Chapter Text
His head pounded as though a train had slammed straight through his skull. A deep, crushing ache pulsed beneath his skin, every muscle sore, every breath tugging at bruised ribs. The ground beneath him was cold and unyielding, digging into his spine, doing nothing to ease the pain rolling through him.
New York pressed in from all sides.
The distant roar of traffic. Horns blaring. People shouting for cabs. A thousand sounds he normally tracked with ease, now blended into a dull, overwhelming hum.
A breeze swept across him, cool fingers threading through his hair and brushing against the sweat on his skin. It was a relief against the sun burning down on his face, but not enough to steady him.
He couldn't open his eyes. Not yet. His body protested even the idea of moving, and the agony thrumming along his nerves told him he needed another second—just one more—to breathe through it.
Then something touched him.
Soft fabric. Cold. Pressed gently to the skin along the left side of his jaw.
The shock of it sent a jolt through him. It stung, soothed, burned, cooled — everything at once. A strained noise slipped from his throat, something between a groan and a sigh, and he felt himself sag a little deeper into the concrete, surrendering to the small comfort.
Another cloth followed, damp and cool, brushing across his forehead. Fingers swept his hair back, clearing it from his face with practised ease. The breeze immediately caught the remaining moisture, a cold shiver racing down his skin.
He tilted his head slightly, instinctively, chasing the touch without meaning to.
The sounds around him dimmed, his awareness sharpening just enough to piece together what he was feeling — and then it sank in.
The cloth was touching his skin.
Not fabric. Not a mask. His skin.
His eyes snapped open.
The light punched into his vision, forcing him to squint until the world gradually sharpened into focus. Shapes blurred, then steadied. He sucked in a shaky breath and turned his head toward the presence beside him—
And froze at what he saw.
It was a woman.
No, not quite. A girl. A teenager. Probably his age, maybe close enough that he wouldn't have blinked seeing her in the Midtown hallway.
She was sitting on the ground beside him, denim-clad legs tucked neatly under her as she leaned over one of the bags at her side. Her hair was the first thing he really registered—long mahogany curls falling all the way to the middle of her back, wild and impossible to tame, lit gold at the edges where the sunlight caught them. They looked soft, freshly cut, the kind of healthy shine people had to work for.
His gaze drifted downward, taking in her clothes the way he always did after a fight—cataloguing, grounding himself.
Black Converse, scuffed at the toes. Snug denim jeans hugging her hips and tapering at her ankles, ripped at the knees, the way everyone at school seemed to like them. An oversized t-shirt with a big, bold logo on the front—something he didn't recognise. A jacket was discarded behind her feet, as if she'd dropped it the moment she saw him fall.
Her face came last.
Pale skin. A small button nose dusted with a constellation of freckles. Thin eyebrows pulled into a tight frown as she searched through her bag. Pink lips—bottom lip fuller, softer—trapped between her teeth as she worked. She looked focused. Determined. Pretty, in a way, he hadn't expected while lying broken on a sidewalk.
But more than that—there was something about her.
His senses tugged toward her, not in warning but in recognition of… difference. Not danger. Just other.
Then her head turned.
And he found himself caught—helplessly, abruptly—in the biggest, warmest brown eyes he'd ever seen. Her expression cracked open with surprise, curiosity, and unmistakable worry. She let out a small puff of air, almost like she'd been holding it.
What happened next stunned him even more.
"Oh, thank heavens you're awake. I was a little worried I'd have to take you to a hospital."
British.
She was British.
The accent hit him before the meaning did, soft but crisp, as if she'd stepped out of a completely different world.
As she spoke, she reached forward and pressed the cool, damp cloth back to his forehead, brushing stray hair away without breaking eye contact. The touch was gentle but practised—steady in a way that told him she had done this before, had taken care of people before.
And for the first time since he'd hit the concrete, Peter Parker felt the world slow…
because this girl was nothing like what he'd expected to see when he opened his eyes.
"What happened?" he managed. A dozen questions were ricocheting around his skull, but that one was the only one he could shape into words.
She gave him a small smile — soft, steady, grounding.
"I'm not entirely sure, to be honest," she said, her voice landing gently against his oversensitive hearing. "I was walking down the street when I happened to look up at the rooftops, and I saw you hit the ground. I couldn't just leave you there, so…" She gave a tiny shrug. "I put on my big girl pants and climbed onto the roof. You were passed out when I got to you."
He blinked. "Huh?"
"I'm terrified of heights," she admitted with a little laugh. "Like, really terrified. But I put that aside to make sure you were okay."
He turned his head slightly away from her, leaning further into the cool cloth she was swiping across his forehead. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the neighbouring building's rooftop — specifically, the thin smear of webbing stuck to the side.
Right. He remembered now.
A robbery. A chase through the city. Police sirens. Civilians were nearly driven off a bridge. Stars exploded behind his eyes when his head slammed into something harder than he anticipated.
He must've stayed conscious just long enough to get somewhere he wouldn't be unmasked. But then he'd blacked out. And this girl had seen his face.
He turned back toward her.
"Are you feeling okay?" she asked, concern warm and unmistakably real in her voice and her eyes. "I'm not sure what happened, but you've got a bump on the back of your head, and you've been out for about fifteen minutes. Do you want me to take you to the hospital?"
"No, I'm fine. Thank you," he said quickly.
He braced his elbows against the ground and pushed himself up. Pain shot through every muscle, his head spinning, and he collapsed back down with a groan.
But before he could smack his head again, a hand slid behind his skull, cushioning the impact. Her hand. She'd taken the hit for him.
Guilt flared in his chest.
"You really shouldn't move yet," she said firmly. "And you should definitely not fall asleep. Head injuries can be serious. You should get it checked. I'm no doctor, and I did the best I could, but that scrape on your jaw is pretty nasty. Probably happened when you fell."
"I'll be fine. I heal quickly," he muttered.
She smiled — bright, warm, a little teasing. "Lucky you. I bump my arm, and I've got a bruise for weeks."
He met her eyes again. Big, soft, brown — but not empty. Not shallow. There was something deeper beneath the warmth. Something he couldn't name yet… but he felt it all the same.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Oh! Sorry. You must think I'm strange." She shook her head, curls bouncing wildly, a few spiralling over her shoulder and into her face. She huffed when one stubborn curl refused to move, blowing it upward only for it to fall straight back. With an annoyed swipe, she shoved it behind her shoulder again.
Peter felt the corner of his mouth twitch despite himself.
"I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger." She smiled.
Pretty name, he thought.
Pretty girl, too — not that he could say that out loud, not when he was half-bleeding and half-conscious on a rooftop.
"You're not from around here, are you?" he asked.
She laughed lightly — a soft, warm sound that sent a shiver racing down his spine before his brain even caught up. His skin tingled.
"No, I suppose my accent gave that away," she said, still smiling. "I recently moved here. I've only been here a week, and trust me to find a stranger that needed patching up while I was doing a bit of exploring."
His eyes drifted to the bags beside her. The bottle of water. The white t-shirt in her hand — tags still attached — now damp and stained from cleaning him up. It hit him like a punch to the gut: she'd sacrificed a brand-new shirt just to stop some kid in a spider suit from bleeding on a rooftop.
She caught his look and waved it off.
"Don't worry about it. I wash all my newly bought clothes before wearing them anyway — a habit I picked up from my mother."
Her smile wavered this time. Just a fraction. The corners of her eyes tightened before she smoothed them away.
"So… what's with the suit?" she asked.
He stared at her. Was she serious? Or was she messing with him? He glanced at her face — open, curious, genuinely confused.
"Er… well… I'm Spider-Man," he admitted, wincing. Not exactly the kind of confession he was supposed to make, but his mask was off, and this wasn't entirely his fault.
"Oh." Realisation dawned across her features. "The superhero, right? I've heard about you."
She smiled — a warm, earnest thing — and he felt the heat creep into his cheeks.
"Not many people would have the bravery or selflessness to do what you do," she said softly.
His face burned hotter. Embarrassed. Touched. Seen.
"And I'm sorry I didn't recognise you. Even with the suit. I've been living under a rock for a few years and haven't exactly kept up with the outside world." Her smile slipped again, just a little, before she shook it off. "Anyway, you should be alright now. Do you want to try and stand?"
"Er—yeah. Sure."
He pushed up onto his elbows, pausing as pain flared through his body. Sure, he had super strength, but super strength didn't stop bruises from blooming or ribs from aching after being slammed into a truck.
"Do you need help?" she asked, a worried frown creasing her brow.
"I… don't know," he admitted.
"Well, if you fall, I'll make sure to catch you," she said firmly.
He raised an eyebrow.
She returned it. "I'm stronger than I look."
She shifted from sitting to crouching beside him, ready. He bent his legs, planted his feet, pushed himself up — and immediately wobbled. She was there in a heartbeat, hands curling around his suit-covered wrists, steadying him before he could topple.
"Maybe we should sit you down instead," she suggested.
He didn't argue. He let her guide him backwards, her hand warm and gentle on his shoulder, until his calves hit a stone ledge and he sank onto it. He bowed forward, head in his hands, eyes squeezed shut.
"Here."
He opened his eyes. The water bottle hovered in front of him — and she crouched at his knee.
"Well, it's been a while since someone's been afraid of catching my cooties," she teased. "Don't worry — I only bought this because the shop owner wouldn't let me use the bathroom unless I purchased something. It hasn't been anywhere near my mouth."
He frowned out of reflex but took the bottle, drinking slowly. The water was cool — surprisingly so, given the heat suffocating the city all week. She must've bought it just before climbing the roof.
"You keep that," she said, refusing it when he tried to return it. "Just in case." She glanced at him in concern. "I really think we should get you to a hospital."
"I'll be fine," he assured her. "I'm already feeling better. Just… give me a few minutes."
She didn't believe him — he could see it — but she nodded anyway.
Then the sirens hit. Loud. Close. Urgent.
"Oh," she sighed. "That's a bit of bad luck. Feel up to it?"
He forced a smile. "Have to be."
She grinned — no, beamed — and for a second, he forgot how to breathe. The sun lit her face, catching on her freckles, her curls, and her dimples. Like she belonged in a world less harsh than this one.
"Well, off you go, Mr Spider-Man," she said brightly. "Be a superhero. Just be careful — don't make that head injury worse. And don't fall asleep for a few hours."
He nodded and scanned the rooftop, spotting his mask across the way. Instead of walking, he shot a web, yanking it into his hand.
She snorted. "Show off."
He couldn't help but smile.
She straightened — average height but still noticeably smaller than his nearly six feet — and watched as he made his way to the edge of the roof. He paused, turning back to her, opening his mouth… but nothing came out.
"I get it," she said gently. "Secret identity. I won't tell anyone. Not that I have anyone to tell." She shrugged a little. "I'm the new girl with no friends. And we probably won't see each other again. You know, big city, superhero schedule?" Her voice softened. "So… thank you. For being what this world needs. For standing up for people who can't."
His stomach twisted, heat flooding his face again at the sincerity in her eyes — warm, honest, unfiltered.
"Thank you for helping me," he said quietly.
"I only did what anyone else would've," she replied. "And… it was nice to finally repay you for all the good you do."
"They wouldn't have helped," he said truthfully. "They'd probably be too busy taking pictures and tweeting about the kid under the mask."
She huffed a small laugh. "You are younger than I expected. But… if you're a hero, you're a hero."
Her smile faltered — something distant flickering across her expression — but she steadied it.
"You're the nicest person I've ever met," he said before he could stop himself.
Her smile brightened again, genuine and amused. "You haven't seen me when I'm mad. I've been told I'm quite terrifying."
"I don't believe that," he said, voice softer than before. "Don't let this place change you."
The sirens grew louder. The city was calling him back.
"Off you go," she encouraged. "I'm sure they could use your help."
He looked at her one more time before pulling his mask over his face.
"Thank you," he repeated.
Then he stepped off the roof, shot a web, and disappeared into the roar of the city.
~000~000~000~
A week later, Peter was found wandering down the street towards Delmar's, weaving through foot traffic on autopilot. His body dodged people without his brain ever really registering them; he'd done the route so many times it was muscle memory.
But his mind was nowhere near the sidewalk.
It was on her.
It had been a week since he'd woken up on that rooftop with a scuffed jaw and a British girl kneeling over him. Aunt May had freaked out when he'd gotten home that Friday night — hands on hips, full lecture mode, demanding to know what "in the world" he'd done to his face — but by then the injury had already started healing.
What he didn't tell her was the truth: that a stranger had taken care of him when he'd been at his most vulnerable. He didn't want May worrying that someone new knew his face, his identity, his biggest secret.
But honestly? He believed Hermione when she said she wouldn't tell anyone. He didn't expect that kind of certainty from a stranger… but something about her rang true.
And despite the days that had passed, he hadn't stopped thinking about her.
Not once.
The beautiful girl with the curls and the British accent. The girl who'd shown him gentleness.
The girl who'd thanked him for what he did — really thanked him — without expecting anything back.
He tried to forget. He really did. New York was huge. They'd never cross paths again. It made no sense to keep replaying the moment she'd looked at him like he was something good.
But she was impossible to forget.
She drifted into his thoughts during class, during lunch, while he was doing homework, walking down the street, even mid-swing between buildings. He wondered where she was now. How she was adjusting. What she did with her time. Whether she had anyone here besides the neighbour she'd mentioned.
He'd actually landed himself in detention because he'd arrived late to class — too busy thinking about her to notice the time.
Sighing, he crossed the street—
And at that exact moment, someone stepped back and landed on his foot.
A feminine gasp sounded. A soft scent of vanilla hit him. Warm hair blew across his face in a mahogany blur.
"Oh, I'm ever so sorry—"
He froze.
He knew that accent.
She turned, eyes widening as recognition crashed over both of them. For a moment, they just stared at each other — shocked, suspended in the strangest twist of fate.
Then she blinked, her lips tugging into a smile.
"Well, if it isn't Mr Superhero," she said cheerfully. "I never thought I'd see you again. But I'm not going to lie — you look very different without your suit."
He glanced down at himself: sneakers, jeans, hoodie, backpack slung over one shoulder.
Yeah. Not exactly superhero chic.
"I'm terribly sorry," she added, ducking her head with a sheepish grin. "I didn't see you there."
"You've apologised already," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, his stomach flipping with nerves and disbelief. What were the odds of this in a city so big?
"Oh. Right. British thing." She smiled again, and he couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped him. "I take it you're feeling better?" she asked. "Your jaw certainly looks it."
"Thanks to you," he nodded. "If you don't mind me asking… what are you doing?"
"Oh! Right." She pushed a curl out of her face. "I'm afraid to say… I'm lost."
She lifted the map in her hand — creased, unhelpful, and currently upside-down. Only now did he notice her outfit: black ankle boots, dark jeans, a plaid shirt layered beneath a jacket. She looked warm, put together, but very much out of her element.
"I've always been rubbish at map reading," she admitted, "but this one is especially confusing."
He chuckled, hitching his backpack higher.
"Where are you trying to get to?"
"Well, my neighbour told me there's a lovely bakery near here, but didn't specify where. So I've been wandering around like a lost puppy." His mouth twitched at the description. "But I'm also looking for a butcher's."
"I know where you mean," he said. "Do you want me to show you?"
She hesitated, smiling. "Oh, I wouldn't want to take time out of your superhero schedule."
He shrugged. "Helping people is literally my job. By helping you, I'm just doing my civic duty."
Her lips quirked. "Nicely played," she said. "Well… if you're not too busy, I'd be grateful."
"Okay then," he said, stepping around a couple glued together under a street lamp. She mirrored him easily, falling into pace beside him. "So… how are you finding New York?"
"It's definitely different from home," she said thoughtfully. "But somehow still the same. Most people I've met so far are just as rude. I asked several for directions — they either ignored me or flipped me off. Except that group of teen boys…" Her nose crinkled in displeasure. "They were rather vulgar."
He frowned. "I'm sorry that happened."
She shook her head gently. "Don't apologise. You can't be responsible for everyone. And it doesn't reflect badly on you. Besides my neighbour — a lovely old lady — you're one of the few people who've shown me kindness."
Her smile was small. Soft. And for the second time, Peter felt his heart trip over itself.
He cleared his throat. "So… where was home for you?"
She raised an eyebrow, amused.
"I mean, I didn't want to just assume it was London," he added quickly. "I know it's the first place people think of when they hear a British accent, but I'm educated enough to know London isn't the only place in Britain."
She beamed at him for that — eyes bright, dimples appearing, her whole face warming.
"Well, that's very thoughtful of you not to assume," she said, clearly pleased. "But I'm sad to say I am from London. My friends from school, though, came from all over Britain. One was from Manchester — that's a city in England — one from Brighton, which is a seaside town, and some from Devon, which is a county."
She gestured with the map still in her hand as she continued. "Most people don't realise Brits aren't all from London. We all have our own slang, our own accents. People from the North East can be a bit tricky to understand."
"And your accent?" he asked.
"Well, if you're from London, you're a Cockney." Her mouth twitched when his eyebrows shot up at the word. "And you?"
"New Yorker."
She mock-frowned. "That's not very creative."
He laughed. "And Brits are?"
"I'd say so, yes." She held up a finger for each example. "If you're from Liverpool, you're a Scouser. Newcastle — a Geordie. Sunderland — a Mackem. Birmingham — a Brummie."
He blinked. "I didn't understand half of what you just said… but yeah, you guys definitely win the creativity award."
"I'll take the compliment and run before you think of better American ones," she teased. "Oh — is this it?" she asked, stopping suddenly in front of a butcher's window. Someone bumped into her shoulder as they passed, making her stumble a step. Peter's scowl followed the businessman until he disappeared down the street.
"Sure is," he nodded. "And the bakery's across the street."
"Well, thank you. You're a lifesaver." She winced. "And yes, I know you are literally a lifesaver. But still."
She made for the door.
"Do you want me to come in with you?" Peter asked.
She turned, eyebrow raised. He nodded toward the butcher's sign.
"My aunt comes here a lot. They sometimes try to overcharge tourists."
The truth was far simpler: he wanted more time with her. She unsettled him in a way that didn't feel bad — just unfamiliar. Like, there was something he needed to understand.
"Erm… alright," she agreed.
He stepped around her smoothly and opened the door. She smiled at the gesture.
Inside, he stood beside her as she ordered. Most of it was normal — breaded chicken, steak, bacon and sausages — but he blinked when she cheerfully asked for chicken feet and pig eyeballs.
He didn't comment. It was New York; he'd seen weirder.
They left with her bags, crossed the street, and entered the bakery. While she shopped, he noticed everything — the way she chose more chocolate cupcakes than vanilla, how she picked both chocolate chip and oatmeal cookies, the way she smiled at the baker while asking if they made birthday cakes.
She didn't say who the cake was for.
Minutes later, they stepped back onto the sidewalk, bags rustling between them.
"Well, I really appreciate your help," she said honestly. "I would've stood there all day before giving up and going home. And I'd probably get lost doing that, too. I thought London was confusing, but New York definitely takes the trophy."
He laughed.
"I hope I didn't derail your plans too much," she added.
The truth? They had gone in the opposite direction of Delmar's, and he was starving — but he didn't regret a second of it.
"You didn't," he said. Then —impulsively— "Are you hungry?"
Her eyebrow lifted.
"I know this great deli I usually go to after school. I was heading there before going home."
She considered him… and nodded. "I'm not going to lie, I'm starving. I haven't eaten since breakfast."
He frowned as they began walking back toward Delmar's.
"You shouldn't skip meals."
She smiled at his tone, though a shadow crossed her eyes again. "It wasn't intentional. I left early this morning, and after running a few errands, I got lost. And, I tend to be cautious about food. Some places here are… questionable. And some foods terrify me."
He laughed. "Fair. I promise you'll like Delmar's."
"I'm trusting you," she warned. "Don't let me down — or I'll tell the world Spider-Man has terrible taste in food."
"Please don't," he begged dramatically. "People will lose all respect for me. I'll never be allowed to help another sweet old lady again."
"Oh, if it were me, I'd lock you up and throw away the key. Criminal offence," she replied, grinning.
He laughed, stepping around a parked car. She followed closely.
"So… school?" she asked. "Just how old are you?"
He hesitated — then decided she already knew too much for this to be a dangerous detail.
"Seventeen."
"Bloody hell," she breathed. A soft, strange look spread across her face — fond, distant — like she was thinking of something or someone far away. "It must be difficult to manage school and be a superhero."
He shrugged. "My aunt makes sure I keep up with my homework."
"She knows?"
He nodded.
"That's good," she said softly. "It's nice to have someone fighting in your corner."
"So… how old are you?" he asked.
She smirked. "How old do you think I am?"
Careful, Peter. Be very careful. Aunt May's voice echoed in his head.
"My age?" he guessed.
"Near enough," she said. "I'm eighteen."
"Did you move here with your parents?"
"No." Her tone changed instantly. Quiet. Heavy. "They… they died last year. And I have no siblings. It's just me."
"I'm sorry," he said gently. He knew that pain. Too well.
She smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Thank you."
"If you don't mind me asking… how did they—"
"I don't like to talk about it," she whispered.
He nodded. "I won't pry."
His curiosity sparked again — but he respected her boundary. If she didn't want to say it, it was probably something awful. And he was still, in her world, a stranger.
"…I'm Peter," he blurted out suddenly.
She looked up at him, eyes widening — as if only now realising she'd never asked his name.
"Well, Peter, it's nice to officially meet you," she said warmly. "And in case you don't remember, I'm Hermione."
He remembered. Of course, he remembered. Hermione wasn't the sort of name you forgot — not when it belonged to her.
When Delmar's came into view, he pointed it out and, like before, stepped ahead to hold the door open for her. She smiled at him as she walked in, then paused, taking in the shelves and the familiar clutter of a corner-store grocery.
"You didn't tell me this was a grocery store," she said.
"Was I supposed to?" he asked, genuinely unsure.
"No, no," she said, waving a hand. "Just… as it happens, I need a few things. I was planning to get them on the way home, but it looks like you've saved me the trip. Go ahead and get your food — I'll be right behind you."
He didn't. He stayed with her.
Hermione wandered the aisles with the concentration of someone navigating a foreign planet, and Peter used the moment to watch her — really watch her — without seeming obvious.
She frowned slightly at products she didn't recognise. She nibbled her bottom lip when deciding between two brands of the same thing. Her nose wrinkled adorably when she picked up some unfamiliar food and quickly put it back. Her eyes narrowed with focus when she read labels and compared prices.
She was trying. Hard. And he found that… charming.
Her basket slowly filled — bread, eggs, milk, cereal, ketchup, candy bars, fresh apples and bananas, canned fruit — all mid-range brands. Nothing fancy, nothing cheap. Just practical. Smart.
He helped her carry everything to the counter. Delmar looked up, surprise flickering across his face when he saw Peter with someone new. A girl.
"I haven't seen you 'round here before," Delmar said, eyebrow raised.
Peter rolled his eyes but leaned casually on the counter.
Hermione smiled politely. "I've recently moved to the area."
Her accent clearly threw Delmar, but he recovered quickly. "I see you know Peter?"
"Oh, yes. He saw me wandering around like a lost little puppy and took pity on me when no one else would."
"I'm sorry to say we're not the nicest bunch, especially when we're in a rush," Delmar said.
"Peter more than made up for it with his kindness," she said, shooting Peter a small, grateful look that immediately made his face warm. Delmar eyed him with an amused grin.
She took her bags, setting them by her feet while Delmar turned to Peter.
"The usual?" Delmar asked knowingly.
"Yep," Peter replied.
Then he glanced at Hermione. She was staring up at the menu, eyes darting around, clearly overwhelmed by the American-style options.
"Make it two," Peter said.
She looked at him. "Two?"
"Trust me?"
"I barely know you," she said, mouth twitching. "But if this is awful, remember my promise."
He offered to pay for her sandwich — she refused instantly — and soon they stepped out onto the sidewalk, each holding a takeaway sandwich and Hermione juggling her bags. He offered to help; she refused again.
"I suppose this is goodbye," she said gently, noticing the way their bodies faced opposite directions.
"I guess it is," he nodded.
"Well… thank you again for all your help. You've truly been a lifesaver." She smiled — soft and genuine. "I doubt we'll see each other again. After all, what are the chances?"
She chuckled at the irony, then stepped backwards.
"Look after yourself, Mr Superhero," she said with a little wave before turning and crossing the street.
She didn't look back.
And Peter stood there, sandwich in hand, watching her disappear into the crowd — suddenly certain that she would not be as easy to forget this time either.
~000~000~000~
Two weeks passed, and Peter honestly didn't know what was wrong with him.
He'd thought that after learning more about the girl who helped him — after repaying the favour, after proving to himself the mystery was solved — he'd stop thinking about her. Stop obsessing. Stop wondering.
But he'd been very, very wrong.
It had somehow gotten worse. Now he was dreaming about her.
And not the embarrassing kind of dreams he could laugh off or blame on hormones. No — these were worse. Innocent dreams. Realistic dreams. Dreams where they were just… talking. Sitting on the rooftop together. Walking down the street. Laughing. Her telling him little things about herself while sunlight caught in her hair.
He wasn't sure what to do with that — because that was far more dangerous than anything sexual.
Ned had noticed the shift almost immediately. He kept giving Peter sidelong glances at school, nudging him with questions, worrying at him like a dog with a chew toy. Peter said it was superhero stuff weighing on his mind.
Ned believed him, but he didn't stop watching him. But the truth was simpler: Peter couldn't stop thinking about her.
And he knew the odds of seeing her again were microscopic. Two million people lived in Queens. And he'd already run into her twice. He didn't believe in fate.
Or at least he hadn't.
Maybe he should.
It was late now, and he was doing a final sweep of the neighbourhood before heading home. He was exhausted, ready to collapse into bed, but he promised May he'd be careful, and patrol always helped settle his mind.
As he swung past an alleyway, turning onto the next street, he landed instinctively on the side of a building — and froze.
His eyes locked instantly on the figure walking below.
Even in the dark. Even from several buildings away. He recognised her.
Those wild curls, bouncing with each step. The familiar, soft hum she made — a song he didn't know, but one she apparently liked enough to sing out loud. She wasn't wearing headphones. Good — she was aware of her surroundings. But Peter instantly hated that she was walking alone down a dim street peppered with alley entrances and shadowed corners.
Before he even made a decision, he was already moving — firing a web, swinging silently after her, keeping to the shadows where she wouldn't spot him.
He followed her for several blocks. No incidents. Nothing suspicious. He was beginning to think he should relax, leave her be, stop being weird—
Then he heard them.
Male voices. Loud. Slurred.
Drunk.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose. His heartbeat kicked up, punching against his ribs. His danger sense tingled — sharp, uncomfortable, insistent.
He sped up.
She was approaching a bar up ahead — the kind of place decent people avoided after sundown. And sure enough, a group of men stumbled out of the doorway right as she walked past.
Catcalls. Whistling. Laughter that curdled his stomach.
She froze. Her humming stopped. Her shoulders tightened. Her hands curled into fists. But she didn't speak. Didn't flinch. Didn't run.
She simply… kept walking.
They followed.
Something hot and bright snapped behind Peter's eyes. His breathing quickened, his head pounded, adrenaline flooding his bloodstream like fire. He didn't think. Didn't plan.
He reacted.
A web shot forward. In seconds, he swung around the block, repositioning himself ahead of her. He dropped low, timed the angle, and swooped down —
And before she even realised he was there, his arm wrapped around her waist, lifting her cleanly off the ground and pulling her against him.
She shrieked — a small, startled sound smothered when she buried her face in his chest, arms snapping tightly around his neck as if terrified he'd drop her. He held her closer. She weighed next to nothing in his arm — a feather, a breath, a heartbeat.
Then momentum shifted. He released the web —
Freefall.
Her second scream was louder, rawer, and she clutched him tighter. He hit the next angle perfectly, fired another web, swung hard to redirect them —
One-handed, because the other was still locked firmly around her.
He didn't realise he'd chosen the nearest empty rooftop until his feet touched it. He landed smoothly, releasing the web, and instinctively swept a hand over her back once, twice, reassuring her. Then he gave the slightest squeeze at her waist.
That seemed to snap her back.
Her arms dropped from around his neck — and she practically launched herself backwards, stumbling several feet away.
He frowned. He missed her contact almost immediately, which was… not helpful.
She bent forward, hands braced on her knees, breath heaving, her curls falling like a cascading halo around her face as she shook uncontrollably.
"Jesus bloody Christ!" she choked out.
His eyes widened slightly. He wasn't used to hearing her swear like a startled sailor.
"A little warning would've been nice," she gasped, lifting her head at last.
Her eyes were huge. Glassy. Brimming with tears.
Hell.
He swallowed hard. He hadn't meant to scare her. And then it hit him like a punch to the gut.
She was terrified of heights. Terrified.
He'd known… but he hadn't realised how severe it was.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, tugging his mask off. There was no point keeping it on — she already knew his face. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
His eyes stayed wide, open, honest. May always said his eyes gave him away — too expressive, too earnest. He hoped, desperately, that it was true now.
Hermione stared at him for several long seconds — then slowly nodded, releasing a trembling breath. She straightened, though her body still shook and her skin flushed pink. A faint sheen of sweat glimmered on her forehead.
Without a word, she turned and walked to the rooftop bench, dropping onto it beside a scattering of cigarette butts. He sat next to her — not too close, but close enough to be there if she faltered.
"I suppose I should say thank you," she said, voice still uneven. "Trust me when I say, I'm not as defenceless as I look — but even I would've struggled with that many opponents. So your help was much appreciated."
"You're welcome," he said softly.
Her words echoed in his head.
Not as defenceless as I look.
Did she carry a weapon? Know martial arts? Something else entirely?
Whatever she meant, he didn't know. But he wanted to.
He really wanted to.
"So, am I to believe our meeting is just a coincidence?" she asked.
"I'd like to think so," Peter said, "but I don't believe in coincidences."
"No? Me either." She sighed softly. "Though it is a little strange, this is our third time meeting without having any pre-arranged plans."
"I just happened to be swinging by," he said, deadpan.
Her laugh broke out instantly — light, bright — and it tugged a smile right out of him.
"I was doing a final sweep of the neighbourhood before heading home," he added.
"Oh, right — school night." She nodded. "Well then, you should probably get going. You definitely need your rest."
"Ten more minutes won't kill me," he said, settling his elbows on his knees, mask dangling between his clasped hands.
"I'm fine," she insisted gently. "You don't have to worry about me. I've faced much worse things than a few drunken men."
"Like what?"
"Terrorists," she replied flatly.
He stared. Then burst out laughing, shaking his head. "I almost believed you."
Her smile tightened — that same strained, too-careful expression he'd seen from her before.
"Seriously, I'm fine. You should get home."
"How was the sandwich?" he asked, ignoring her attempt to dismiss him.
She rolled her eyes, but answered. "You'll be glad to know your reputation remains intact. But I must tell you…" She paused dramatically. "It tastes much better with salt and vinegar crisps."
He blinked. "Huh?"
"Oh — sorry. Language barrier." She shook her head. "I believe you call them chips."
"You put chips… in a sandwich?"
"Yes. And you should try it." She held up a finger. "Cheese and onion are the best."
"So you just butter some bread and… fill it with chips?"
"That's it. And if you want your mind blown, do it with fries." She laughed lightly. "Honestly, I might make a chip butty when I get home. It's not even been a month, and I already miss British food."
"Is that all you miss? The food?" he asked softly. "Moving must be… hard."
She hesitated, expression turning distant. "I suppose I miss everything, really. The rubbish weather. The lingo. My friends. Even the currency system. It's taking me ages to get used to VAT and tipping. Back home, the price you see is the price you pay. When I tried a diner here, the waitress had to explain everything to me — but she definitely earned her tip."
"I guess I never thought of it being confusing," Peter admitted. "It's just… always been that way for me."
She tilted her head, studying him. "Your ten minutes are up."
He frowned slightly, but nodded. "Do you want me to take you home?"
Her mouth lifted. "So you know where I live for future reference?" she teased. "No, thank you. I'll be fine."
"After what nearly happened, I don't feel comfortable letting you walk home alone."
"I'll get a taxi," she assured him. "Don't worry about me. You should go — I'm sure someone's waiting for you."
"My aunt," he said. Then, softly, "Are you sure I can't take you home?"
She rose from the bench. He stood with her automatically.
"No, thank you," she said. "And if I'm honest, I'm not exactly a fan of the…" She lifted her hands and mimed swinging through the air. He chuckled. "I'll be fine. So go on." She lifted a brow. "And this time I'm not going to comment on maybe running into you again, because with our current track record… it's honestly possible."
"I hope we do," he blurted.
She blinked — startled.
Heat shot up his neck. Before he could embarrass himself further, he pulled his mask back on, hopped onto the ledge, and launched himself off the rooftop.
He'd barely swung one block away when he heard it.
A sharp crack.
Instantly alert, he latched onto a nearby wall, stuck there, and turned back.
The rooftop was empty.
Completely empty.
His pulse jumped. He scanned the street below — nothing. Checked the fire escape — untouched. Watched the doorway for several long seconds — no movement. No exit. No shadow. No Hermione.
It was as if she had simply… vanished.
"What the hell?" he whispered into the night.
~000~000~000~
It was two weeks after he'd rescued her from the drunk men when he saw her again.
Two weeks of trying not to think about her. Two weeks of failing miserably.
Ever since she'd vanished from that rooftop — literally disappeared without a door opening, without so much as a shadow — Peter's mind had been in overdrive. He kept replaying it, rationalising it, imagining explanations that made sense… but none did.
Still, he hoped. Hoped he'd run into her just one more time.
Because somehow, talking to her grounded him. She treated him like a person, not a celebrity in spandex. She didn't get flustered, didn't bombard him with questions, didn't squeal or ramble or try to take a picture. She talked to him the same way whether he had the mask on or off.
She made him feel… normal.
Ned meant well, but he tended to geek out about the superhero stuff. Aunt May loved him, but she worried. Hermione?
She was neutral. Balanced. Steady. And she kept his secret. No leaks. No articles. Nothing.
So when he found her again — completely by chance — it felt like something in his chest clicked into place.
He'd finished errands for May and, after dropping off groceries, had switched to his suit for a few quick patrols. With the weather unnaturally sunny, he decided to walk for a bit afterwards. And that was when he spotted her — from the ledge of a rooftop — humming at a food truck.
He froze.
White Converse. A floral sundress brushing mid-thigh. A light blue cropped cardigan. Glittery pins holding back the wild curls he'd recognise anywhere. A small, unusual purse at her side.
Even across the street, the faint scent of vanilla drifted toward him.
He changed back into his regular clothes faster than he ever had in his life, then crossed the street before he could psych himself out. She was shifting her weight lightly from foot to foot, humming under her breath, when he stepped beside her.
Her entire body tensed. She turned slowly, looked away, then turned back… then exhaled with visible relief.
"Bloody hell," she muttered. "You scared the hell out of me."
His mouth twitched. "Sorry." He adjusted his backpack and shoved his hands into his pockets.
"Tell your face that," she grumbled.
He grinned. "What're you doing?"
"Food." She pointed ahead. "I'm starving and decided it was time to put my big girl pants on and try new things."
"Glad to hear it… but I wouldn't start here."
She frowned. "Why not?"
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so the people around them wouldn't hear.
"It's known for using questionable ingredients."
A grimace twisted her mouth. "Fantastic. My grand plan to expand my culinary horizons is off to a brilliant start."
He chuckled.
"You know," he said, "I tried that thing you told me about. Chips in bread."
Her eyes brightened. "And?"
"Not bad."
Her smile grew warm. "Told you so. Now try it with fries — it's heaven on a plate." She looked back at the food truck. "And considering I don't want to get food poisoning… any suggestions on where I can eat?"
"You ever had a corn dog?"
She blinked. "What the hell is a corn dog?"
He laughed softly before reaching out, lightly wrapping his fingers around her wrist to guide her out of the line. His touch barely brushed her skin — but she didn't pull away. Still, he released her quickly, not wanting to presume too much.
"Shouldn't we tell everyone else about the dodgy food?" she asked.
"They're New Yorkers. They're used to it," he shrugged. "Besides, I don't care about them."
"But you do me?" she asked — eyebrow arched, voice soft.
He didn't answer. Couldn't. Something about her pulled him in too tightly.
They walked in silence, but it wasn't tense. It was oddly comfortable. Natural.
They reached his usual corn dog stand and ordered. He watched her carefully as she took her first bite. She chewed thoughtfully, wiped her mouth even though she hadn't made a mess, then declared,
"It's basically a battered, fried sausage on a stick."
"Pretty much."
"I'm not big on fried sausages… but this isn't bad." She pointed her corn dog at him in emphasis before taking another bite.
They wandered without direction, conversation easy and unforced. When he spotted an ice cream parlour, he pointed.
"You want ice cream?"
"Sure. What kind of person turns down ice cream?"
Inside was chaos — families, kids, noise — but Hermione didn't seem overwhelmed. She ordered plain vanilla, and he nearly teased her for it until he watched her divide the scoop into quarters and add a different topping to each one.
She looked smug at his expression.
They found a small corner table. She sat with her back to the wall, eyes scanning the room once before settling on him as she lifted her spoon.
"So," he began, "you said you have no siblings. And your parents…" He cleared his throat. "But do you have any other family?"
"No. It's just me."
"What about school? Where do you go?"
"I don't." She scooped ice cream casually. "After everything that happened last year, I took my final exams out of school. Graduated almost a year ago."
Interesting. Very interesting.
"Why move to New York?" he asked.
"Partly for a change. Partly for a job opportunity I couldn't turn down."
"What job?"
Her lips curled mischievously. "I can't tell you."
He raised an eyebrow. She leaned forward. He leaned too, until their faces were only inches apart.
"It's a secret," she whispered, then sat back and took another spoonful of ice cream.
"You know my secret," he protested.
Her mouth twitched into a smirk. "My secret's bigger."
He leaned back, folding his arms, smiling despite himself. They were staring at each other when a sharp beeping broke the moment.
Hermione jolted and reached into her purse beneath the table. When she sat back, she held a pager.
A pager.
Who still used pagers?
Her brow tightened as she read the message. Then she sighed and looked up.
"I'm afraid I have to go. I've been summoned."
"By who?"
She smirked. "Nice try."
Standing, she gathered her things. He followed suit.
"As always," she said, "it was a pleasure seeing you. I won't bother pretending we won't run into each other again — because apparently the universe enjoys toying with us."
She tossed her rubbish into the trash can and headed toward the exit.
"Thank you for not letting me get food poisoning," she added over her shoulder. "And be careful, Mr Superhero."
He watched her until she disappeared into the crowd — the same way he always seemed to.
~000~000~000~
A week after the ice-cream parlour, on a quiet Sunday afternoon, Peter Parker wandered through the park with a short list of errands still left to run for May. The weather wasn't as bright as last week, but comfortably warm. Families picnicked on the grass, children chased each other across the paths, and dogs sprinted after tennis balls launched into the air.
He'd like to pretend it was a coincidence that he saw her again.
It wasn't.
He felt her first — a strange, instinctive awareness at the edge of his senses. Familiar. Distinct. A warmth sliding under his skin. Only then did his eyes sweep the park, automatically searching for her. And he found her on the far side, alone.
He didn't hesitate.
Walking toward her, he found her lying in the grass, hands folded over her stomach atop a plaid shirt. Black denim stretched along her legs, tucked into knee-high boots. Her wild curls spilt around her head like a halo. Eyes closed. Breathing deep and steady.
Almost asleep — but her heartbeat was just a little too fast for true sleep.
"We really must stop meeting like this," she said without opening her eyes.
He startled. Blinked. "How'd you know it was me?"
Her eyes finally fluttered open, warm brown locking onto his. She gave a small, sleepy smile.
"It's a secret," she murmured.
He rolled his eyes but shoved his hands into his pockets.
"Are you going to stand there all day?" she asked, turning her gaze back to the cloudy sky.
Shifting, he shrugged off his backpack, lowered himself into the grass beside her, and lay back the same way she was.
"What are you doing out here?" he asked.
"Relaxing."
"You were falling asleep."
"Probably. I'm tired."
He turned his head toward her. Her eyes were closed again, her face peaceful but subtly strained around the edges.
"Work?" he asked quietly.
"Yep," she breathed. She sounded exhausted — more than she was letting on. "Twelve-hour night shift. Got off about an hour ago. Some of the patients were… less than cooperative."
Patients.
He frowned. "Are you a med student?"
"You could say that."
"Doctor or nurse?"
"Neither. Both," she said simply.
"I'm confused."
She turned her head. He turned his too. Their eyes met.
"Good," she said with a faint smile. "I like confusing you."
He huffed a laugh.
"So," she said, eyes drifting back to the sky, "what's Mr Superhero doing in the park on a Sunday afternoon?"
"Errands for my aunt." He got comfortable beside her, bending one knee, leaving the other leg stretched out. His arm tucked behind his head, the other dangling loosely between them. Their shoulders brushed — the lightest contact — but it was enough to settle something in him.
"Shouldn't you be doing that instead of being here with me?"
"I'd rather be here," he said before he could stop himself.
His face burned.
He rushed on, "She'll probably think I'm distracted with Spider-Man duties. As long as I'm home before it gets dark, she's fine."
"Have you had any Spider-Man duties today?"
"Yeah — cat stuck in a tree, mugger stole an old lady's purse, attempted jewellery robbery, and a dog stuck in a manhole."
"You've had a busy morning," she murmured. "And here I am complaining about being tired."
"You didn't complain. And you worked twelve hours straight. I slept eight and was prepared."
"You get any injuries?"
"I'm good."
She was quiet for a moment before asking, "If you don't mind me asking…" He turned toward her again. She did the same. Their eyes locked. "You only ever mention your aunt."
"She's my guardian," he said softly. "My parents died when I was a kid."
Her eyes softened instantly. "I'm sorry. It sucks, doesn't it?"
"It definitely sucks," he admitted, and a small smile pulled at his lips. "I love my aunt — she's great — but…"
"But she's not your parents," Hermione whispered. "I get it."
Her hand slipped from her stomach… and into his. It was a little cold as she gave a gentle, comforting squeeze. She tried to pull away — but he held on tighter, refusing to let go.
Comfort. Warmth. Connection. All of it settled between their palms.
"Do you know why I became Spider-Man?" he asked.
"If I did, I'd be worried," she said lightly.
He snorted. "My Uncle Ben was murdered a few years ago. He's the reason I help people."
Her eyes fluttered shut. She inhaled slowly… then opened them again, meeting his gaze. Resolve. That's what he saw.
"My parents were murdered," she whispered.
His hand tightened around hers. She didn't pull away, didn't flinch, didn't comment.
"Why do bad things happen to good people?" he asked quietly.
She sighed. "I don't know. Maybe it's to test us. Maybe it's to make us stronger. After all… you became Spider-Man. And I…" She hesitated. "I can't tell you what I do. But I help people, too."
Her eyes drifted shut again, her head tilting slightly toward him.
Without thinking, he shifted closer, tilting his head until their foreheads touched gently.
Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. "Us orphans have to stick together. And I can't imagine how hard it is to be Spider-Man. If you don't want to talk to your aunt about it… I'm here."
"That goes both ways," he murmured. "Whatever secret you're keeping — if you want to tell me, I'll listen. Or if you only want to talk… out of context… I'm still here." Her lips curved. "Does this make us friends?"
"I thought we already were."
He smiled. Closed his eyes. Let himself breathe her in — the familiar vanilla scent settling around him like warmth.
He could've fallen asleep right there, in the middle of a crowded park, with her hand in his. But sirens cut through the air — distant but urgent.
He sighed, eyes opening. She opened hers, too.
"Off you go, Spider-Man," she said softly. "You're needed."
She sat up, slipping her hand from his. He stood, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.
"I need to get home," she said. "I need sleep — I've got another shift tonight."
"Take care of yourself," he told her.
"That's my line," she smiled. "I'll see you when I see you."
And she turned, walking away across the grass, curls bouncing, boots treading softly, disappearing into the late afternoon crowd.
He watched her until she vanished…then ran the opposite direction toward the sirens.
~000~000~000~
It was three days later, close to ten o'clock, and Peter was cutting it dangerously close to curfew. He sprinted across rooftops, taking every shortcut he knew so Aunt May wouldn't worry — but passing through the park was unavoidable.
And that was when he heard it.
Sniffling. Soft. Unsteady. And carried on a breeze that swept the scent of vanilla straight into him.
His heart dropped.
All thoughts of making it home on time vanished as he veered off course, shot a web, and dropped silently near the park. He cleared the locked fence in a single leap, landing softly on the grass.
There she was.
Sitting beneath a tree, back pressed against the trunk, knees hugged tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Her face buried in her legs.
He didn't need to see her face to know she was crying. And he didn't need to announce himself to know she knew he was there.
He heard her breath hitch. He heard her heartbeat stutter. He saw her shoulders tense — then slump.
He wished he understood how she always sensed him. But he didn't ask. He knew she wouldn't answer.
Quietly, he reached up and removed his mask. Then he walked to her and lowered himself onto the grass beside her, shoulders brushing. He bent his knees like she had, forearms resting casually on them. They sat in silence — comfortable, heavy, meaningful silence — for what felt like hours but was only minutes.
He waited. He always waited for her.
Finally, she drew in a breath, lifted her head, and looked at him.
She wasn't crying anymore, but her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Cold flushed her cheeks, making the freckles across her nose stand out vividly in the faint lamplight.
"You want to tell me what happened?" he asked gently.
She sniffed, exhaled shakily. "I lost my first patient today," she whispered.
Peter's expression softened instantly.
"It's been nearly a year since I started training," she continued. "I've seen hundreds of patients. And today was the first time I couldn't help." Her voice faltered. "I know not everyone can be saved. I knew that. I thought I was prepared. But… it's different. Knowing something and feeling like you weren't good enough."
"Hey," he said softly, "I'm sure you're great at what you do."
Her mouth twitched. "You don't even know what it is that I do," she pointed out faintly.
"Maybe not," he said, "but you've seen hundreds of patients, and this is the first one you couldn't save. That tells me you are great at your job. And as you said… sometimes it's just not possible. Not everyone can be saved."
Her eyes lowered. "Since becoming Spider-Man… have you lost anyone? Someone you couldn't save?"
He inhaled. Thought about it.
"There've been people I couldn't help," he said slowly. "People, I arrived too late to stop from getting hurt. But… as far as I know, no one's died because of me. Not yet." His jaw tightened. "But I also can't be everywhere at once. That's where the professionals — the emergency services — come in. It's not just me."
"How do I get past this?" she whispered. Vulnerable. Small.
"Maybe focus on the ones you did help," he said gently. "For every one person you couldn't save, there are others you made a difference for. I won't lie — I doubt it ever gets easy. But maybe it gets… manageable. Something you can reflect on instead of drowning in."
He paused.
"Was there anything you did wrong? Anything you missed?"
She shook her head immediately. "No. There was too much damage. The bleeding couldn't be stopped in time."
"Then it wasn't your fault," he said firmly. "You did everything you could."
A breath shuddered out of her.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He studied her face — the exhaustion in her eyes, the heaviness in her posture, the quiet grief pressed into the lines of her mouth.
"You look exhausted," he murmured.
"I feel it," she sighed. "I had another twelve-hour shift, but we were short-staffed, and there was an influx of patients. I had to work overtime. So I've just pulled an eighteen-hour shift."
Peter stared. "How are you even still speaking?"
"A lot of caffeine," she said, tired amusement lacing her words. "But now I need my bed."
"Should you really be working that many hours?" he asked, a crease forming between his brows.
"I have a specific number of hours I need before I'm signed off as fully trained. I took my final exams the day before I moved here — passed with flying colours."
"Alright, smarty pants," he teased. She laughed softly. He loved that sound — he realised that now. "How many hours do you need?"
"Three thousand. Minimum."
His jaw dropped. "Whoa. That's a lot."
"Not really," she smiled. "There are eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours in a year. That's seven hundred and thirty, twelve-hour shifts. But I've been doing a lot of overtime lately. If I do four twelve-hour shifts a week, that's equivalent to one hundred and three days of work. In half a year, I could finish it."
Peter groaned. "I feel a headache coming on."
She chuckled. "I like to plan ahead. I've got less than a hundred hours left — eight more twelve-hour shifts, unless I do overtime again. In two weeks, I should be fully qualified, as long as I pass the review."
He didn't hesitate. "You'll ace it."
"You don't know what I'm capable of. Or what I've learned. Or how smart I am," she said, amused.
"I don't need to," he said simply. "The fact that you can calculate your entire year of shifts off the top of your head, and that you've already helped hundreds of people? Yeah. You're going to ace it."
Her smile softened. "Well… if you have that much faith in me, I suppose I should believe in myself."
"You definitely should."
He pushed himself to his feet and held his hands out to her. She raised an eyebrow.
"You need to get home and sleep," he said gently. "Sitting here and stewing on what happened isn't good for you."
She unfolded her arms and placed her hands into his. He pulled her easily to her feet.
"How'd you even get in here?" he asked.
"Climbed the fence," she said.
He didn't believe her — the fence was high, even for him — but he didn't question it.
He studied her face. The grief was fading, but the exhaustion was etched deep. He hated seeing it.
"Do you need a hug?" he asked softly.
She blinked at him, stunned. "Excuse me?"
"A hug," he repeated awkwardly. "You look like you could use one."
God, he hoped it was dark enough that she couldn't see him blushing.
"I…" she hesitated — then a breathy laugh escaped her. "You know… a hug would be great. It's been a while since I've hugged a friend."
He froze for half a second — then she stepped into him, filling the space, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her forehead pressed to his shoulder. The warmth of her body seeped through his suit, and her vanilla scent wrapped around him, soft and familiar.
He slid his arms around her back — carefully, respectfully. Nothing inappropriate. Just… safe.
Comfort.
He didn't know how long they stood like that — seconds, minutes, too long, not long enough — but he didn't want it to end. Not ever. Something settled in him that he hadn't realised was restless.
When she finally began to pull back, he reluctantly let her go, hands dropping uselessly to his sides.
"Thank you," she murmured. "My mum always said there's nothing a hug and a good cup of tea can't fix."
"Are you going to be alright getting home?" he asked.
"Fine."
"I don't like the idea of you walking home alone."
"Well, I'm never doing…" She lifted her hands and mimed swinging on webs. He snorted. "Ever again. I'll just get a taxi."
"Do you want me to wait with you until—"
"No," she said softly. "It's late. You should go. You're definitely past curfew."
His eyes widened. Oh. Crap.
She chuckled. "Go on. Before you get in trouble."
He tugged his mask back on, ran a few steps, then shot a web and vaulted cleanly over the fence. As he swung into the night, he heard it —
A faint crack.
He didn't look back. He already knew: if he did, she wouldn't be there.
And it was going to kill him, not knowing her secrets.
He made it home in under ten minutes, slipping through his bedroom window with practised ease. He tugged off his mask and exhaled in relief—
—just in time for the bedroom door to swing open and the overhead light to blaze to life.
Aunt May stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression thunderous.
"Hey, May," Peter said weakly, shifting on his feet when her eyes narrowed. "I can explain."
"Oh, you'd better explain," she said, marching into the room. "And it had better be the best explanation in the world, because otherwise you're grounded."
He swallowed.
"Well?" Her foot tapped sharply. "What's your excuse for missing curfew on a school night? Bank robbery? Mugging? Missing cat?"
"I was helping a friend."
"Why would Ned need your help this late?"
"I have more than one friend, May," he muttered. She raised an eyebrow. "…It's a girl."
May straightened just a little — eyebrows climbing high.
"I met her a couple of months ago," he rushed out. "She's British. Just moved here."
Some of the anger melted from her face. She stepped further inside and dropped into the chair at his desk, folding her arms, eyes trained on him. Waiting.
He didn't dare sit; he stayed planted in the middle of the room like someone on trial.
"She helped me," he said. "I… banged my head during a car chase. Passed out on a rooftop. When I woke up, she was there."
"She knows who you are?" May's eyes widened, worry overtaking anger.
"She hasn't told anyone," he said quickly. "She promised she wouldn't — and she's not a liar." He hesitated. "I just… know that."
He kept going before she could object.
"Anyway, she took care of me. I didn't think I'd ever see her again, but then I did. A week later. She was lost, so I took her where she needed to go. We talked. Then she left."
"And?"
"And two weeks after that, I was doing a final sweep before coming home, and I saw her again. A group of drunken guys followed her. I got her out of there. She wasn't thrilled about the swinging." He grimaced. "She hates heights."
May's eyebrow hit its limit.
"Then two weeks after that, I saw her again. At the food truck with the risky burritos." May nodded knowingly. "So I took her for a corn dog. And ice-cream. But she left because she got a message on her pager."
"A pager?" May blinked. "Who still uses pagers?"
"Exactly!" Peter said, exasperated. "Then on Sunday, I was doing errands for you and saw her in the park. We talked. I finally got some info out of her — she's super secretive — but then I had to go stop a car thief. And tonight… I saw her again. In the park. She was upset. And I couldn't leave her."
May's expression softened completely. Concern replaced irritation.
"Why was she upset?"
Peter sat on the edge of his bed, dropping his mask beside him.
"I'm not one hundred percent sure what she actually does — something medical, I think. She's been doing it for almost a year. But she lost her first patient today." His voice softened. "I talked to her. Helped her through it. Then I came home."
May didn't say anything. She just… watched him. Really watched him. It made him squirm more than the anger had.
"This girl — what's her name?" she asked finally.
"Hermione," he said.
"Pretty name." She tilted her head. He nodded. "What do you know about her?"
"Only what she's told me. She's… very secretive." He counted on his fingers. "She's eighteen. Moved here alone. Has a… job she can't tell me about. No family. Her parents died last year."
"Oh, the poor dear," May murmured, shaking her head sadly.
Peter ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know how we keep bumping into each other, but we do. And the more it happens, the more familiar she feels. She's different."
May lifted one eyebrow in that way that said Uh-huh, go on.
"There's something about her I don't understand," he said. "It sets my spidey senses on edge — not danger, just… different."
Her mouth curled slowly. "Is she pretty?"
"What?" he blurted.
"Is she pretty?" she repeated, suppressing a grin.
"I— I— uh—"
"I'll take that as a yes," she said, amused. "Is she the reason you've been so distracted lately?"
He sighed. No point hiding it now. "Yeah."
May's smile grew. "Hmm."
"I don't stop thinking about her," he admitted quietly. "The more time I spend with her, the more I want to know her. She's… intriguing. I feel comfortable around her. Safe. Like I can talk about things I normally can't. She knows my secret, and I don't feel judged. It's… different."
May hummed thoughtfully, studying him with a strange expression — one he didn't trust.
Then she smiled.
"I'd like to meet her."
"Huh?"
"Hermione," she clarified. "I want to meet this new friend of yours. She must be special if she's made this much of an impression on you."
Peter blinked at her, bewildered.
"I don't know when I'll see her again," he said. "Or even if I'll see her again."
"You will," May said with absurd certainty. "And when you do? You ask her to come over for dinner. Find out her favourite food. I'll make it."
"You're acting weird," he accused.
"I'm not," she said innocently. "It's perfectly normal for me to want to meet your new friend."
She got up and headed for the door.
"Now get some sleep. You've got school tomorrow."
She closed the door behind her. Peter stared at it.
"…What the hell just happened?" he muttered.