For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The scraping of chairs and the cacophony of a hundred students packing their bags signaled the end of the lecture. The sound shattered the quiet, protective bubble that had formed around Peter and Diana. He felt a pang of loss as she reluctantly withdrew her hand from his knee, the comforting pressure vanishing, leaving him feeling untethered in the sudden rush of noise.
"Come," she said, her voice a low, steadying presence beside him. "Let us find a space with less... interference."
They moved with the river of students out into the bright, crisp afternoon. The day was a long, slow marathon of shared exhaustion. They attended their next classes separately, but met between them, the connection between them a silent, humming thing. Every time their eyes met across the crowded quad, it was a quiet acknowledgment of the battle they'd fought and the secrets they kept. The aches and pains were a constant, grim symphony only they could hear.
By the time their last lecture ended, the sun was a weak, watery orange on the horizon, and Peter felt like a frayed electrical wire. The thought of being alone in his chaotic room felt less like a comfort and more like a sentence.
"My place?" he asked as they stood on the steps of the library, the words a quiet, hopeful question.
Diana looked at him, her eyes soft with an understanding that went beyond his words. She saw the deep weariness in his posture, the slight tremor of fatigue in his hands. "Yes," she said simply. "Your place."
Walking into his room felt different with her. Before, it was his chaotic sanctuary. Now, with her presence filling the space, it just felt like home. She moved with a familiar ease, setting her books on his cluttered desk and shedding her shoes by the door as if she had been doing it for years.
Peter dropped his own backpack to the floor with a heavy thud and let out a groan, his hand instinctively going to his ribs. The movement, however slight, sent a sharp, stabbing pain through his side. He couldn't stifle a low hiss of pain.
In an instant, she was in front of him, her expression of calm concern instantly replaced by a sharp, analytical focus. It was the look she'd had in the subway tunnel—the look of a warrior assessing a wound.
"You are hurt," she stated. It was not a question.
"Nah, I'm fine," he lied, trying to wave it off. "Just... pulled a muscle. Remember, that heavy antique dresser for my aunt? It got me."
She didn't believe him. Her gaze was too intelligent, too perceptive. She reached out, her fingers gently prodding the area just below his ribs where his hand had been. He flinched, a sharp, involuntary jerk.
"Take off your shirt, Peter," she commanded. Her voice was soft, but it held a tone of absolute, non-negotiable authority. It was the voice of a commander, a queen, and he found himself completely unable to argue.
Hesitantly, he pulled his hoodie over his head, then his t-shirt. The cool air of the room hit his skin, and he felt ridiculously, painfully exposed. He stood before her, his posture hunched, his hands dangling awkwardly at his sides.
Diana's breath hitched, a tiny, almost inaudible sound. The entire left side of his torso, from his ribs down to his hip, was a canvas of deep, ugly bruises. A chaotic tapestry of mottled purple, angry blue, and sickly yellow, a clear testament to a high-velocity impact with something solid and unforgiving.
"That," she said, her voice a low, dangerous whisper, "is not from moving furniture."
Her fingers, impossibly gentle, traced the edge of the largest bruise. Her touch wasn't a lover's caress; it was something else. It was the precise, knowing touch of someone who understood the anatomy of violence, who could read the story of a battle in the language of broken blood vessels and damaged tissue. He felt a shiver trace its way down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
"I told you, I'm just clumsy," he mumbled, his gaze fixed on the floor. The shame was a hot, heavy thing in his gut. Not shame for the bruises, but shame for the lie, for the wall that still stood between them.
She looked up, her deep blue eyes searching his. He expected anger, or suspicion. Instead, he saw a profound, heart-wrenching sadness. "You do not have to lie to me, Peter," she said softly. "Even when you cannot tell me the truth."
She turned and went into his small, shared bathroom, returning a moment later with a washcloth soaked in warm water. She knelt before him, a gesture of such profound humility it stole his breath. She began to clean the scrapes around the edges of the bruising, her movements slow, deliberate, and impossibly tender.
He stood there, mute and trembling, as this incredible, divine woman tended to his secret wounds. Every gentle dab of the warm cloth was an act of acceptance, an unspoken acknowledgment of the life he couldn't share with her. He was Spider-Man, the city's protector, but in this moment, he was just a man, hurt and vulnerable, being cared for by the woman he loved. A single, hot tear escaped his eye and traced a path down his cheek.
She saw it. She paused, her hand stilling, and looked up at him. She didn't say anything. She simply reached up with her free hand and gently, tenderly, wiped the tear away with her thumb.
The act broke him. A choked sob escaped his lips. He sank to his knees in front of her, his head falling forward to rest on her shoulder, and he just let go. All the fear, the exhaustion, the loneliness of his double life—it all came pouring out in a series of silent, shuddering sobs.
She held him, her arms wrapping around his shaking frame, one hand stroking the back of his head. She didn't offer empty platitudes or tell him it would be okay. She just held him, a strong, silent, unshakeable sanctuary in his storm. She was his quiet.
When the storm finally passed, they were still kneeling on the floor, the cooling washcloth forgotten between them. He pulled back, his face a mess, his eyes red. He felt raw, exposed, but also... lighter.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"Never be sorry for your pain," she whispered back, her hands coming up to cradle his face.
She leaned in and kissed him. It was a kiss unlike any they had shared before. It was not born of passion or desire, but of a deep, profound, and healing tenderness. It was a kiss that tasted of salt and acceptance, a kiss that acknowledged his wounds, seen and unseen, and loved him not in spite of them, but because of them.
This was their new intimacy. Not the roaring fire of their passion, but the quiet, steady warmth of a hearth. It was the intimacy of shared burdens, of unspoken truths, of two warriors quietly tending to each other's scars in the brief, precious peace between battles. And as he melted into her embrace, Peter knew that this, more than any superpower, was the greatest strength he would ever possess.
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