𑣲 Peter Parker .ᐟ.ᐟ

Thump-thump, thump-thump

The rhythm of your heart was the most beautiful sound in New York City.

Peter Parker didn't need a stethoscope to hear it, actually, he didn't even need to be in the same room. Perched upside down on the slick brickwork just three inches above your third-floor bedroom window, he pressed his forehead lightly against the glass and listened, just listened. The sensory overload that used to drive him crazy was all filtered out into white noise the second he dialed into your frequency.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Seventy two beats per minute. You were relaxing. You had just turned off your bedside lamp, and he knew because he’d watched the warm yellow glow bleed into darkness, and now you were pulling the heavy down comforter up to your chin. He closed his eyes beneath his fabric mask, a giddy sigh escaping his lips. If anyone else saw him right now, hanging from a thread of webbing in a Queens alleyway, they’d think Spider-Man was on night patrol. They’d think he was keeping the neighborhood safe, well, he was keeping the neighborhood safe, specifically, he was keeping your world safe. He was filtering out everything that might dare to disturb your peace.

Because you belonged to a world that was far too cruel for someone as gentle as you. And Peter knew better. Peter was the only one who truly understood how to protect you. And that brings us to the Thursday he ran into you

It had been raining, the disgusting and freezing November downpour kind of rain. Peter had been standing outside a local coffee shop, shivering in a hoodie that was a size too big, staring at his last ten dollar bill and trying to decide if he deserved a warm drink or if he should save it for laundromat quarters. He’d been standing there for ten minutes, people shoving past him, bumping his shoulders, treating him like a piece of street furniture… and then you had stopped. You’d halted right in front of him, holding a wide red umbrella.

”Hey,” you’d said, your voice soft and melodic against the dull drone of the rain. ”You look freezing. Do you want to share the overhang, or... here, take half the umbrella. I'm just heading inside.”

When he stammered, his cheeks burning hot as he rubbed the back of his neck and muttered something incoherently dorky ”Oh, uh, no, I'm— I'm good, really, I just— I like the cold, well, not like like it, but...” you hadn't laughed at him, you just smiled. A real, beautiful, crinkle eyed smile that made Peter’s heart do a violent jump inside his chest.

You had insisted on buying him a hot chocolate, sat with him at a tiny wooden table for twenty minutes, you asked him his name… and when he nervously whispered, ”Peter” you didn't look at him with confusion or a blank stare. You just said, ”It's really nice to meet you, Peter.” You didn't know it, or perhaps you did, but in that exact fragile microsecond, you rewrote the chemistry of his brain.

It hadn't taken long for his friendly curiosity to mutate into something far deeper, something far more meticulous. His Spider-Man abilities, once a heavy burden of responsibility now became the ultimate tool for his devotion. Within forty-eight hours of that coffee shop meeting, Peter knew everything about you. It was almost absurdly easy. With his enhanced agility and wall crawling he didn't need to stand on the sidewalk like some amateur creep, but he was no creep, okay? He was doing all of this for you. He could sit on the roof across from your apartment, crouched behind a ventilation unit, watching through the lens of a modified pair of binoculars… He learned your routine down to the second. You woke up at 7:15 AM, hitting the snooze button twice, which he found impossibly cute, the way you groaned, buried your face in your pillow and kicked your legs out from the blanket. You liked your tea with two spoonfuls of raw sugar. You always got frustrated because the third stair on your apartment building's main staircase squeaked, so you tried to jump over it. You listened to indie pop when you did your dishes… He knew your route to work or college. He knew the exact subway car you preferred to ride in (the second one from the front, because it smelled less like garbage). He knew that the guy who worked at the corner shop always gave you a free pastry on Fridays because he had a pathetic little crush on you, a little detail Peter resolved to handle very, very, very carefully.

But Peter didn't just passively watch, either. He took care of you.

When your apartment’s radiator started leaking steam two weeks ago, making a horrible clanking noise that kept you awake, Peter slipped through your unlocked fire escape window while you were at work. He brought a small tool kit in his backpack. It took him four minutes to replace the worn valve and grease the pipe. While he was inside, he stood in the middle of your tiny living room, taking a long, slow breath of your air. It smelled like peaches, vanilla, and clean laundry. He’d walked over to your bed, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He reached out with a trembling, bare hand and touched your pillow, tracing the dent where your head had rested just hours before. He folded a pair of cozy socks you'd left on the chair, stacked your messy school papers into a neat pile, and picked up a stray hair tie from your nightstand, slipping it into his pocket like a sacred relic. Before leaving, he’d checked your windows, reinforcing a loose safety latch.

You were so careless about your safety. It terrified him. You walked home with noise-canceling headphones over your ears at 9:00 PM, completely unaware of the drunk men hanging out around the pub on 4th Street.

You need me, Peter thought constantly, his eyes wide and feverish behind his mask as he swung through the night sky, keeping pace with your city bus from the rooftops above. You don't even realize it, but you're so fragile. Anyone could hurt you. Anyone could take you away from me. I have to be careful. I have to protect you from everything.

Including other people.

There was that guy, Tyler, from your sociology class. A loud, arrogant frat boy who had tried to corner you outside the library last Thursday, asking for your number, leaning in way too close, touching your forearm… your fucking forearm. Peter had been watching from the roof of the student center. He’d felt his Spider-Sense ping violently at the back of his skull. His knuckles had turned white where he gripped the concrete ledge, cracking the stone beneath his fingers. Tyler didn't bother you anymore. Tyler had transferred out of the class the very next morning. You had looked so relieved when his seat was empty.

See? Peter had smiled to himself from his desk two rows back. I fixed it for you. I'm always fixing things for you.

”Oh! Ah—… gosh, I'm— I'm so sorry!”

The sudden impact sent a shower of textbooks and loose papers fluttering down onto the floor of the campus hallway. Peter scrambled down to his knees instantly, his hands moving in a panicked, uncoordinated blur as he gathered your dropped notebooks. He looked like an absolute mess, wearing an oversized gray MIT hoodie, his messy brown curls flopping over his forehead, his hazel eyes wide and deer-in-the-headlights nervous behind a pair of glasses he didn't strictly need.

”I’m so clumsy, seriously, I wasn't—… I was just looking at my schedule and I wasn't watching where I was going, which is, you know, basic human navigation… you'd think I'd have mastered that by now—“ Peter babbled rapidly, his voice cracking slightly on the high notes.

He was putting on a masterclass performance. To you, he was just Peter Parker: the sweet, ridiculously shy, awkward guy who lived down the hall in your apartment building and shared two of your elective classes. The guy who always blushed beet red whenever you said hello to him in the lobby. The guy who stammered over his words and rubbed the back of his neck whenever you sat next to him in lectures. The guy you met at the coffee shop.

He handed you your folder, his fingers briefly, “accidentally” brushing against yours. The heat of your skin made a jolt of pure electricity shoot straight up his spine and down to his... He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his breath from hitching too loudly.

”It's totally fine, Peter,” you laughed, taking the folder from him and brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. ”Honestly, I was daydreaming anyway. You don't have to apologize.”

”Right. Yeah. Cool,” Peter stuttered, standing up quickly and offering a hand to help you up. He deliberately kept his grip gentle, holding your hand just long enough to feel the soft, delicate pulse in your wrist against his palm. ”I mean— not cool that I bumped into you, but… you know what I mean. Um. Are you heading back to the building?”

”Yeah, actually,” you said, adjusting your bag strap and then playing with your hair. ”Class just ended. I'm so exhausted.”

”Me too! Total brain fry,” Peter said, falling into step beside you as you both walked toward the exit doors. He kept his posture slightly slouched, making himself look smaller, less threatening if you dared, hiding the broad shoulders and muscular frame that his oversized clothes disguised so well.

”Hey, uh... I noticed… I mean, I didn't notice notice, like, I'm not a freak or anything— but I saw you carrying that heavy bag this morning. Do you, um... do you want me to carry it for you? I'm going the same way. It's really no big deal. I have, like... surprisingly sturdy arms.”

He offered a hopeful, slightly goofy grin, his hazel eyes shining with a desperate sincerity that he tried desperately to mask under the guise of casual neighbourly kindness. Inwardly, his mind was racing at a million miles an hour.

Walk close to her. Keep her on the inside of the sidewalk away from the street. Check her expression. Is she tired? She looks tired… well obviously, she stayed up until 1:14 AM reading. I should make sure she gets sleep. Should I offer to bring her soup tonight? Definitely no, too fast. Don't scare her. Keep it sweet. Keep it safe. Make her rely on you.

”Sure, Peter. Thanks,” you said with a warm smile, unslinging the canvas tote bag and handing it over. ”You're always so nice to me…”

Peter took the bag, slinging it over his shoulder like it weighed as much as a feather, which, to him, it did. His heart swelled so violently in his chest he thought it might crack his ribs.

”I just... I like helping you,” Peter murmured, his voice dropping its panicked edge for a brief, genuine second as he looked down at you. ”Really. Anything you need... ever... I'm right here.”

The stroll back to the apartment building was bathed in the cool glow of early evening streetlights. Rain clouds hovered low over Queens, misting the air with a chilly breeze, but Peter didn't feel the cold at all. Every step beside you felt like walking on air. He made sure to walk on the street side of the curb, subtly shifting his body to block you from splash puddles whenever a delivery van sped past.

When you both finally stepped into the warm, slightly dim lobby of your building, Peter mentally braced himself for the usual routine. You’d walk up the stairs together, he’d intentionally skip the squeaky third step so you wouldn't feel bad about tripping and then you’d stop outside your respective doors. You lived in 3F, he lived in 3B, just fifty feet down the carpeted hallway. Usually, you’d hand him a polite goodbye, slide your key into the lock, and he’d spend the next six hours watching your window from the roof in the rain.

They reached the third floor. You stopped right outside Apartment 3F, digging into your coat pocket for your keys.

Peter carefully unslung your heavy canvas bag from his shoulder, holding it out to you with that familiar, eager-to-please smile, his fingers twitching slightly as he prepared himself for the agonizing ache of watching your door close between you.

”Here you go,” Peter said softly, his voice full of warmth. ”Safe and sound.”

You took the bag straps, but instead of stepping back into your apartment, you stayed right where you were. You looked up at him through your lashes, a faint, knowing tilt to your lips that made his Spider-Sense prickle with a strange dizzying wave of heat. You reached out, your soft fingers brushing lightly against the forearm of his oversized gray hoodie, letting your hand linger right over his pulse point.

”Thanks, Peter,” you murmured, your voice dropping slightly, rich and dangerously sweet in the empty hallway. ”You know... I really, really appreciate how much you look out for me... all the time.”

Peter’s brain stalled. His breath hitched in his throat, his hazel eyes widening behind his glasses as his mind frantically replayed those words. All the time? What did you mean by all the time? Before he could stammer out an awkward, panicked excuse like ”Oh, uh, you know, just neighborly duty! Heavy bags and stuff!” you tilted your head, your thumb tracing a small, deliberate circle against his wrist.

” You know… it’s getting pretty chilly out,” you whispered, turning your key in the lock until the bolt clicked softly open. You pushed the door open just a crack, revealing the warm, soft amber light of your living room, a space he’d memorized down to the floorboard, a space that smelled like heaven on earth. You looked back at him, a teasing glint in your eyes that had him feeling… things. ”Do you want to come over, Peter? I could make us some tea... and you can stay as long as you want.”

Peter froze completely.

His heart slammed against his ribs so violently he was certain you could hear it pounding through the hallway air.

Thump-thump-thump-thump. 130 beats per minute.

His mind simply short-circuited. For four months, he had been like a shadow in your life, watching from roofs, breaking in while you were away to fix your stuff, collecting your hair ties and maybe some other things you shouldn’t know about, framing photos of your sleeping face on his computer screens… he had spent hundreds of hours imagining what it would feel like to cross your threshold with your permission, to stand inside your room with you looking at him like that… oh, fuck.

His pupils dilated as he stared down at you, his breathing turning shallow and uneven.

”You... you want me to come in?” Peter whispered, his voice trembling, yet not with nerves anymore.

────୨ৎ────

You knew from the very beginning. You knew the afternoon you shared that red umbrella outside the coffee shop, when his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity so fierce it practically made the air hum. You knew when you saw the faint glint of a lens on the rooftop across from your bedroom two days later. You knew when your sticky front door bolt magically started turning smoothly, when your clanking radiator suddenly fell silent, and when your favorite velvet hair tie vanished off your nightstand only to peak out from the pocket of his hoodie a week later.

Most people would have panicked. Most people would have packed their bags, called the police, and run from Queens as fast as their legs could carry them. Not you, though. You found it fucking intoxicating.

The knowledge that Spider-Man, a literal superhero, was spending his freezing nights upside down on your fire escape just to listen to you breathe? Knowing that he mapped out your entire life, neutralised every idiot who dared to stand too close to you and logged your daily routine like some obsessive freak? It drove you insane in the best way possible.

You loved playing with Peter. You loved leaving your bedroom blinds parted just two inches every night so he could watch you undress. You loved putting on that vanilla scented lotion before bed because you knew his superhuman senses picked it up from across the alleyway. You loved watching him struggle to play the sweet, stuttering neighbour routine in the hallway while his eyes burned with possessiveness.

It turned you on, he turned you on.