Chapter 6: A Chance Encounter on the Waterfront
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 ismy 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…"
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.
Chapter 7: Adjustments and Metamorphosis
The shower is better than I could have hoped for. The hot water splashing against my skin feels great, and my muscles are loving it. I get finished and step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my torso. Heading back to my room, I find Peter's best clothes that don't look horribly geeky. It's honestly a t-shirt with long sleeves under it, with brown cargo pants. Spectacular Spider-Man cartoon style, I can dig that.
The fabric's stiff from sitting in the drawer too long—creased at the sleeves, a little too new-smelling, like laundry detergent trying to cover up disuse. I tug it on anyway. The mirror catches my eye and I glance at it, catching the drip of water down my neck. My hair's a mess—just damp enough to be annoying, not wet enough to look intentional. There's no point in trying to fix it, Peter's hair is unruly anyway.
But it does work for him. I'll give him that.
I look at the glasses, and lift them to where I can gaze through the lenses. I know, I can see perfectly fine without them, but I'd like to see if it's that drastic of a difference. The lenses make everything a bit blurrier, like there's a faint haze, everything's slightly out of focus. That's a headache waiting to happen.
Laying them back down, I head for the door. At least I won't have to worry about needing glasses from now on. I never did like wearing them too much, even if it helped prevent my migraines.
Downstairs, the smell of breakfast hangs in the air—eggs, toast, something vaguely cinnamon if I'm not imagining it. The table's already set, and May smiles at me as I slide into the chair like I haven't just been out running halfway across Queens.
No one says much. Just the quiet sounds of silverware tapping ceramic, Ben rustling the paper, and the occasional clink of a glass being set down. It's… peaceful, honestly. Like they're giving me space without realizing it. Or maybe they do realize it.
The only thing May says—lightly, without judgment—is, "Would've been nice to know you were going out, sweetheart. Just so we knew."
I nod, mouth full, and give her a quick thumbs-up. That's enough for now.
Afterward, I help bring the plates to the sink. I barely finish drying my hands when there's a knock at the front door. One of those casual three-beat knocks—light, but not shy. I already know who it is.
I open it to find Harry standing there, hands in his jacket pockets, grinning like we're about to get away with something.
"You ready to go?" he asks.
I roll my eyes, chuckling.
"Good morning to you, too."
"Is that Harry, I hear?" May calls from the kitchen.
Harry steps in just as she rounds the corner, and the way his face softens says he's been here before—maybe not often, but enough to remember the smell of May's cookies or the shape of the furniture.
"Mrs. Parker," he smiles, pulling her into a quick hug.
"Dear, you should come over more."
"I plan on it," he says, meaning it. "I've been busy lately." He glances toward me. "Speaking of which, Pete and I got a big day ahead of us and not a whole lot of time, so maybe we can catch up sometime next week?"
"Of course, sweetheart," May nods. "You two behave."
"Define behave," I mumble, and Harry's already dragging me out the door.
"Alright, so you got a style in mind or do I get a chance to mold you into my Michelangelo?" Harry asks, putting his hands out toward me like he's already mentally pinning me into a turtleneck. Which, ew. Turtlenecks? They cling to my neck too much. I like to breathe.
"Uh, I was hoping to just kind of wing it. Nothing flashy, but not what I had before."
"So you're not dressing to kill. Got it." He gives me a side glance, one eyebrow cocked like I just walked into a courtroom without a lawyer. "There a reason you want to do this?"
I keep walking.
"You're not trying to impress this MJ girl, are you?"
"HA! Shut up!" I laugh, already shaking my head as we make it to the car. "Please, can we not mention her while we're still on the property line?"
"Oh, I smell a development. What happened?"
"I went for a run this morning and I—"
"Wait, you went on a run? You, Peter Parker… went on a run?"
"I regret it, yes, but that's beside the point."
"But you went on a run..." He's staring at me now like he expects me to pull off a mask and reveal I'm actually a shapeshifter.
"I know, I know," I sigh. "The world's ending. Dogs and cats are living together. The nerd ran."
He snorts.
"You sure you didn't hit your head this morning?"
As I sit down and buckle my seat belt, I press my tongue against my cheek trying to avoid my usual sarcastic comments, because frankly they come off a bit too brass for some people's liking.
"I wish. It'd explain a lot. But do you want me to tell you what happened or are you going to focus on the fact I willingly exercised?"
"Okay, okay… you went on a run and…"
"Thank you," I mockingly bow.
Bernard starts the car and we take off for the city.
"I ended up at the waterfront," I say, watching the houses blur past through the window, "and she ended up being there too."
Harry doesn't jump in right away. He gives it a second, just long enough for me to think maybe he's going to let it slide. But no.
"Total coincidence, or...?"
I shrug. Knowing how Peter is practically destined to meet MJ at one point in his life, it certainly wasn't a coincidence.
"I didn't know she'd be there. I was trying to burn off energy—to do something productive that wasn't in a book."
"So you did it for stress relief? I thought your version of that was homework?"
No, it's not. I hate homework, but Peter… I guess he might like that.
"Still is," I mutter. "Just trying to add cardio."
That gets a short laugh from him. I lean my head back against the seat, feeling the coolness of the window through my hair. The scent of leather seats, faint cologne—Harry's, not mine—and the quiet hum of the engine settle between us for a beat.
"Alright, Fabio… continue on with the story." Harry motioned toward me.
"Right," I straighten my back. "I was relaxing on a railing when she showed up, nearly running into me."
"Classic," Harry grins. "Were you shirtless and glowing from the workout or was this more 'sweaty gremlin crouched on a pier' energy?"
"Definitely the latter," I deadpan. "I was half a second away from heaving into the river."
"So you met her as your best self. Good strategy."
I give him a slow blink. "Anyway… we started talking. Just small stuff. I didn't even realize who she was at first. She mentioned an aunt who lives in Queens and then it clicked."
Harry lifts an eyebrow but doesn't say anything, just nods like he's filing the info away somewhere behind those rich kid sunglasses.
"That MJ," Harry says.
"Yeah," I nod. "That MJ."
The city skyline's getting closer now—buildings creeping taller, traffic inching thicker. Bernard's gliding through it all like it's just background noise. I watch as we pass a street vendor with a cart of roasted nuts, and the smell somehow seeps through the closed windows, warm and sugary.
"She was cool though," I add, maybe a little too quickly. "Like, actually cool."
"Is she pretty?"
I don't answer, mostly because the thought of commenting on an underage girl's appearance makes me sick to my stomach.
"I don't know," I manage. "I was out of breath, about ready to throw up. I didn't pay that much attention."
"You gonna see her again?"
I open my mouth, then pause.
"I don't know, maybe? We didn't exchange numbers or anything."
"Oh, come on… you chickened out?"
"I did not chicken out!"
"You totally did!"
"Harry, I wasn't trying to get her number! I was trying to not die!" I retort, raising my voice slightly just to the point it cracks. I fucking hate puberty… I take a breath, and continue. "But she and I walked back together. She went into her aunt's place, so I'm guessing there's a good chance we'll see each other again."
Harry lets out a low whistle, not mocking—more like he's genuinely impressed.
"Well look at you, Pete. Going for a run, surviving it, and getting a casual walk home with a girl? You're evolving."
"Yeah, if I keep it up, I'll unlock the ability to speak in full sentences without sounding like my voice box is short-circuiting."
Harry laughs as Bernard takes the next turn, the city finally swallowing the last bits of suburbia behind us. The noise level picks up—car horns, a siren somewhere distant, and the rhythmic bass of a stereo from a passing car vibrating through the window.
I shift in my seat, still feeling a little damp in places the towel didn't quite get. My shirt sticks to my back a little. Gross. I subtly peel it away without drawing attention.
"So… you feeling nervous?" Harry asks, tone casual, but I can hear the real question under it. The unspoken what are you trying to become, exactly?
I glance out the window again. "About shopping?"
"About everything."
I give a half-shrug.
"I just don't want to look like I did before. Doesn't feel like me anymore."
Harry doesn't say anything right away. I half-expect him to crack a joke, but instead he nods like he gets it—like he actually understands what it's like to outgrow your own skin.
"Well," he finally says, leaning forward to look out the windshield as we turn down a tighter street, "lucky for you, I know just the place. Low pressure, good fits, solid prices."
"Wait—are we not doing one of your high-end brand places?" I tease. "No gold-leaf silk jackets or imported Parisian leather?"
Harry grins.
"I figured we'd start you off in the kiddie pool before I take you to the deep end."
Bernard pulls up to the curb in front of a storefront that's wedged between a barber shop and a bubble tea place. The windows are tinted just enough that you can't fully see inside, but the clean lines of mannequins in the display window scream "not cheap" without being obnoxious.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and stare at the door for a second, heart starting to thump a little harder than I expected.
Harry's already halfway out when he leans back and says, "Come on, man. Let's get you upgraded."
As we step inside, I can already hear Roy Orbison faintly in the back of my mind—"Pretty Woman" looping on imaginary speakers while I picture myself trying on clothes I have no business being seen in. Knowing Harry, he'd be thrilled to do the full montage. Hell, he might have brought the soundtrack himself.
Honestly? I might just lean into it. For the bit. The workers probably won't appreciate me treating their job like a sitcom gag, but I've got some residual post-run serotonin bouncing around. Let's see how I feel after a shirt or two.
We don't get more than a few feet in before a woman at the counter greets us with that kind of customer service smile that says she's prepared for anything—up to and including a teenager trying on six coats just to leave without buying a single thing.
"What can I do for you gentlemen today?" she asks, polite but sharp-eyed, already clocking Harry's expensive watch and my decidedly not expensive cargo pants.
Harry doesn't miss a beat.
"My friend here is undergoing a full-blown fashion renaissance."
I shoot him a look.
"That's a little dramatic."
"He's evolving," Harry continues, gesturing to me like I'm a museum exhibit titled Before Style. "We're hoping to find him some looks that say, 'I'm cool but not trying too hard,' and also, 'No, ma'am, I don't work for Geek Squad.'"
The woman's smile doesn't fade, but I see the glint of amusement behind her eyes. "Got it. No polos, no khakis, and we'll burn any sweater vests on sight."
"You're a saint," I mutter.
"Let me grab someone from the floor to help you two out," she says, already reaching for a headset. "Make yourselves comfortable."
As she walks away, Harry claps me on the back.
"Alright, Peter. You ready for your fashion redemption arc?"
I glance at the racks of clothes, the mirror-lined walls, and the faint scent of cologne, pressed cotton, and overpriced ambition hanging in the air.
"As long as I don't end up in a deep v-neck or anything leather, I think I'll survive."
He grins.
"No promises."
We go through it all.
There's the skater look—oversized tee, plaid overshirt, sneakers too white to trust. I don't hate it, but it doesn't feel like me. More like a persona I'd try on and then leave folded on the floor of someone else's life.
There's some retro 80s look Harry tries to pitch, complete with loud patterns and sunglasses that look like they belong on a synthwave album cover. Hard pass.
Eventually, we narrow it down. I find a rhythm. A style that actually clicks.
Darker colors. Deep maroons, charcoal grays, navy blues. Layers that feel like armor, but not too heavy. A fitted thermal henley under a broken-in brown jacket, something with structure but not stiffness. A couple tank tops for working out, and shorts that don't look like I stole them from a sixth grader.
Running sneakers—sleek, black-and-white, lightweight. Black K-Swisses for everyday wear. And, against all odds, a pair of combat boots that just feel right. Heavy enough to matter. Like they're made to last.
The woman helping us—who's been pretty patient through the whole montage—raises an eyebrow at the boots with the rest of the outfit.
"Bit of a mixed signal," she mutters.
Harry grins.
"That's his brand."
I change one last time and step out. Harry gives me a once-over, hand on his chin like he's about to cast me in a cologne commercial.
"Okay," he says, "this is working. You look good, Pete."
I nod slowly.
"Thanks."
"But there's something missing," he adds, eyes narrowing slightly. "It's clean. Sharp. But it doesn't feel… you."
He's right.
It takes me a second, but I feel it in my chest—this tiny itch of memory, like I've left the oven on somewhere back in a life that technically isn't mine.
The necklace.
I used to wear one. Silver pendant, black cord. Assassin's Creed insignia. A piece of who I was before all this. I didn't wear it often, thanks to the metal detectors at work always flagging me for secondary screening. But still, it was mine. Simple. Meaningful.
Do they even have Assassin's Creed in this world?
If they did, did they ruin it after 3 like I remember? Did Ubisoft go full corporate greed and never look back?
Not the point.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror—new clothes, new body, new world—and realize I need something. Something simple. A marker. A totem. Something quiet but grounding.
"Maybe a necklace," I say aloud, almost more to myself than Harry.
He perks up.
"Yeah? Like what—dog tags? Chain? Cross?"
I shake my head. "Nothing loud. Just… something personal."
He nods.
"There's a vintage spot a few blocks from here. We can swing by after this, if you want."
I glance down at the boots again, flexing my toes inside the thick leather.
"Yeah," I say. "Let's do that."
The shop is tucked between a laundromat and a bakery that smells like heaven dipped in powdered sugar. The kind of place you'd miss if you blinked—or if Harry wasn't actively dragging me toward it with the determination of a personal stylist on a mission.
A little bell jingles overhead as we step inside.
It's… cluttered. But intentionally so. Every surface feels curated in that chaotic "organized mess" way, like a museum run by fandom goblins. The air's thick with dust, faintly sweet—incense, maybe vanilla or patchouli—and there's soft jazz humming from a tinny speaker tucked behind the register.
The necklace display is a rotating rack jammed with every kind of chain you can imagine. Leather cords, beaded strands, braided hemp, polished metals. I spot a silver Imperial crest from Star Wars, the One Ring replica dangling from a fine gold chain, and more Deathly Hallows pendants than anyone in 2025 should reasonably still be selling.
Harry spins the rack idly, raising an eyebrow at a tiny plastic Poké Ball on a string. "You sure this is your vibe?"
"I'm looking," I mutter, fingers brushing over a dragonfly, an alien head, a miniature cassette tape.
Then I see it.
Bright. Silver. Shaped like a wolf's head.
Not cartoonish. Not stylized to death. It's got an edge—angular lines, eyes narrowed, ears back. Predatory but noble. Like something that'd sit around the neck of someone who walks alone but isn't alone.
I reach for it instinctively.
It's heavier than I expected. Not hollow. The cord it hangs from is a dark gray leather, already broken in and soft from use. The metal's cool against my fingers, but it doesn't feel cold.
Harry leans in.
"A wolf?"
I turn the pendant over once, letting the silver catch the light. It looks a little like the Witcher symbol from the Netflix show—less snarling, more regal. Clean lines. Like it was carved by someone who gave a damn.
"It's my favorite animal," I say quietly.
He studies me for a beat, then just nods.
"Good pick."
I loop it around my neck and feel the weight settle at the base of my throat. It feels… right. Like a name you didn't know you'd forgotten until someone said it.
"Let's check out," I say.
The outfits aren't far off from what I imagined Peter would wear anyway. That kind of layered, slightly rumpled confidence. The TASM vibe is strong—hoodies under jackets, sleeves pushed up, jeans that actually fit. It's practical. It's clean. It's… me.
Or, it's the version of me I always wished I could be.
Back then, clothes like this felt like fiction. Something that lived on mannequins and actors, not on guys like me. I was always just a little too broad in the shoulders, a little too soft around the middle. I wore what fit, not what I wanted.
Now, though—now it fits.
We climb back into the car, shopping bags in the trunk, and the necklace still resting warm against my chest like it's been there forever.
Harry glances at me as Bernard pulls away from the curb, heading back toward Queens. He looks me over once—not obnoxiously, just enough to catalog the change—and nods, satisfied.
"Definitely an improvement," he says.
I just smile—not anything big or dramatic. We ride the rest of the way in comfortable silence, the city bleeding into suburbs again as the afternoon light slants longer across the pavement.
As I carry everything in, I can already feel the weight of their stares before I even make it past the front door.
Ben's eyebrows creep up so high they practically touch his hairline. May just stands there in the kitchen doorway, dish towel in her hand, looking like I've brought home a small furniture set instead of a few bags of clothes.
To be fair… it is a lot. Definitely more than I planned.
I set the bags down by the table and drop into the nearest chair with a sigh, half from exhaustion, half from knowing what's coming next.
"You had a busy day," Ben says, eyeing the haul like it might start multiplying. "Please tell me they were cheap."
"Cheap-ish?" I offer, wincing slightly. "Harry took care of everything."
May gasps softly, and I immediately regret phrasing it like that.
"Peter!" she scolds, stepping forward. "You shouldn't have had Harry do that."
"I didn't!" I sit up straighter, hands out defensively. "I swear, I didn't ask him to buy it all. I just wanted help picking something out that didn't look like it came from a clearance bin."
She crosses her arms, her look somewhere between concerned mother and disappointed tax auditor.
"I'll pay him back," I add quickly. "Even if it takes me until I'm thirty."
Ben chuckles under his breath.
"Something tells me you'd be owing him money for a lot longer than that, kiddo."
He catches sight of the necklace resting against my chest. It gleams slightly in the kitchen light—silver catching amber like a sunset on metal.
"That part of the shopping trip too?"
"Yeah. It was like ten bucks," I say, fingers brushing it instinctively. "You like it?"
"It's nice," Ben nods. "Looks like it means something."
"It does. Sort of." I don't really know how to explain that yet. But I feel the weight of it in a way I didn't expect—like a small anchor in a sea of change.
May's expression softens, but not all the way.
"Just promise me you won't rely on Harry for financial aid, dear. Or Norman," she adds with a subtle frown. "We can manage just fine without their help."
"I know," I say, and I mean it. "I didn't go looking for a handout."
She sighs, then leans over to press a kiss to the top of my damp hair. "We just don't want you to feel like you have to accept help when you've got us."
"I don't," I say. "I've got you guys. That's all I really need."
Ben leans back, satisfied.
"Good. Now go put those clothes away before I start thinking you're about to open a boutique upstairs."
"Don't tempt me!" I beam as I grab the bags and start hauling them upstairs. At least in Peter's body I have a way better center of balance. Hauling things upstairs has never been so easy!
I make it to the bedroom and kick the door shut behind me with my heel, dropping the bags onto the bed with a soft thud. There's a ridiculous amount of stuff—folded jeans, jackets layered over shirts, sneakers in their boxes. I stare at the pile like it personally offended me.
The closet groans when I open it, like it knows what I'm about to do. And yeah… it's not great in there. A graveyard of old shirts, oversized sweaters, and pants that probably never fit right in the first place. Most of it looks like it was bought with coupons and settled into, not chosen.
And now I've got to figure out where all this actual clothing goes.
I sigh and scrub a hand through my hair, already knowing I'm gonna make this worse before I make it better. I'm not what you'd call "organization-minded." My method has always been more… geological. Layered piles. Erosion over time.
Still, I pull everything out of the closet and start going through it. Some stuff I fold neatly on the bed. Some I just toss aside without ceremony. There's a pair of khakis in here that feel like they've personally wronged me.
Eventually, I make a dent. The new clothes start taking up space on the hangers, arranged mostly by color because that's the easiest system I can fake. A few pairs of shoes line up under the hanging clothes. The necklace's silver glint catches in the mirror as I move.
I pause, meeting my reflection again.
I don't look completely like Peter anymore.
I look like me.
Or… maybe like the version of me that's been waiting to be let out. Confident. Comfortable. Just a little bit worn in.
"Not bad," I mutter, nodding at myself. "Still not folding the socks, though."
The lazy bastard in me smiles, having clutched a small victory.
I collapse backward onto the bed, arms outstretched like I've just completed an Olympic triathlon. The fresh scent of fabric softener clings to the bedsheet, mixing with the faint metallic scent of the necklace still pressed against my chest.
It's quiet up here. Just the faint creak of the house settling and the occasional car rolling past outside. I let the moment sit—just me, the calm, and a small mountain of receipts I probably don't want to look at.
The ceiling doesn't look any different from the one in my old room, but it feels different. Like this room has potential. Like it could be mine, not just Peter's. I'm slowly starting to carve out the difference.
I shift, hand brushing over the necklace again, thumb tracing the edge of the wolf's snout. There's something solid in it. A reminder of the person I still am beneath all this, wrapped in another person's skin.
If I get a couple movie posters, a new paint job, and some new books, this will feel a lot more like home.
Most importantly, I need to be able to write. Get my thoughts out before they start turning to static. The laptop'll do just fine for that. It's old, a little sluggish, but it boots up and types, and that's all I really need. I've got things I want to say—some to myself, maybe some for someone else down the line.
Today was good.
Not perfect. Not painless. But good. The kind of good you feel in your chest, like a knot that finally let go. I'm not fully comfortable yet—not in this house, not in this skin—but it doesn't feel like I'm trespassing anymore.
That's a good start.
The weekend goes by quicker than I would have liked, but it was productive. I woke up, went for a morning run to the waterfront and back. It's still just as terrible as I remembered it being the other morning, but unlike the casual walk back with MJ, I force myself to run back both days. After the shower, I studied my ass off.
It's genuinely amazing how everything is sticking now. I know Peter was smart, and since I have his brain now, the neurons are firing faster. I don't have his intellect, but I feel like there's a chance now that one day I could have it.
It's actually fun, I hate to admit it. I'm scribbling down notes, recalling my Auto Body class from high school, minor things like that and finding ways to apply it to what I'm learning. Hell, I bet Ben and May think I'm bouncing right back to where Peter was before the coma.
I help cut the grass, assist May in cooking dinner, and even work with Ben to fix a leak in the basement. The energy I have is astonishing. I don't know how to describe it other than I want to move. I have a drive now…
Like something under my skin's caught fire and decided it's not going out anytime soon.
I'm not bouncing off the walls or anything. It's not hyper, not manic. It's just this low, persistent hum—like a car engine idling in my chest, waiting for green lights. I used to wake up dreading the idea of doing anything, but now I'm pulling open textbooks before I even brush my teeth.
On Sunday night, I actually look forward to school.
Let me say that again for the people in the back: I'm looking forward to school.
I know that's what Peter was about. Always pushing himself, always hungry to learn. And now I get it. I'm not him, but I've got the scaffolding in my head that lets me climb higher than I used to. Every equation I solve, every scientific term I recall, it's like I'm rewiring my own expectations in real time.
And the crazy part? It's not pressure. It's possibility.
The world feels wider now. Like the limitations I lived with before weren't real—they were just familiar.
I even enjoy helping out around the house. Cutting the grass, fixing a leak with Ben, dicing vegetables while May walks me through an old family recipe like I've done it a dozen times. The scent of garlic, the hum of a lawnmower, the cold copper smell of damp basement air—it all hits differently now.
Beyond that, though… I am noticing one thing that's lacking that I wish I had more of: the powers.
I know how ridiculous that sounds. I'm living in a dream scenario. I've got Peter's life, his family, his brain, his shot.And yeah, it's amazing. But the part that made him more than just some smart kid with a good heart—that part's been quiet.
Too quiet.
I shouldn't be upset that I'm not there yet. It's not like I've been bitten, blacked out, and woke up crawling on the ceiling. I know the timeline. I've got a little longer to go before the changes really kick in.
But I want to know what the rest of it feels like.
The Spider Sense only flared up once—but since then? Nothing. No sixth sense whispering in the back of my skull, no danger tingling on the edge of awareness. I keep waiting for it to show up again like a rerun, but all I get is silence.
Still… I can feel something brewing. It's subtle, but it's there.
My reflexes are sharper. I've started catching things before I realize I'm reaching for them. I move quicker. Turn corners faster. It's not much—but it's something.
And maybe that's what makes it harder. The taste of it. The hint.
It's like the universe is dangling the powers just out of reach, waiting to see what I'll do next.
I'm not going to chase after it if I don't have to, but it doesn't mean that I don't want it. I want to know.
So, maybe that's why when I noticed my hands felt grittier than normal as I was sitting at the desk Sunday night, I stopped what I was doing. They didn't feel dirty, but they didn't feel smooth like they normally did.
It was like I had calluses on my hand, but it was barely there, like fresh scratches made from sandpaper.
I rub my thumb across my palm, then over the pads of my fingers. There's a texture there that wasn't there before—like microscopic grit under the skin. Not rough, exactly. Not painful. Just... different. New.
Like something's trying to grow out of me without breaking the surface.
I lean in closer, holding my hand under the desk lamp. My skin looks the same, mostly. No bulging veins, no webbing, no sci-fi nonsense pulsing under the surface. But it feelsdifferent. My fingertips feel like they've been... sharpened. Not literally, but there's a kind of edge to them now. A quiet resistance when I drag them across the woodgrain of the desk, like I could grip it a little too hard if I really wanted to.
I press two fingers down on the desk and try to lift without grabbing—just friction and intention.
The sensation of the wood against my fingers as I lift almost feels like a piece of paper sticking to my hand when I'm sweaty. I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to be feeling, but the grit in my skin feels like something is happening.
The wood creaks, just a little, but it's enough to startle me. Whatever that sensation was disappears instantly and my hand yanks back like I just touched a hot stove. I stare at it for a moment, and realize that part of the panelling had stuck to my fingers. Once I remove them, I flex my hand. The sensation fades just a bit. Still there, but buried again, like it's shy.
It's like… static. Or a radio signal I'm not quite tuned to yet. Still faint, still distant, but unmistakably there.
I press my palm against my thigh just to feel something familiar. That soft friction's back again—not enough to stick, but enough that I can tell it wasn't just in my head.
I look at the desk. There's a faint line where my fingers lifted the paneling, splintered ever so slightly. Barely noticeable unless you're staring straight at it.
Which I am.
I lean back in my chair and exhale through my nose, the breath slow and uneven. My heart's beating harder than it probably needs to, and I'm trying to figure out if that's excitement or anxiety. Both, probably.
This is happening.
I stand up, glancing at the ceiling like it's suddenly turned into Everest. There's a pause—a beat where I'm pretty sure my better judgment is trying to drag me back into the chair. But the rest of me? The rest of me is buzzing.
If it works, I'm gonna have to physically stop myself from screaming out loud in excitement.
If it doesn't… well, I'm probably hitting the floor with a very loud thud and screaming for a much dumber reason.
Either way, I'm making some noise, dammit.
"Okay... let's do this."
I bend my knees and jump, pressing both hands flat against the ceiling above me.
And to my shock—no, not even shock—something deeper than that. Astonishment. Awe. Something—I stick.
I'm hanging. From. My. Ceiling.
My legs swing under me, and there's a good three feet between my feet and the floor. I stare down at them like they belong to someone else.
I tighten my core and swing up, slow and clumsy, but it works. I bring my feet up to the ceiling and press them down.
They stick too.
I clap a hand over my mouth just in time to muffle the laugh before it turns into something loud and uncontrollable. It bursts out anyway, sharp and breathless behind my fingers, like I can't even believe myself.
I'm on the ceiling. I'm on my fucking ceiling.
And it's not a fluke. I twist just slightly, testing how much weight I can shift without falling. My fingers grip tighter instinctively. It's like having extra muscles I didn't know existed—ones that are somehow hardwired to know what they're doing even if I don't.
The ceiling creaks above me, wood groaning like it's trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing up here. Same, buddy.
I glance down. It's a six-foot drop—nothing major, but it's enough to make my stomach flip if I think about losing grip.
Then again… I don't feel like I will.
That's the wild part. The security of it. My body knows how to do this. Like it's been waiting for the right moment to show me the manual.
I let go with one hand, just to see if I can. I hang there for a second, one hand and both feet keeping me steady. My heart leaps into my throat. My brain's screaming what are you doing, but the rest of me is too high on adrenaline to care.
I slap the hand back down before gravity changes its mind.
Another laugh bubbles up—quieter this time, but just as giddy. This is nuts. Completely, gloriously nuts. I'm upside down, and it doesn't even feel like it. No dizziness, no blood rushing to my head, no weird pressure behind my eyes. Just a sense of... balance. Like my body knows which way is up, even if gravity disagrees.
Guess that's the equilibrium part of the powers kicking in.
I grin.
"Okay," I mutter under my breath. "Let's see how far this goes."
Carefully—like I'm testing ice—I shift my weight forward. My hands release, fingers spreading wide in case I need to catch myself, but I stay upright. Or… ceiling-right?
Either way, I'm standing on the ceiling now.
My giggle turns into something more like a laugh—still hushed, but no less wild. This isn't just sticking anymore. I'm moving.
I take one cautious step. Then another.
My feet cling like it's nothing. Like they were made for this.
I walk across the ceiling like it's the floor, arms out slightly for balance even though I don't need it. The room's flipped upside down around me—the bed, the dresser, the desk lamp that suddenly looks a lot dustier from this angle—and I can't stop smiling.
I'm walking on the ceiling.
I'm walking on the freaking ceiling.
And it's officially the coolest thing I've ever done in my life.
I stop halfway across the ceiling and blink.
Wait.
How the hell do I get down?
I turn around slowly—still sticking like a pro, thank you very much—and glance at the floor like it's a twelve-foot drop instead of, you know, six feet. It suddenly looks way farther than it did five minutes ago. Like the kind of fall that ends in a very loud thud, a bruised tailbone, and a May Parker panic attack.
I crouch a little, testing the angle, like maybe if I just… peeloff gently, it'll be fine. Except now my feet really don't want to let go. They're locked in, like my body's saying, "Oh, we live here now."
"Okay. Cool. Sticking very well. That's good," I mutter, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel. "Now maybe… let's try unsticking just a little bit, huh?"
I bend one knee and try to lift my foot. Nothing.
Shift a little more weight.
Still nothing.
"Oh come on—" I grunt, giving a solid yank that finally breaks the suction with a soft pop. My shoe peels off the ceiling like Velcro, and I wobble, one foot still clinging while the rest of me starts to tilt.
"Bad idea! Bad idea!"
I throw my hands up and catch the ceiling again, heart pounding. Okay. Definitely not graceful. But hey—progress.
I hang there for a second, legs dangling like some weird ceiling bat, and think it through. Okay. Okay. I've seen this before. Into the Spider-Verse. Which, I admit, doesn't make me an expert. But still.
In the movie, Miles kept sticking because he was panicking. He had to relax to stop.
So maybe… maybe that's it. Maybe the key to un-sticking is just not trying so hard.
"Alright," I mutter under my breath, shifting my grip slightly.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly, letting my arms loosen just a little, letting the tension bleed out of my fingers.
And like magic—actual magic this time, not metaphorical self-help stuff—my hands slip free. Just enough.
I drop with a surprised yelp, hit the bed with a bounce and sprawl out on my back, laughing like an idiot as the ceiling returns to its rightful place above me.
"Relax to unstick," I say, grinning at the ceiling like we just made a deal. "Noted."
But man, I gotta work on the landing.
Either way… that was awesome.