in a few minutes and I'd chalk it up to a hallucination brought on by dehydration and muscle fatigue.
Then again, when have I ever been that lucky?
"You know," she finally says, cutting through the silence. "That's really not the kind of clothes you should be wearing if you're going on a run."
I blink and turn toward her, face scrunching up in something halfway between a wince and a laugh.
"Yeah... I figured that out like a minute into it," I admit, brushing the back of my hand across my forehead. "I don't have any tank tops at home. Otherwise, I would've gone full athlete mode."
She raises a brow, one side of her mouth tugging up into a lopsided smirk.
"Well, if you were trying to look like you belong in a '90s sitcom, you nailed it."
"Ha ha…" I roll my eyes, lips twitching into a crooked grin as I turn back toward the water. "Yeah, I'll add that to the list of looks I'm crushing today. Right next to Sweaty Goblin."
She laughs again.
"I didn't plan this out very well," I add, shrugging like the sweat soaking through my shirt wasn't slowly becoming a national disaster. "It was spur of the moment, really."
Her arms stretch overhead in a lazy arc as she lets out a breath, like she's not even breaking a sweat, like this—this early morning run with the skyline and the river breeze—is just her version of a coffee break.
"I mean, that's kind of the best kind, isn't it?" she says. "If you plan stuff, you give yourself too many reasons not to do it. Spur of the moment makes it harder to chicken out."
That… actually hit.
I look over at her again, studying her face a little more now that the initial cosmic slap of recognition has passed. She's still not really looking at me. Her eyes are on the water. The sun's just starting to crest, lighting her from the side like some cinematographer's dream. Her skin has that just-after-run glow, but it works on her. Like everything does.
She's got that kind of presence that people write songs about.
And here I am, dressed like I robbed a Goodwill, trying to regulate my breathing so I don't sound like a wheezing balloon.
"I guess you're right," I say after a second. "Still hurts, though."
"Yeah," she says, letting her arms fall as she cracks her neck with a satisfying pop. "But at least you showed up. Most people just keep saying 'I'll start tomorrow.'"
Oh, you mean like me? LITERALLY, ME.
I can't help it. I smile.
"Is this the part where you tell me I should hydrate and stretch and start tracking macros?"
"God, no," she says, immediately grimacing. "That's how you end up insufferable."
"Good, because my heart is pounding in my ears right now so I doubt I'd hear you." I pant with emphasis.
She snorts, then offers her hand, finally—finally—turning fully to face me.
"Mary Jane, but everyone calls me MJ." She says.
I look down at her hand, then back up at her.
Of course it is.
"Peter," I say, taking her hand in mine. It's casual, quick—but the moment her fingers wrap around mine, something flares. Not electricity or fate or anything that dramatic—just heat. A jolt of oh no, she's real.
Her lips quirk like she noticed it too, even if she doesn't say anything.
"So, Peter…" she repeats my name, testing the sound of it like she's deciding if it fits. And even though it technically is my name now, it still lands weird in my ears. Like trying on a jacket that used to belong to someone else—it fits, sure, but it still smells like them.
"You live around here?"
"Yeah, Queens," I reply, nodding toward the neighborhood behind me like I've been here longer than a week.
Her eyebrows go up, interested.
"My aunt—Anna—lives around here too."
Well, here's my opening. Time to make sure when the inevitable introduction happens, she's already aware.
"Anna? As in Anna Watson?" I ask, already knowing exactly where this is going but playing dumb anyway.
"Yeah?" she says slowly, giving me a look like she's trying to figure out if I'm a stalker or just weird. "How do you know that?"
"I'm her neighbor," I say, like the universe didn't just swing a bat directly at my kneecaps. "May Parker's my aunt. They're, uh… good friends."
MJ blinks, then breaks into a smile that looks way too amused for my current emotional stability.
"You're that Peter?"
I feel my soul deflate just a little.
"Guilty."
"Well," she says, folding her arms and grinning like she just solved a riddle, "you're a lot sweatier than I pictured."
"Hi… I promise I'm not like this normally," I say with the kind of sheepish smile that probably does nothing to help my case, considering I look like I just lost a fight with a sprinkler.
MJ snorts.
"I don't know, I kind of dig the look."
I let out a dry laugh, then rub the back of my neck, my hand damp with sweat.
"I gotta ask…" I glance sideways at her. "Have they been trying to get you to meet me a lot lately?"
She gives me that look. Head tilted, one eyebrow creeping up, the smirk practically weaponized now.
"You mean like… every single time I stop by?"
I groan.
"Fantastic."
"Yeah," she nods, mock-sincere. "I've been told we'd 'really get along' about five times now. Once with a wink."
"I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," she says with a shrug, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. "It was either this or getting set up with her pharmacist's grandson, who apparently 'loves science and knitting.'"
"Well," I gesture to myself, "I can't knit, but I did spend the morning watching physics videos, so…"
MJ looks at me for a beat longer than expected. Her smile softens just a bit.
"Guess you're already ahead of the competition."
"I mean, how can I compete with someone who knits?" I throw my hands up, feigning defeat. "That's, like, peak boyfriend material."
I shouldn't have said that, but the words come out of my mouth quicker than I can stop it. At least she doesn't seem to mind it.
MJ laughs—really laughs this time. It's unfiltered and loud, the kind that makes the corner of your mouth twitch even if you don't mean to smile. She shakes her head, breathing in the river air as it drifts past us.
I feel like I need to be put in prison. I'm twenty-four, she's fourteen. I should not even make a boyfriend joke.
"I suppose it's better we met this way," she says, stretching her arms behind her back. "It's going to be a lot less awkward when they try to introduce us now."
"Oh, it's still gonna be awkward," I reply, leaning back on the railing beside her. "Just... less awkward."
She grins.
For a second, neither of us says anything. The river glints in the early light, and somewhere behind us, a cyclist's bell rings faintly. I steal a glance at her—cheeks still flushed from the run, hair a bit frizzy from the breeze—and I'm suddenly very aware of how utterly unprepared I was for any of this.
"I'm actually staying with Aunt Anna now, so..." MJ says after a minute or two, her steps falling into rhythm with mine. "Do you want to go back with me?"
"Uh, does that involve running?"
"No, I promise." She grins, eyes bright with amusement. "I don't want to explain to May why her nephew looks like a drowned rat."
"Hey, you know what... that's—that's fair."
"Not that it's going to help much, considering..." she adds with a smirk, but lets it trail off, like she's already said too much.
We fell into a steady walk along the sidewalk, passing under trees that hadn't quite figured out if it was spring or summer yet. The sun's climbing now, casting gold across rooftops and car hoods. There's dew still clinging to the grass in yards, glistening like frost that overslept.
And somehow… we're just talking. Like this isn't awkward. Like she didn't just meet the version of Peter Parker who absolutely isn't Peter Parker.
It's funny how natural it feels.
"So, wait," she says, turning to glance at me. "You were in a coma?"
I nod. "Yeah."
"What happened? Why are you running?"
There's something about the way she asks—equal parts genuine concern and bafflement—that makes me laugh under my breath.
"Well, I don't know exactly what happened." I exhale, trying to find the balance between the truth and what the world already knows. "I was on a school field trip to Oscorp. After that... it's blank. Next thing I remember, I'm waking up in a hospital bed and they're telling me I've been out for three weeks."
She blinks.
"And you've got amnesia?"
"Retrograde amnesia," I nod. "Some stuff's still there, but other parts are just... gone. It's like somebody reached into my head and yanked out the important stuff with a pair of tongs."
MJ stares for a second longer than I expect her to, brow furrowed like she's trying to read me, but not in a suspicious way. More... thoughtful. And then:
"Okay. Again—why were you running?! You should be resting."
"I needed to move," I say with a shrug. "It felt like the right thing to do."
"Most people recovering from a coma start with walking to the kitchen. You went full Rocky montage."
"I'll have you know… I've been up and moving for about a week. I've been working up to it!"
"But running through Queens barely a week after coming out of a coma? That's insane!"
"Yeah, well," I huff, nudging a loose pebble off the sidewalk with my foot. "Sitting around just makes me feel stuck. Like if I don't get out of my own head once in a while, I'll lose what little of it I've got left."
There's a pause. A quiet one. No jokes from her this time.
"Yeah," she says finally. "I get that."
We keep walking. No rush. The neighborhood starts to stir a little more—cars rumbling to life, the smell of someone's burnt toast wafting from an open kitchen window. We pass a yard where an old sprinkler's still ticking away from earlier in the morning, little droplets catching the sunlight like glitter.
"I mean," I say, glancing at her, "it was either this or risk falling down some Wikipedia rabbit hole trying to figure out who I was before everything went sideways."
"Plus," she adds, folding her arms, "you never know when you'll scroll too far and learn something weird about yourself. Like that you used to have a MySpace account dedicated to yo-yo tricks."
"I swear if that actually comes up…"
She laughs. It's loud, effortless, and it feels like it cuts straight through the morning haze. I don't think I've laughed that easily in days.
And yeah… maybe this wasn't how we were supposed to meet. But as far as alternate timelines go? It's not the worst version.
By the time we got back to the house, Uncle Ben was on the porch grabbing the newspaper. He looked up at me, eyebrows slightly raised with a quiet curiosity. I gave him a small, knowing smile. Yeah, I'd just vanished for about an hour, only to show up walking alongside a girl. If it were my mom or Grandpa, I'd be bracing for a full interrogation—or worse, a teasing blitz.
Ben just nodded once, then turned and went back inside without a word.
It was weird how understanding he was. May, on the other hand? I'd probably have to answer fifty questions before she'd be satisfied. But Ben… I think he gets me more than I deserve.
MJ glanced at Ben, a curious tilt to her head.
"I suppose that's your uncle?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Yep. That's Uncle Ben. I guess I better get inside before May finds out and throws a party."
She laughed softly.
"Alright, see you around then."
"Oh, I'm sure I will," I said, watching her head up the steps.
I stepped inside and let the door click shut behind me. The smell of coffee hit first—strong, a little burnt, in that comforting way only old drip machines can manage. Ben was already at the dining table, sitting in his usual spot, hands wrapped around a steaming mug like it was the anchor to his morning routine.
He raised his brows over the rim and took a long sip, eyes following me as I walked in.
"Not a word…" I said, pointing a finger as I passed him. "Please."
Ben set the cup down with the faintest clink, that same amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"She won't hear a word from me about it," he promised, voice casual. "I'll let it be a nice surprise."
God bless this man. My knight in maroon robes.
I exhaled and dropped into the chair across from him, not realizing how dead my legs were until gravity did most of the work for me. My whole body groaned in silent protest. Muscles trembling, lungs still recovering. If I moved again, I was pretty sure I'd spontaneously combust.
Ben gave me a look.
"Only thing, though… where were you?"
"I went for a run," I said, slumping in my seat and letting my arms hang.
He blinked once. Slowly.
"You… Peter Parker… went for a run?"
"Yeah." I nodded, and then added with a tired grin, "It's hard to explain. It just felt like the right thing to do."
Ben leaned back slightly, lifting his mug again.
"Kiddo," he said, "you're full of surprises lately."
I smirked, dragging a hand through my damp hair.
"So I've been told."
Ben sipped his coffee, that knowing glint in his eye sharpening just enough to make me wary.
"So that's MJ, huh?" he asked, casual as anything.
I groaned.
"Yes…" The word crawled out of my throat like it had been dragged against gravel. "Yes, it is."
"She seems nice," he added, way too smoothly.
"Yeah," I muttered, slouching lower in my chair. "She is."
There was a pause. A beat of silence long enough to feel staged.
"I owe May five dollars," he said.
I blinked.
"What?"
Ben took another sip like he hadn't just dropped a bombshell.
"What the hell?" I said, sitting up. "You two bet on whether I'd meet her?"
"Not whether you'd meet her," he said, lifting a finger. "Whether you'd actually talk to her."
I opened my mouth, and closed it again.
"She said it'd happen today, didn't she?"
"She said you wouldn't be able to help yourself once you got a look at her," he said, with the smug satisfaction of a man who'd known all along this conversation was coming. "I said you'd duck and run."
For fuck's sake, guys… SHE'S FOURTEEN. No. JUST NO.
"I was literally on a run!" I protested.
Ben just raised his eyebrows, like that only proved her point.
I slumped back again and groaned.
"Unbelievable…"
"By the way, language."
I dropped my head onto the table.
This family was going to kill me before any supervillain had the chance.
I try to hide my embarrassment as I sit up, catching a whiff of my sweat and wincing. I need a shower.
"In my defense," I said, already rising to my feet, "I didn't know it was her."
"I'm sure you didn't, son," he replied, the warmth in his voice enough to disarm me a little. "You still talked to her."
"Yeah, yeah…" I muttered, rubbing at my face. "I'm going to go take a shower before May smells me and thinks I've been dumpster diving."
"Good idea," Ben called after me. "Hot water's on. Try not to use it all."
I shot him a tired thumbs-up over my shoulder and started up the stairs. My legs were still jelly, each step a personal attack. Again, the lazy bastard in me is creeping over my shoulder going 'See what happens when you don't listen to me? SEE?!'
Yeah, fuck off. While I didn't want to meet MJ yet, I still consider the run worth it. Then again, the morning is still young and there's time to change that.
Please, let Harry get here soon.