The police scanner crackled in Peter's ear as he moved across the rooftops, each report blending into the next until one call cut through the noise and locked his attention in place.
"Dispatch requesting immediate response. Silent alarm triggered at First National Bank. Possible armed robbery in progress."
Peter changed direction instantly, his body swinging through the city with practiced speed, web-lines snapping tight against buildings as he pushed himself harder, arriving at the bank in under two minutes.
He landed on the side of the building and peered through the glass first, expecting chaos—hostages on the floor, robbers with guns, alarms blaring—but instead, everything looked… still.
Too still.
Peter slipped through the broken side entrance, his movements careful and quiet as his boots touched the marble floor, the silence inside the bank unnaturally heavy, like the entire building was holding its breath.
The front lobby was empty.
No screaming civilians.No robbers.No staff.
Just overturned chairs, open vault doors, and scattered bills across the polished floor like someone had staged the scene in a hurry.
Peter narrowed his eyes behind the mask, every instinct telling him something was wrong.
"This is either the easiest bank robbery ever," he muttered under his breath, his voice low in the empty room, "or the worst trap I've ever walked into."
Then his spider-sense exploded.
The warning hit like ice water in his veins, every nerve in his body screaming danger, and Peter reacted instantly, throwing himself upward just as a gunshot cracked through the room.
The bullet tore through the space where his head had been less than a second earlier, punching into the marble floor and sending fragments flying.
Peter stuck to the ceiling, his breathing sharp for a second as adrenaline surged through him.
"Okay," he whispered to himself, looking around wildly. "Thank you, cosmic warning system."
He dropped back down to the floor, crouching low as his eyes scanned every inch of the room, his brain working fast to figure out what he had missed.
That was when he heard it.
Footsteps.
Heavy ones.
Moving fast.
But there was no one there.
Peter spun toward the sound, fists raised, but all he saw was empty air and flickering shadows from the overhead lights.
Then his eyes caught something strange.
Tiny projectors.
Mounted high on the walls, angled carefully in different directions, almost impossible to notice unless you were actively searching for them.
Each one cast overlapping light patterns across the room, creating distortions so subtle that Peter almost missed them entirely.
Illusions.
Camouflage.
The realization clicked into place hard enough to make his stomach drop.
"Cloaking tech…" Peter muttered, his voice tightening as the pieces came together. "You're not invisible."
A rough voice growled from somewhere in the room, low and sharp enough to send a chill through the silence.
"He figured it out. Get him."
Peter's spider-sense screamed again.
He threw himself left, rolling across the floor as something heavy sliced through the air where his head had been, the force alone enough to crack the marble beneath it.
Still nothing visible.
His danger sense was firing so hard it was almost overwhelming, attacks coming from every direction faster than his eyes could track.
Then something slammed into his back like a truck.
The hit drove the air out of his lungs and sent him stumbling forward, barely catching himself before hitting the floor face-first.
Another strike came immediately.
Peter brought up his forearm on instinct, blocking a brutal punch that rattled through his bones and sent pain shooting up his arm, the impact far stronger than a normal man should've been capable of.
"Strong too?" Peter grunted, skidding backward. "Great."
Before he could recover, something hard smashed into the back of his head.
His vision flashed white for a split second, his knees buckling as he dropped to one hand, dazed, the room spinning around him.
The footsteps circled him now.
More than one attacker.
At least three, maybe four.
Invisible. Armed. Coordinated.
Peter wiped blood from the corner of his mouth beneath the mask, forcing himself upright even as his spider-sense continued to pulse violently in warning.
Like a prayer finally being answered, the projectors around the room began to flicker and stutter, their light bending unevenly as the system glitched for half a second.
That half-second was all Peter needed.
The outlines of the attackers shimmered into view, their bodies still mostly hidden behind distorted light, but visible enough now for Peter to track movement instead of blindly reacting.
A grin formed under his mask.
"Oh, that is so much better," Peter muttered, his body relaxing just enough to shift from defense into offense.
He fired a web straight into the nearest man's face, the strand splattering over the projector mask and blinding him completely before Peter yanked hard, slamming the guy face-first into the marble floor.
Peter didn't stop moving.
He launched himself at the second man, his fist driving into the robber's jaw with enough force to snap his head sideways, but before Peter could follow up, pain exploded in his ribs as another invisible attacker landed a heavy punch into his side.
Peter grunted, the impact forcing the air out of him, but he reacted on instinct, driving his elbow backward hard into whoever was behind him.
The solid connection told him he'd hit flesh, followed immediately by a pained curse and stumbling footsteps.
"Okay," Peter breathed, clutching his side for a second. "Still hate invisible guys."
Within seconds, only one attacker remained standing.
Then the projector system corrected itself.
The flickering stopped.
And just like that, the final robber vanished completely again.
Peter turned in a tight circle, crouched low, his muscles tense as he listened for breathing, movement, anything.
But nothing came.
Even his spider-sense went silent.
That made it worse.
Because silence meant the guy wasn't attacking.
He was waiting.
Peter's eyes darted around the bank, his breathing steadying as he tried to force himself not to panic, not to guess.
"Come on…" he whispered, turning slowly. "Where are you?"
For a moment, Peter thought the guy had run.
Then his spider-sense detonated.
Peter moved without thinking, his arm snapping out to the side so fast it was almost a blur, his hand clamping around a wrist that appeared out of nowhere in his grip.
The man screamed as Peter squeezed, his enhanced strength crushing down hard enough to force the hand open.
A handgun slipped free.
It hit the floor.
And fired.
The gunshot thundered through the room.
Then came the groan.
Not from the robber.
From somewhere behind him.
Peter's heart dropped.
His head snapped toward the sound as realization hit him all at once.
The hostages.
They'd been cloaked too.
"Damn it!" Peter shouted, slamming his fist into the attacker's jaw and knocking him unconscious instantly before the man could recover.
Peter didn't waste another second.
He shot webs at every projector he could see, ripping them from the walls and smashing the illusion system completely.
One by one, the hidden figures in the bank began to reappear.
Hostages.
Bound together near the back wall, terrified and shaking.
And one of them—a young man, maybe early twenties—had collapsed against the floor, blood spreading from his side where the bullet had hit.
Peter was beside him immediately, dropping to his knees.
"Hey, hey, stay with me," Peter said, his voice sharp but steady, trying to keep the panic out of it as he checked the wound.
He carefully rolled the man onto his side enough to inspect the injury, relief hitting him when he found the exit wound.
The bullet had gone straight through.
That was better than it staying lodged inside.
Still dangerous.
Still bleeding.
Peter looked the injured man in the eyes, guilt hitting him like a brick.
"I'm sorry," Peter said, his voice quieter now, more human than heroic. "I'm so sorry."
Without hesitation, Peter ripped part of the man's shirt apart, folding the fabric tight and pressing it against both sides of the wound to slow the bleeding.
He looked at one of the other hostages—a middle-aged man whose hands were still tied.
"Listen to me," Peter said firmly, already tearing the restraints apart. "Untie everyone else and get them moving. Police are outside."
As if on cue, sirens wailed louder outside the bank, followed by the sound of officers rushing in through the front entrance.
The first officers froze at the sight—unconscious robbers, destroyed tech, terrified hostages, and Spider-Man kneeling over an injured civilian covered in blood.
"Ambulance!" one officer shouted immediately, waving medics in.
Another officer moved closer, kneeling beside Peter and the wounded man.
"What happened?" the cop asked, glancing between Peter and the injury.
Peter kept pressure on the wound, his hands stained red as he answered, his voice tight with frustration and guilt.
"When I grabbed the last guy, he dropped the gun," Peter explained quickly, not taking his eyes off the victim. "It discharged when it hit the floor. Bullet went straight through."
Peter swallowed hard, looking at the blood soaking through the makeshift bandage.
"I think that's better than it staying inside," he added, his voice quieter now, uncertain. "But he's losing blood fast."
The medic team rushed in beside them, taking over immediately, and Peter stayed frozen there for half a second longer, staring at the blood on his hands.
Peter barely had time to process the blood on his hands before shouting broke out across the bank lobby, sharp and panicked enough to pull him out of the spiral his thoughts were dragging him into.
His head snapped up, eyes narrowing as the officers suddenly aimed their weapons toward the center of the room.
A man stepped through the haze of dust and broken marble like he'd been waiting for his cue, dressed in a bizarre armored suit with a flowing cape and a giant glass dome over his head like a fishbowl.
In both hands, he carried heavy bags overflowing with cash.
Peter stared at him for a second.
"…What?"
The man spread his arms dramatically, his cape billowing behind him as though there was wind in the room just for him.
"Fear not, citizens," the stranger announced, his voice booming theatrically through some kind of voice modulator. "For you have borne witness to the great and magnificent—Mysterio!"
Mysterio
Peter blinked behind his mask, almost offended by how ridiculous that sounded.
"Mysterio?" Peter repeated, glancing at the unconscious robbers on the floor. "That's the name you workshopped?"
Mysterio ignored him completely, pacing like he was on a stage instead of standing in the middle of a crime scene.
"These fools thought themselves masters of deception," he declared, gesturing at the downed robbers. "But illusion belongs to me alone."
Peter's eyes narrowed.
The projectors. The cloaking.
That explained it.
This guy wasn't part of the robbery. He hijacked it.
Before Peter could move, Mysterio threw a small green orb at the floor.
It exploded into thick emerald smoke, filling the bank with blinding fog and the sharp smell of chemicals.
Cops coughed and shouted, stumbling back as visibility dropped to nothing.
By the time the smoke cleared, Mysterio was gone.
So was the money.
Peter stared at the empty spot where the man had stood, exhausted and annoyed beyond words.
"Of course the magician steals the money," he muttered. "That tracks."
Once the police secured the bank and paramedics took over, Peter finally stepped away.
The adrenaline had burned off now, leaving behind bruises, exhaustion, and blood dried across his gloves.
He didn't feel like chasing anyone else tonight.
He needed to go home.
Needed to wash the blood off.
Needed to stop seeing that injured hostage every time he blinked.
The trip home felt slower than usual, his body heavier with every swing until he finally slipped into the house through the basement entrance.
Thankfully, it was quiet.
No MJ.No May.No questions.
Peter peeled off the suit carefully, wincing as fresh bruises made themselves known now that the fight was over, and changed into sweatpants and an old t-shirt.
At Ben's sink in the basement, he turned the water on and shoved his hands under it, scrubbing harder than he needed to, watching pink water swirl down the drain as dried blood came loose.
But no matter how hard he scrubbed, it didn't feel clean enough.
Upstairs, the front door opened.
Peter didn't hear it.
His mind was still back in that bank.
Still hearing the gunshot.
Still hearing the groan afterward.
Then Gwen's voice called out from upstairs.
"Peter?"
Without thinking, Peter answered automatically.
"Down here."
A moment later, Gwen came down the basement stairs, her footsteps quick but light, but the second she saw him, she froze.
Her eyes immediately caught the bruising on his face—darkening around his cheekbone and jaw—and the way his hands shook over the sink.
There were still faint streaks of blood on his fingers.
Her expression shifted instantly from relief to worry.
She crossed the room fast.
"Oh my God, Peter," Gwen said, rushing to him, her hands gently catching his wrists to stop him from scrubbing. "What happened?"
Her eyes searched his face, seeing the exhaustion there, the guilt, the way he couldn't quite look at her.
"I thought I told you to take it easy."
Peter laughed once, bitterly, the sound hollow.
"It was supposed to be simple," he said, his voice rougher than normal. "A bank robbery. That's all."
The words started spilling out after that.
The trap.The invisible attackers.The gun.The hostage.
And Mysterio.
By the time he finished, his hands were shaking harder than before, his breathing uneven now that he was saying it out loud.
Gwen didn't interrupt once.
The second he stopped talking, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight enough to ground him.
Peter stood stiff for a second before the tension in him cracked, and he hugged her back, gripping the back of her jacket like he needed something solid to hold onto.
"It's not your fault," Gwen said quietly against his shoulder. "You stopped them. You saved everyone else."
Peter pulled back slightly, his eyes tired.
"Someone still got hurt."
Gwen looked at him firmly, her hands resting on both sides of his face.
"And if you weren't there, more people would've been."
She guided him over to the bed in the basement, sitting him down carefully before grabbing a clean cloth from the shelf and running it under hot water at the sink.
When she came back, she knelt in front of him and took his hands, gently wiping away the remaining blood from his skin, slower this time, more careful.
Peter watched her work, silent now, letting her clean his hands while the room settled into quiet around them.
After Gwen finished cleaning the last of the blood from his hands, Peter leaned back against the bed and slowly stretched out, staring up at the basement ceiling while his thoughts kept replaying the night over and over in painful detail.
The gunshot.The blood.The look on that hostage's face.
Even with the fight over, his mind wouldn't let it go.
Gwen stayed beside him, sitting on the edge of the bed at first, her hand resting over his as her thumb moved in slow circles against his skin, grounding him without forcing him to talk.
The silence between them wasn't awkward.
It was steady, warm, and exactly what Peter needed right now.
After a few minutes, Gwen shifted and laid down beside him, moving close enough that their shoulders touched before she gently rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
Peter looked down at her for a moment, surprised by how much that simple contact settled him, and after a second, his fingers moved into her hair, absentmindedly brushing through the strands.
Gwen's hand found his, their fingers threading together as they just stayed there, saying nothing, letting the quiet fill in what words couldn't.
Peter could feel her breathing against him, slow and even, and for the first time since the bank, his body started to unclench, the tightness in his chest easing little by little.
They stayed like that for a while, the basement quiet except for the faint hum of the sink still dripping and the distant city noise filtering in through the window.
Eventually, Peter shifted and sat up, careful not to jostle her too much, and Gwen lifted her head, looking up at him.
"How's working with that Max guy going?" Peter asked, rubbing his face as he tried to push the heavier thoughts aside. "And… are you hungry?"
Gwen smiled faintly, tucking loose hair behind her ear.
"Max is… interesting," she said, sounding like she wasn't quite sure what word to use. "Smart, awkward, talks to the eels like they're pets."
Peter gave a tired chuckle at that, the mental image helping lighten his mood.
"Sounds about right for Oscorp."
He pushed himself up from the bed and offered her his hand.
"Come on. I can make sandwiches."
Gwen took his hand and followed him upstairs, their fingers staying linked the whole way as they moved into the kitchen, the house still quiet and empty around them.
Peter opened the fridge and started pulling out bread, meat, cheese, and whatever else looked usable, moving with the casual confidence of someone who had made enough emergency meals to know what he was doing.
As he worked, he glanced over at her with a small apologetic smile.
"Sorry," Peter said, layering meat onto the bread. "If I knew you were coming over, I probably would've made actual food."
Gwen leaned against the counter, watching him with soft eyes.
"This is actual food," she said with a small laugh. "You're underselling sandwiches."
Peter smirked at that, sliding the finished sandwich onto a plate before starting his own.
Gwen's expression softened after a moment, her eyes lingering on the bruises forming on his face.
"How are you feeling?" she asked quietly, the question carrying more weight than just physical injuries.
Peter paused, his hands stilling for a second as he looked at her.
"A lot better," he admitted, his voice softer now. "Because of you."
The honesty in it made Gwen smile.
Peter stepped closer, setting the knife down before leaning in and kissing her, slow and warm, the kind of kiss that carried all the gratitude and comfort he didn't know how to put into words.
When they pulled apart, Gwen rested her forehead against his for a second, both of them smiling faintly.
They took their sandwiches into the living room and sat together on the couch, the TV playing some random late afternoon program neither of them were really paying attention to.
Peter sat back while Gwen curled against his side, her head resting against his shoulder this time as they ate and let the noise of the television fill the room.
It was normal.
Simple.
And after everything that had happened today, Peter needed that more than anything.
About an hour later, the front door opened and Aunt May stepped inside, carrying grocery bags and immediately stopping when she saw Peter and Gwen on the couch together.
Her eyes moved to Peter's bruised face, then to the plates on the coffee table, and her expression softened with understanding.
"Well," May said, setting the bags down with a knowing look, "looks like somebody beat me to dinner."
Peter smiled faintly for the first time all day.
"Just sandwiches."
May shook her head and started unpacking groceries.
"Good thing I'm making real dinner, then."
The smell of cooking slowly filled the house as May got to work in the kitchen, and for the first time that day, Peter let himself relax, sitting there beside Gwen while home started feeling like home again.
The smell of dinner filled the house, warm and familiar, the kind of smell that made everything feel normal even when Peter knew his life had been anything but normal all day.
From the kitchen, Aunt May glanced over her shoulder at him while stirring the pot on the stove, her eyes narrowing the moment she got a better look at the bruising on his face under the living room light.
Peter had hoped she wouldn't notice.
No such luck.
"Peter," May said, setting the spoon down and crossing her arms. "How did your face get bruised like that?"
Peter froze for half a second, sandwich still in hand, before forcing an awkward smile.
"Uh… skateboarding," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Took a bad fall."
May stared at him, completely unimpressed.
"Skateboarding?" she repeated, her eyebrow lifting higher. "Peter, you just got out of the hospital. Are you trying to go right back?"
Peter laughed nervously, rubbing his sore jaw.
"When you say it like that, it sounds irresponsible."
"When I say it like that," May replied, pointing the wooden spoon at him, "it is irresponsible."
Gwen couldn't help but smile from beside him on the couch, though she kept quiet, clearly amused by Peter getting called out.
May's attention shifted to her then, her expression softening immediately.
"And how are you doing, Gwen?"
Gwen sat up a little straighter, offering a polite smile.
"I'm doing okay," she said. "Dad's stopping by after work to drive me home."
She glanced toward the kitchen.
"If it's alright, I was hoping I could stay for dinner first."
May smiled warmly.
"Of course, sweetheart. There's always room at this table."
Then May looked around the living room, realizing someone was missing.
"Where's Mary Jane?"
Mary Jane Watson
Peter leaned back against the couch, shrugging.
"She went to a friend's party," he said. "Not sure when she'll be back."
May shook her head as she returned to cooking, her tone carrying that familiar aunt-like concern.
"That girl is always at some party," she muttered. "I just hope she's safe."
Dinner came and went easier than Peter expected.
The food was good, the conversation lighter, and for a little while, Peter almost forgot about the bank, the blood, and the man in the fishbowl suit calling himself Mysterio.
Time moved fast.
Before Peter knew it, there was a knock at the door.
May opened it to reveal Captain Stacy standing there in plain clothes, fresh off work, his tired eyes immediately locking onto Peter and Gwen sitting close together in the living room.
His expression shifted into the look of a father noticing something he didn't entirely approve of but wasn't going to argue about on someone else's porch.
"Gwen," he said simply.
Gwen stood and grabbed her jacket, walking him outside while Peter followed her to the doorway.
At the car, Captain Stacy got in without another word, giving Peter one last measured look through the windshield before focusing forward.
Gwen turned back to Peter, stepping closer in the dim porch light.
She leaned up and kissed him deeply, her hands gripping his shirt for a moment before she pulled back, her forehead resting lightly against his.
"Please don't go out tonight," she whispered, her voice serious now. "Just rest."
Peter gave her a small smile, brushing his thumb against her cheek.
"I'll think about it."
Gwen gave him a look that clearly meant that's not good enough, but she let it go, turning and climbing into the car.
Peter stood there watching until the taillights disappeared down the street.
Later, he stretched out on the couch, the TV glowing softly in the dark living room while May cleaned up in the kitchen.
His body was sore, exhaustion settling deeper into his muscles now that he wasn't moving, and for once, he actually considered listening to Gwen.
Then shouting erupted outside.
Loud. Angry.
Violent.
Peter's eyes snapped to the window.
May looked up from the kitchen and moved toward it first, pulling the curtain aside to see what was happening.
Her face immediately went pale.
"Oh my God."
Peter was off the couch instantly, crossing the room in two strides and looking out the window.
Outside, under the dim streetlights, MJ was being dragged across the sidewalk by her father, his movements rough and unsteady, his body swaying enough to make it obvious he was drunk.
MJ struggled against him, yelling, trying to pull free, but he was stronger and angrier, practically hauling her toward the house.
Peter's stomach dropped.
That wasn't an argument.
That was abuse.
He turned to May immediately, his voice sharp and urgent.
"Call the police."
Peter burst through the front door and onto the lawn before May could even finish dialing, his heart pounding harder than it had during the bank fight, because this wasn't some masked criminal or supervillain.
MJ stumbled as her father yanked her arm again, his drunken shouting slurring into angry nonsense, his grip tight enough to make her wince.
Peter didn't hesitate.
He closed the distance fast and grabbed MJ by the arm, pulling her free and stepping between them in one smooth motion, putting himself directly in front of her like a shield.
"That's enough," Peter said, his voice low and firm, his eyes locked on the older man.
MJ's father looked up at him, his face red and twisted with alcohol-fueled anger, barely steady on his feet but still dangerous in the way drunk men often were.
"The hell are you supposed to be?" he slurred, pointing at Peter with shaking hands. "She's my daughter. Stay out of it."
Behind Peter, MJ was breathing hard, tears already running down her face, her hands clutching the back of Peter's shirt like she needed something solid to stay standing.
Peter didn't move.
"Not when you're hurting her."
That was all it took.
MJ's father swung.
It was wild, clumsy, fueled more by rage than skill, but Peter still leaned back and dodged the first punch easily, his reflexes making it almost laughably simple.
The second swing came harder.
Peter could've avoided it too.
But he didn't.
He let it connect.
The punch slammed into his cheek, snapping his head sideways, more for show than damage.
Peter knew how this looked.
A teenage boy fighting a drunk adult could get complicated fast.
If witnesses saw Peter only defending, it mattered.
But MJ was behind him, crying now.
"Dad, stop!" she begged, her voice cracking. "Please stop!"
Her father ignored her completely.
Another punch.
Peter dodged.
Another.
Peter blocked this one with his forearm, taking the force without reacting much, but the man kept coming, shoving and swinging wildly, trying to get past him to reach MJ.
Peter kept his ground.
"Back off," Peter warned, his voice tightening.
But the drunk man lunged again, and this time he reached past Peter, grabbing for MJ.
That was it.
Peter reacted instantly.
His fist shot out and caught the man square in the jaw.
Not full strength.
Not even close.
But enough.
The man dropped hard onto the grass, groaning as the alcohol and impact finally put him down.
The street went silent for half a second.
Then sirens.
Police cars rolled up fast, lights flashing across the houses and pavement, officers spilling out as neighbors started peeking through curtains.
Peter stepped back, hands raised immediately.
MJ stood there sobbing, wiping her face, while May rushed out from the house to meet the officers.
"What happened here?" one officer asked sharply, looking between Peter, MJ, and the unconscious man on the ground.
May stepped in before Peter could speak.
"Mary Jane has been staying with us," May explained quickly, her voice firm despite the shock. "She's been staying away from her father because of behavior like this."
The officer looked down at MJ.
"Is that true?"
MJ nodded through tears.
"Yes."
Another officer checked on her father, confirming he was conscious but dazed and heavily intoxicated.
Then his attention shifted to Peter.
"And you hit him?"
Peter exhaled slowly.
"…Yeah."
The officer nodded.
"Turn around."
Peter blinked.
"What?"
"For the record," the officer said calmly, "we're taking both of you in until statements are sorted."
May stepped forward immediately.
"Officer, Peter was protecting her—"
"I understand," the officer said, gentler now. "But physical assault is still part of the incident. We sort it at the station."
Peter didn't resist.
He glanced back at MJ, who looked horrified as they cuffed him.
"Peter—"
"It's okay," Peter said, giving her a small nod. "Just tell them the truth."
As Peter was placed in the squad car alongside MJ's father in a separate vehicle, May guided MJ back into the house, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as the girl shook from adrenaline and fear.
Inside, May sat her down on the couch and immediately grabbed the phone.
Her hands trembled as she dialed Gwen first.
When Gwen answered, May quickly explained everything—Peter stepping in, MJ's father attacking him, Peter defending her, and the police taking him in because of the punch.
Gwen's heart dropped hearing it.
Without wasting a second, she handed the phone to her father.
Captain Stacy listened carefully as May explained everything herself, every detail from the moment Peter ran outside.
When she finished, there was a pause.
Then Captain Stacy spoke, his voice calm and measured.
"If that's what happened," he said, "then you have nothing to worry about."
May tightened her grip on the phone.
"They arrested him."
"That's procedure," Stacy replied. "Peter threw a punch, so they have to document it."
He exhaled.
"But if Mary Jane confirms what happened, and the officers saw her father intoxicated, Peter will most likely just give a statement and be released."
May nodded, even though he couldn't see it.
"So he'll be okay?"
"Yes," Captain Stacy said firmly. "I'll make some calls and make sure this gets handled properly."
May thanked him and hung up, finally sitting down beside MJ.
MJ stared at the floor, her eyes red and swollen.
"He got arrested because of me," she whispered.
May put a hand over hers.