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geminijade · 6 months

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What Are We?

A/N: a fluffy fic with Jake and Y/N. Some parental angst. Mentions of death. Alcohol consumption. Jake being cocky but also boyfriend material. That man is a warning, mmkay. Enter at your own risk. You and only you are responsible for your reading material. Likes, hearts, comments and reblogs are definitely appreciated ❤ happy reading everyone!!!

Requested? No. This idea has been kicking around in my head for a while and it'll probably flop and I'm ok with that but at least I got it out of my head and down onto paper so to speak. Maybe a part two depending on how well this does and if I'm feeling creative 🤔

You moved to San Diego to be closer to your older sister who was stationed at North Island Naval Air Station. It was under less than ideal circumstances, your parents passing away unexpectedly and your sister Nat came back home to help you with the funerals and selling your parents house and packing everything up. She found the both of you a cute little two bedroom bungalow right on the beach. So while your sister got to hang out with hot pilots all day you got to stay at home and unpack and get the house set up. You decided to just get your room in working order and then try to find a restaurant for lunch and drinks.

You're standing in your room, looking at yourself in the full length mirror. You decided on a cute pair of cut off shorts and a tank top paired with a cute pair of beachy flip flops. The salty ocean air is coming through your second floor bedroom window and you put up light purple breezy curtains. You definitely lucked out and got the best bedroom, all by yourself on the second floor and facing the ocean. You loved waking up with the sound of the ocean waves crashing on the beach and the sun filtering through the gauzy curtains.

You put your still wet hair in a loose braid, grabbed your purse and bounced down the stairs. Giving yourself one last look in the mirror you grabbed your keys and locked the door. You decided to go to The Hard Deck for two simple reasons: your sister said that it was the go to place to see and be seen and it was in walking distance if you decided to have a drink with lunch today. You stepped outside and slid your oversized glasses off your head and onto your nose and took off in the direction of the bar. You made it in about 15 minutes and let yourself into the cool, dark interior of the mostly empty bar.

Penny was behind the bar washing some glasses and Amelia was sitting on the opposite side, notebooks and textbooks spread all over the top of the bar. They both looked up at you as the bell above the door signaled your arrival. They smiled at you and Amelia jumped up and ran to give you a hug. "Y/N! I missed you so much!! I want to come over and help you set up the new place."

You look over at Penny and she shrugs and nods. "I had an idea but you might want to run it past Phoenix first." You slung your arm around Amelia and steered her back towards the bar and sat next to her. "What's your idea, Pen?" She finished what she was doing and made her way towards you. "I thought that we could get the squadron to pitch in and help you out, if you want. "

You mulled it over and at your look of uncertainty Amelia interjected. "Maverick would totally want to pitch in and the others will fall in." At your questioning look Penny filled in the blanks. "Rooster, Hangman, Bob, Fanboy, Payback, Coyote and obviously Phoenix. We'll make it a whole day! It'll be so much fun!!" Amelia clapped with excitement and you couldn't help but smile because of their enthusiasm.

You placed an order for southwestern grilled chicken wrap and a strawberry mojito and sat back down next to Amelia and you two started talking about what you wanted to do while you're here. You didn't consider this place to be home but maybe it could be. You liked the idea of putting roots down and staying in one place for the foreseeable future. Amelia was rambling on about all of the fun things that you could do this summer and you were honestly only half listening to her when the bell above the door signaled the arrival of your sister leading the way with a bunch of ridiculously tall, hot and insanely in shape men. Maverick made his way to the bar and dropped a kiss on Amelia's forehead.

"Hey Pete," you stood up and made your way to where he was standing and he pulled you into a hug. "Hey kiddo, how are you holding up?" You mumbled into his shoulder "I'm ok." You could feel him nod his head and he let you end the hug and watched him greet Penny with a kiss. Amelia rolled her eyes and started making gagging noises but you thought that it was really sweet. You got lost in thought about your last relationship and how long it's been when you heard your sister say "let me introduce you."

You looked up in time to see your sister making her way through the growing crowd and you stood up to meet her half way with a hug. You'd be lost without her and she knows it. Looking over her shoulder you see a group of guys hovering on the outside of the bar. Phoenix follows your gaze and says "this is my backseater Bob," you smile politely and shake the shy man's hand. He's adorable in his glasses and you tell him as much.

A shy smile creeps over his features and you thank him for always having Nat's back. "Always," he said just loud enough for you and Nat to hear him. "I like him," you whispered to Nat. "He's definitely a keeper," she said to you as she bumped shoulders with Bob. She introduced you to the rest of the squadron: Rooster was rocking the deadly combo of 80s pornstache and hawaiian shirt but oddly enough it worked for him and you let him know that.

"Hey Hawaii 5-0, you wanna buy me a drink?" You shouted at Rooster across the bar and he gave you an incredulous look and ambled over to you. "I got you, what you want sweetheart?" You looked up at him and stood on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear. He gave you a cheeky grin and told Penny what you wanted. Penny looked at you and arched her eyebrow and gave you a knowing look. Nat introduced you to the rest of the squad: Fanboy and Payback were too cute for words and Coyote was flying solo.

Phoenix was chatting with Bob and some civilians while you're talking with Rooster and the guys Penny calls out " one screaming orgasm cocktail for Y/N!" You can feel all the eyes on you as a blush crawled up your neck and you heard a texas drawl behind you "someone called my name?" You turned around and almost bumped into the most gorgeous man that you ever saw. Over six feet tall, sandy blond hair and the greenest eyes that you just wanted to get lost in. "Cat got your tongue?" The blond man asked as he winked at you and handed you your drink.

Your fingers briefly touched and the alcohol was giving you liquid courage you took the drink and downed it a few gulps. You glanced over at your sister who was preoccupied with the hottie who was laying it on thick and you suddenly felt flustered and needed some fresh air. He must have sensed that you needed to get out of here because you watched him pay for your drink and let Phoenix know that you'd be with him. You watched as he walked towards you and said " let's get out of here, yeah?" You placed your hand on his chest "whoa cowboy, I don't even know your name. " He grinned down at you and you noticed his dimples for the first time.

"Name's Jake, Sweetheart. What's your name?" You stuck out your hand and introduced yourself. "Y/N Trace." Jake gently took your hand in his and brought it to his lips. "It's nice to meet you, " you said. "The pleasure is all mine, Y/N." You took a page from Jake's book and winked at him. "Not yet but it will be. "

Penny must have noticed the smoldering stare between the two of you. "Get a room you two!!" Your face started to feel warm and Jake pointed to the sign above the bar. Penny looked over her shoulder at the sign and back to you and Jake. "Rules are rules, Pen." With all eyes on Penny, Jake placed his hand on your lower back and led you to the patio where the sun was just starting to set.

You couldn't help but be mesmerized by the different beautiful colors in the sky. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" You asked Jake and you turned to look at him to see if he was watching the sunset but he was watching you. "Definitely stunning. " He noticed you visibly gulp because his eyes were glued to you. "Are we talking about the same thing?"

Jake gave you a shy smile and sheepishly shrugged his shoulders. "I think that what's in front of me is pretty damn beautiful." You felt yourself shiver in the growing darkness but you honestly didn't know if it was because of the cold weather seeping in from the ocean or from Jake's flirty words. Jake noticed you shiver and slipped his black bomber jacket around your shoulders. "You're a charmer, Jake Seresin. "

"Can I take you home, please?" He offered you his arm and you slipped into his jacket and caught the smell of his cologne mixed in with the salty ocean air. You stepped closer to him and linked arms as you took off in the direction of your house. You walked in comfortable silence for a bit, you just wanted to remember this moment. As you turned onto your block and your house came into view you started fumbling with your purse trying to get your keys out. "Here, let me."

Jake whispered quietly as he gently took your purse from you and found your keys and the one labeled home. "Thank you, " you mumbled into his shoulder and he guided you up the stairs and you winced at the motion actived light as Jake unlocked your front door and helped you inside, he held you steady as you slipped off your sandals. He closed the door and locked it behind you. He watched you on unsteady feet as you tried to get upstairs. He was worried that you were going to fall or hurt yourself so he came up behind you and picked you up like you weighed next to nothing.

Your head lolled against his chest and he walked down to the last door on the right and toed it open. He sat you down gently at the foot of your bed and pulled down the covers for you. You smiled up at him lazily and he looked around your room. He walked over to your dresser and opened the top drawer and got a quick glimpse into your panty drawer and slammed it shut. You laughed at the expression on his face and said that your pajamas were in the third drawer, he pulled it open and handed you a pair of booty shorts and a tank top.

You took the clothing from him and went into your closet to change. Jake walked down the hall to the bathroom that he passed on the way and got you a glass of water and some headache medicine. He came back to find you snuggled up under your comforter. You smiled at each other and you made grabby motions for him and he sat down next to you and interlocked your fingers. "Do you want to stay?" Jake leaned over and kissed your forehead.

"As tempting as your offer is I really don't want to deal with your pissed off sister. " You chuckled into your blanket and he stood up and you whined as he let go of your hand. "I don't want this day to end, " you muttered as you fell asleep to Jake whispering "we'll make another one just like it tomorrow. " He quietly made his way out of your room, leaving your door slighty ajar. He was letting himself out of your house as Phoenix was coming up the walkway with her shoes in hand.

The silence was extremely awkward as they passed each other with a nod of acknowledgement. Phoenix turned around to see Jake's back as he walked back towards The Hard Deck where he left his car. "Hurt her and I'll end you, Seresin. Y/N took the passing of our parents really hard and she's vulnerable right now." Jake turned to look at Phoenix and gave her a salute as he turned back around and continued on his way.

The night breeze carried back his words "wouldn't dream of it, boss." Phoenix barely heard his words and it brought a smile to her face. It's all that she wanted for you, for you to be happy and if being with Jake made you happy that's all that matters. Phoenix shut and locked the door and quietly crept into your room. She saw that Jake had helped you change into pajamas and left out water and pain relivers for you.

It helped to put Phoenix at ease about Jake's intentions towards you. She looked down lovingly at you and brushed the hair off of your forehead. She kissed your forehead and pulled the blankets up and around your shoulders. She hoped that you would fall in love with San Diego and stay with her and if Jake helped her out then she was definitely okay with him sticking around.

~fin~ for now😉

@so-she-reads

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liz-allyn · 1 year

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sugar and vice, pt. 6 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: Honey finds out who Peter Parker really is.

words: 9.6 k

warning: mob-typical violence. whump. hurt/comfort. descriptions of violence. coersion. kidnapping. blood. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships.

this is a darker, messier version of TASM Peter.

18+. you’re responsible for your own content consumption. but that being said, if you can't remember how people watched videos online before youtube, you probably shouldn't continue.

Back to Part 5.

Part 6

When Peter approached Honey’s bedroom, he paused for a moment outside. Staring at the closed door, he tried to listen intently, but could not hear her heartbeat coming from the other side. An immediate uneasiness rattled his nerves. It climbed up his throat from his chest, and he swallowed reflexively.

She was gone. Again.

...you stupid fucking fool of course she left, why would she ever stay with you?...

He felt his heartbeat rising. His breaths got shorter with every draw

...alone again that’s all you’ll ever be until you die can’t come fast enough...

Deep breaths. In and out. The moment his nostrils flared, a warm, crisp, vibrant fragrance found him. Caramel and sugar browned by heat.

Coffee.

His other senses came online as he heard the patter of her feet on the floor below. And her heartbeat, clear as a bell. The sound soothed him, as it always did. A rhythm so unique to her it was like a signature. A kiss.

There she is, the kinder voice in his head reassured him. He closed his eyes, centering himself. Kicked his negative thoughts away, angrily cursing himself for having them. Another deep breath softened his features.

When he reached the first floor of his mountain retreat, he looked across the great room to see Honey in a familiar form. Nothing like the frightened shell she had been the past couple of days. She swiftly danced around his kitchen, graceful like a ballerina. She deftly dodged splatters from a pan of bacon, as if she could miraculously move between them, while she stirred a sizzling skillet of buttery eggs.

He curled a brow as his nostrils read him the menu. Omelettes, he deduced. Something of the Southwestern variety, the aromas of diced peppers, onions, and jack cheese weaved together like music.

He allowed himself to be still and just watch. She was still wearing the wrinkled clothes from yesterday—

Why hadn’t she changed? Did she know about the other clothes? What if she didn’t like anything—

He watched, like he was the only member in the audience—How was she so good at that—making it seem like he was the only man left in the world. She’s just... so... so good...

“Oh!” she yelped as she turned and laid eyes on him for the first time. He blinked stiffly, bashful and regretful at having intruded on her privacy. “Geez, you scared me!” she exclaimed.

He winced at that.

A nervous chuckle rolled off her tongue, regaining her composure. The sound of her laughter relieved him. He saw her shake her head good-naturedly, somehow amused. It was as confusing as much as it lifted a weight off of his chest.

“I didn’t hear you come in here,” she blushed. “You’re like a cat, you’re so quiet. You’re way too tall to be that quiet. You need to stomp more. Or wear tap shoes. Or a bell.”

Nervously, she laughed again, turning the heat off on the gas stove. She looked back up at him with a eager face, presenting the skillet of impressive omelets.

“Uhm... I made eggs. I didn’t know what you usually eat, ‘cos you never ordered any food when you’d come in, so I wasn’t sure, but then I remembered yesterday you made eggs and bacon and even ate a little, so I figured, um, omelettes and bacon...”

She was nervous, but not scared. It was that high-energy manner of speaking, where she’d tell him a story, except this time she was in his home and was craftfully moving an omelette onto one of his plates with a spatula.

His heart ached at the sight.

“Can’t go wrong with that...” she rambled on, “unless you’ve got a pepper allergy? That would be dumb, though. Who has a pepper allergy?” Then, she added, nervously, “Not that you’re dumb! Food allergies aren’t dumb. They’re no joke. Very, very serious—”

“Shouldn’a done that,” Peter muttered under his breath, as he shook his head. He dropped his eyes to the floor, visibly agitated. He heard her heart skip. When he glanced back up, she looked pallid, her brilliant smile sinking like a torpedoed ship.

“I-I-I’m sorry...” she delicately whimpered. Her body language shifted drastically. She nearly curled up on herself, although she was unsure why. “Were you... saving these eggs?”

Peter’s eyes widened, horrified at the appearance that he was somehow rejecting her kindness. He groaned, slapping his palms down his face and across his beard. Paced, anxious like a lion trapped in a cage.

“No, no, no, no, no, no,” he babbled, distressed. In a blink he was across the kitchen, rounding the island, rushing up to her with hands extended.

This time when she flinched, it was unquestionably from fear.

He stopped cold, dunked in a tub full of ice. It snapped his heart in half. He snatched his hands back, a painful expression on his face. For a brief moment, he squeezed his palms tight enough to hurt, then let his arms fall gently to his sides. He fixed his saddened gaze on the tiles at his feet.

She stayed frozen in place, her heart thrumming away, as he cursed his inability to speak. He struggled to find words, as if they spoke separate languages.

Christ, have you truly forgotten how to talk to anyone?

Peter cleared his throat, his voice barely above a whisper. “I, uh, what I meant was... uhm... you didn’t hafta do all this,” he sheepishly explained. “You... I, uh, I-I—”

He choked on his words, feeling like his throat was tightening up. He placed a hand on his chest, and he felt the drum pounding beneath his ribs.

He was visibly struggling, flailing as he drowned in an ocean of fear. Glancing up at her timidly at every other word. “I—I’m...”

I’m sorry. I’m a lunatic. I’m so sorry. I’m so insecure. I’m desperate. I’m afraid of losing you. I’m so, so sorry. I’m an asshole. I’m a coward. I’m so scared that you’ll get hurt. I can’t let you get hurt. I would never hurt you. I’d rather die than hurt you. I’m so sorry I scared you. I’m broken. I’m a monster. I’m so, so sorry.

“It’s more than I deserve.” His voice broke on the last word. The puny sound made him wince, and he ripped his gaze from her. He studied the floor, desperately willing his eyes to stop burning.

She was silent.

And in his mind he shuddered to think about the million horrible things—loser, pathetic, stupid, disgusting little freak—she could think of him.

“Want some coffee?” she asked, derailing the train off the tracks. “I made some.”

His eyes found hers. Her expression was warm. Generous. He was stunned, in a familiar way. She never stopped surprising him. She turned back towards the espresso machine on the counter and carefully passed him a steaming latte. A heart expertly painted with foam on the surface.

His eyes burned again as he considered the shape and how there was so much more than his heart in her hands. Peter took the mug.

“Thank you,” he said, barely more than a whisper.

They sat across from each other at the kitchen bar, eating mostly in silence. He tried not spend the majority of the time staring at her like a weirdo, but was mostly unsuccessful. She was hungry, ravenous even. He berated himself for not considering how hungry she must have been. He should’ve cooked for her.

He needed to do better. He would do better.

The omelet was delicious, even if the edges were browned a bit. Every bite was a savory morsel. He made a good show of trying to eat, despite the lack of appetite.

It wasn’t that Peter wasn’t hungry. He was always hungry, especially after nights like the previous one. He just couldn’t stomach anything. He was grateful that at least the coffee staved off the pain of his hunger. For now.

She glanced over and caught him staring at her with a glazed over expression. He locked up instantly, the tips of his ears turning pink. Blushing, they both looked away, and he panicked—fuckfuckfucksaysomethingsaysomething—

“Smells good,” he muttered, before forcing a giant forkful into his mouth.

...idiot...

Her lip curved upwards, amused. “Yeah? Does it taste as good as it smells?”

“Yes,” he nodded his head too forcefully, nearly choking on the eggs. He could feel something in his stomach threatening to push the food back up. With effort, he tried to reassure her his awkwardness wasn’t because he didn’t appreciate her cooking. It was because he was a dork.

“No, yes. Yes, yes. It’s— it tastes good. Great. It’s… um…”

Delicious. Delectable. Tasty. Scrumptious. Mouthwatering. Finger-licking good.

“And, I mean, you—you’re, um—”

Lovely. Beautiful. Benevolent. An Angel. A goddess. Worthy of worship. Worth dying for.

“It’s good,” he said, wincing. Snapped his mouth closed.

She nodded, his discomfort only adding to hers. Cleared her throat awkwardly. “Thanks.”

She paused for just a moment, then words came spilling out, “Did you know that brown eggs aren’t any healthier than white eggs? They’re just brown. There’s no added nutritional value, and of course, they charge you more for them because they look more…granola…”

The energy ran out of her sentence, confidence fading rapidly. “Everyone knows that, I guess. That’s not new… or remotely interesting.” She tucked the rest of her thoughts deep under her breath. She was dangling now in the world’s most awkward conversation.

“It’s my fault, what happened yesterday,” Peter announced, launching into a confessional. “I’m-I’m ashamed of myself.”

She froze. Blinking like a deer in the headlights.

He exhaled, his heart heavy. “I panicked,” he said, disappointedly. “I got angry. I blew up. And… those aren’t excuses. I’m not tryin’—” Peter pulled his gaze away, trying to steel himself while burning his retinas on the sunlight reflecting off of the windows in the kitchen. “There’s no excuse,” he affirmed. “I was wrong to treat you like that. I’m sorry.”

Her expression softened as she read his. The remorse weighed heavily on his face, pinching his brow. The lack of confidence melted years off of his face. Even with the scruffy beard, lightly salted by a handful of gray hairs, he looked like a boy with wrinkles at the corners of his puppy dog eyes.

It was unfair of him to look that soft. It’s part of why she was in this situation in the first place.

“It’s just…” Peter added, delicately, subconsciously leaning in her direction, “you gotta understand... that you’re in danger. I don’t want you to get hurt. I can’t have you get hurt. I can protect you, and I will. With every breath in me, I will, but you gotta trust me—”

“You say that like I know what you’re talking about,” she responded with a withering tone. Her frustration reared its head again as she pleaded desperately. “Like I know what you’re involved in or what’s going on. All I know is these weirdos pulled me off the subway and then I woke up to guns firing like it’s D-Day, and… I’m scared, alright? And I don’t even know who I should be scared of. I’m... in the dark!”

He sighed, “I’m trying to protect you.”

“You say that, but you expect me to just trust you? At what? Your word?” She fixed him with a hard gaze that pierced him. Peter had survived bullets and beatings and it was her mere disappointment that disarmed him. “What is your word supposed to mean to me? I didn’t even know your real name until two days ago—”

“I told you, it’s Ben—”

“I don’t care what you tell yourself. I don’t know you.”

“Alright,” he huffed, dropping his arms off the table and holding them open. “Then ask me. Ask me about me. Anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Who is Peter Parker?”

He paused, biting down hard on his jaw. A look came across his face akin to stepping on a nail. With a crease in his brow, he glanced away. Ruefully, Peter replied, “Please don’t ask me about what I do.” He glanced down at his nearly-full plate with a stomach full of regret. “You can ask me about anything else. But the less you know, the better.”

“Because,” she pushed, considering him like trying to solve an equation, “you’re like... in a gang?”

“What? No.”

“Yes, you are. You’re a gang member. You’re... a gang leader. You’re the leader of a gang.”

“It’s not a gang.”

“It’s gang-like. Gang-adjacent. What would you call it? The mafia? The mob? Is that even a thing that still exists outside of Reality TV?” Peter exhaled, his head falling back. “You’re at war with a rival gang. Who is it?” She paused, struggling to remember a word through the fog of her brain. “You said a name the other night,” she pondered aloud. “What was it? Something like... Fis—”

“Don’t,” Peter snapped like a whip.

She glanced up at him to see his demeanor completely change. Eyes gone cold as ice.

His voice trembled, with fear or anger, she wasn’t sure. “We don’t say his name.”

The gravity of his tone gave her pause. It was as if she’d invoked the name of Satan himself. Or...

“Why can’t I say his name?” she shot back, irritated. “What is he, Voldemort?”

He chuckled humorlessly. “Worse.”

She paused, considering this information. There was a quiet rage interred within his tone. Something haunted. Cursed. Perhaps it was the Devil.

“He goes by Kingpin,” Peter explained, the word souring his stomach further.

“What is it with you and nicknames?” she deflected with a bratty tone. “Like ‘Honey.’ Why do you call me that?”

Peter’s eyes found hers again, warmer now. There was a flicker in them as his lip curled in a half smirk. “You don’t like it?” he questioned, pinning her with a devilish half-smile. “Funny, I kinda thought you did.”

She looked away, shuffling uncomfortably in her seat. “You thought I liked that you don’t know my real name?” she accused challengingly, avoiding his gaze.

“Of course I know your name,” he stated sincerely, an unquestionable devotion thickening his voice. It was almost as if he was offended that she would assume otherwise. Peter raised one brow, teasingly, “And you didn’t answer my question.”

Her heart began to race. “You didn’t answer mine.”

He considered her silently, studying her stubbornly-drawn line in the sand. His smile dropped into a pit of melancholy, eyes clouding. He sipped on the espresso drink. There was bitterness on his tongue, but not from the latte. “Real names are tricky in my line of work,” he admitted. “Dangerous if the wrong person hears them.”

She weighed the logic in his response, realizing that there wasn’t room to argue. But she carved out a space, regardless. “What if I don’t like ‘Honey’?”

His lips pulled back to reveal a devastatingly lethal smile. “Okay,” he played along, feeling like they were back in the coffee shop. They had shifted so effortlessly into the playful banter that had been the crowned jewel of so many mornings with her. “What do you want me to call you then?”

A long pause fell between them. She crossed her arms. Kept her face solid as rock. “Ma’am,” she shot back. “Or miss.”

He blinked at her.

Every following word tumbled from her mouth with the grace of a newborn calf. “Madam... Jane… Bond.” Her mouth kept moving, despite the lack of a plan. “Agent Jane Bond. From the... MI... B. The MIB.”

He stared at her incredulously. She matched his staring contest with an awkwardly overconfident glare that suggested she was clearly ‘winging it.’ The silence weighed heavily in the room.

“That’s fake,” he blurted dismissively, shaking his head.

“Says you.”

He chuckled, “That’s awful.”

“No, it’s not...awful. It's an alias.”

“It sounds fake.”

“Ben Reilly sounds fake,” she sneered, slightly offended. His smile dimmed a bit, but not at her childish antics. “It’s dumb. It’s a dumb, made-up name—”

“Benjamin is my middle name,” he softly revealed. “It was my Uncle’s name. Reilly was my Aunt’s maiden name.” His voice deepened, a little more grit to his words. “Your name is Honey, because I say it is.”

The heated resolve of his voice reverberated in the air. It simmered on the heat of his mounting frustration.

This time, she kept her mouth shut, breaking eye contact and focusing on her nearly-empty plate. He observed the distress on her face and frowned. As if he needed another reason to hold more contempt for himself.

After a few moments, he let out a long sigh. “I am more than just a name,” Peter declared, gently this time. “I’m more than my job.”

She met his eyes again to find him gazing at her with an earnest expression. “I’m no more a... gangster,” he stumbled over the ridiculousness of the word, “than you are a ‘coffee girl.’”

She stayed silent, considering his position.

“You can live off of assumptions all you want. But if you want to know what kinda man I am, just ask,” he said, closing his argument.

She stared. Reading every inch of his face. The warm whiskey hue of his eyes. It was as if she had x-ray vision and could see beneath his skin. It took all of his will power not to squirm.

Studying him with a microscopic gaze, she asked, “What’s your favorite movie?”

He furrowed his brow. Wondered if he heard her right. “What?”

“What’s your favorite movie?” she repeated, her tone steel.

Peter blinked, blindsided. “Are you… are you trollin’ me or somethin’—?“

“You’re asking me to make an important character judgment with practically nothing to go on,” she spoke quietly and evenly, glaring daggers at him. He squirmed beneath her skewering gaze. “Now, it’s not a hard question. And the longer you avoid it, the more suspicious I become of your psyche. Now answer the question. What. Is. Your. Favorite. Movie?”

His shoulders went up to his ears, flabbergasted. “Do I even get a genre, or—?”

“Favorite movie! First thing that comes to mind.”

“Uh… um—”

“Don’t think! Just answer!”

“The Sandlot!”

Her brows practically touched her hairline. “The Sandlot?!” she repeated, almost in disbelief. “That’s your favorite movie?”

“Yeah!” he yelped, defensively. “It... It was! I mean, it is… a favorite. One of them.”

It was almost comical how he leaned back in his chair, shrinking away from the scrutiny of her gaze.

He babbled nervously, “I-I watched it so many times as a kid, I wore out the tape and it got stuck in Uncle Ben’s VCR.”

She quirked a brow, and he was puzzled as to why he felt the need to share that bit of information. But then, he just kept going.

“It’s-it’s a great film,” he declared, more confidently. “A great, coming-of-age film. With the-the one kid who doesn’t know anything about baseball, but he ends up becoming friends with the popular kid who’s really good at baseball. And he loses the ball signed by Babe Ruth… And the scary, giant dog that drools all over that’s actually a nice dog, and the old guy that owns him is also nice—”

“—award-winning actor James Earl Jones,” she admonished. “Darth Vader. Or Mufasa, if you prefer.“

“I-I genuinely did not remember that,” he replied, “but-but now that I do, I-I have even more respect for the movie, thank you—“

It was a hilarious sight, Peter thought. If only the criminal underworld could witness the most fearsome gangster in New York... shrinking under the accusatory glare of the woman across the table. Timidly defending his blustering thesis on a kids movie from the 90s.

Her eyes burned him. Glared at him, hard. He felt like an insect being trapped in the deathray of a magnifying glass. And then she burst into a fit of giggles. He pulled his head back, trying and failing to read her reaction.

“Your favorite movie is The Sandlot,” she heaved with laughter, tears budding in the corners of her eyes.

His brow shot up. “What’s wrong with that?” he said, flustered. “You told me to name the first movie I could think of so I named the first—there’s nothing wrong with liking The Sandlot!”

“No, no, of course not,” she sighed, breathlessly. “No, Sandlot’s really good! I just thought you were gonna go with something basic... like The Godfather.”

He cocked his head. Now he was offended. Slightly. “The Godfather is one of the greatest—”

“Greatest movies of all time,” she finished his sentence, rolling her eyes teasingly. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard. It’s great. But is it really anyone’s favorite?” She punctuated her question with a high-pitched tone of skepticism. “Like, really?” Her eyes glittered, smile beaming.

His lips curved up at the sight. A reflex. “It’s... a favorite—”

“No, it’s not,” she shook her head, good-naturedly. “It’s no one’s favorite. Everyone just says that it is.”

“Okay, Miss Movie Expert,” he snickered with a teasing tone. “What’s your favorite movie, then?”

“Oh,” she answered, without hesitation, “Goonies. Of course.”

“The Goonies?” Now he was on the offense.

“Duh.”

“The Goonies is basically The Sandlot in the woods.”

“It’s not even close. They’re nothing alike.”

“They’re similar,” he argued objectively. “That’s your favorite movie?”

“Well, only recently.” Her sweet voice melted over him like caramel. “When I was a kid it was Space Jam.”

Peter was taken aback. “What?!” He erupted into laughter. “Space Jam? How old were you when your favorite movie was Space Jam?”

She didn’t even blink. “Twenty-five.”

He snorted as a grin spread across her lips. Had he been sipping coffee at that moment, it would’ve embarrassingly shot out of his nostrils.

“What?” she jested, still grinning. “I went through a very serious basketball phase!”

He unsuccessfully attempted to conceal his laughter, chuckling into his palms. “But you’re... so... tiny...” he giggled affectionately.

“Really?” she scoffed, with mock offense. “Short jokes? What—did you play basketball?”

He leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. Shrugged shyly, charm dripping from a coy smirk. “Eh... a little.”

“Were you on a team?”

“Nah, not coordinated enough. Really the only thing I could do well was skate.”

“Figure skate?” Her eyes lit up, comically wide.

“No! What?” Wrinkles bloomed from the corners of his eyes. “A skateboard!”

She narrowed her eyes, impressed, and it ignited a fire beneath his face. “You were a skater boy? Or were you a sk8er boi? Like with the number eight?”

“I skated, yes—”

“You wore Vans slip-ons?”

“I own Vans slip-ons,” he affirmed, nodding his head, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Somewhere. From back then.”

Her laughter bloomed in his chest. He could’ve died a happy man to hear it.

A couple of hours later, they were walking side-by-side. She was freshly showered, wearing a simple cotton zip-up and jeans she’d retrieved from the duffle bag from Peter’s other place. Peter looked clean and crisp in a polo, hands shoved into the pockets of sharply-tailored khaki trousers.

They took a leisurely stroll around the property via a flagstone-paved pathway. It rounded through towering pine, maple, and oak trees, just feet away from the cabin. It twisted alongside moss-covered fallen trees and granite boulders worn down from mountains a million years ago. Her questions flowed now, trickling out like the nearby river. Like with every step, her mind was inspired to travel somewhere new.

Can you play any instruments?

What’s your Zodiac sign and do you agree with it?

What’s the last TV show you binged?

It was exhilarating to listen to. Exhausting, but only in an adventurous way.

“What’s your favorite color?” She’d hit him with that just as he approached an old log railing leftover from the property’s original owners. They had come to a natural stop, and he half-sat on the rail, arms crossed.

She hopped up and perched on the opposite railing in a way that made him nervous, but only slightly. He was in arm’s reach of her. He would catch her before she could fall. Always.

“Red,” he answered without much thought. She hummed with an understanding nod. “Yours?” he asked behind a shy smile.

“Space.”

He curled a brow. “So... black?”

“No, silly,” she admonished warmly. “Not the absence of light. I’m talking about the full-color spectrum of creation.” She waxed on, like Plato describing Utopia. “It’s pure. Primordial. Something so beyond human capability that it can barely be named, much less understood and appreciated.”

He admired her, even as he countered studiously, “Well, they can. Be named. A mixture of raw elements broken down into 90-percent hydrogen, 9-ish-percent helium and any combination of smaller heavy metals—”

“Eww,” she grinned, staring through slitted eyes. “Nerd.”

“If you could take any animal and shrink it to the size of a housecat and keep it as a pet, what would you choose?”

By the late afternoon, they were back inside, both lounging across from each other on opposite ends of a contemporary, neutral sectional in the great room.

He stared into the distance with narrowed eyes, deep in contemplation. “Do I have to shrink it?” he asked. “Can I make it bigger?”

She tilted her head, intrigued. “Go on.”

“Chikunia bilde.”

“A whatiya building?”

He slyly smirked, the action itself a sin. “It’s a type of spider,” Peter explained. “They’re only in Indonesia. It’s the world’s friendliest spider.”

Her eyes bugged out of her skull. “You want to make a spider the size of a housecat and keep it in your house? As a pet? What is wrong with you?”

“Hey! Spiders get a bad rap,” he defended. He sounded sensitive about it in a curious way that pulled a smile from her lips.

“They’re so hairy!” she winced.

“Not this one. It looks like a Hershey’s kiss walking around on stilts with giant googley eyes.”

She tried to draw the picture in her mind. “Well... that sounds... cute... weirdly.”

She gave it more thought, then sprang back to life. “I would pick a giraffe.” He grinned over at her, listening for her explanation. “Did you know that giraffes can’t lift their feet more than a foot off the ground because they’re afraid of falling? I feel that. Hashtag giraffacts.”

“You sympathize with a giraffe?”

“Every time I wear heels,” she said, grimly. A crease formed between her brows, and he wanted to plant his lips there. He gazed at her in quiet admiration.

After hours of talking about a million trivial things, he’d learned so much. He’d taken a bite from the Tree of Knowledge. He had seen the light. He knew the truth.

He was smitten. Badly so. Every time he looked at her, he felt like he was on fire, and every time she looked at him, he wanted to melt. Third-degree burns.

“Wait a minute,” she shot him a glare. “Was that another backhanded short joke?”

Blazing. Brighter than the Sun.

“Course not,” he feigned innocence. “And even if it was, it went right over your head.”

She chucked a pillow at him. “You’re a menace.”

“S’what my friends say,” Peter shrugged coolly.

She looked over at him, capturing the toasted caramel of his eyes. Licked her lips subconsciously. The sight of it made his abs clench, like going over the peak of a rollercoaster.

“What else do they say?” she questioned. Her heart was beating faster.

Peter glanced at the clock for a moment, smirk never fading. “You’re gonna get a chance to ask them yourself. Soon.”

She quirked her brow in response. “Are you throwing a party?”

“Not exactly,” he muttered with an amused chuckle. A flush of pink tinged his cheeks. “If I tried to throw a party with these guys, things would go south real quick. Regrets all around.”

To anyone listening, their rapport had evolved in just a few hours. It sounded like they were old friends, shooting the shit on a lazy afternoon. Their conversation flowed like a river, bending and shifting with the landscape, instead of against it.

It was disarming to her. They sat across the giant living room, which by all accounts, could’ve easily housed several smaller living rooms. But they were so much closer than they had been when the day started.

Perhaps it was the playful way he’d answer her questions, like he was trying to match wits and make her laugh. And the sound of his laughter was just as mesmerizing.

It felt like playing. Maybe it was foolish of her, but she liked playing with him. She wondered how many other people got to see this part of him.

“Regrets or Re-grats?” she snorted softly. Held her nose, trying unsuccessfully to extinguish the embarrassing sound.

Judging by his glowing grin, it seemed like he enjoyed it. “Both. Definitely both.”

“Ooh—okay, there’s a good question,” she crooned as fuzziness clouded her senses up, building in her breast. She had to peel her eyes away from his. The amber hue of his irises made her feel like a schoolgirl, especially whenever he smiled like that. “What’s your biggest regret?”

She waited, trying to hold her face steady, but her cheeks were starting to hurt from grinning like a fool. And she waited. And waited. No response. She looked over at him, and her smile dropped.

Peter was still sitting in the same spot, but he was also somewhere else. Somewhere hostile. Brow furrowed, face firm as stone, mouth twisted as if he’d swallowed something bitter. He wasn’t looking at her anymore. Whoever he was looking at was getting his full ire. The gold of his eyes had gone cold, replaced with blackened storm clouds.

Her stomach turned as she realized what had happened: her stupid question hit a nerve. Of course it would. Who even asks something so personal like that—would you shut up for 5 minutes, always with the questions, you never stop!—and now that she had—stupid, nosy little brat, you’ve ruined everything—it was too late.

Peter came to an abrupt stand, his spine straightening rigidly. Reflexively, she sat up at attention, looking up at him from the couch. She felt so small compared to him.

Her ‘friend’ was gone again. Her captor was back.

“Go back to your room,” he suggested, with an order hiding underneath. She dipped her chin for some reason, anxiously searching for sympathy on his face from beneath her brows. He refused to look at her. Tugged on the edge of his shirt. Cleared his throat. “We’ll have company soon. You can come out when they get here, if ya want. Maybe put on somethin’ nice.”

She glanced down at her casual attire—the hoodie and jeans—and suddenly, she felt so homely. Unruly and unkempt—would it kill you to brush your hair, you look like some wild Indian girl. Is that who I raised you to be?

She thumbed her palm, wanting to apologize. Wanting to say anything, but he didn’t give her the chance. After his flippant remark, he strode off, marching up the stairs to attend to something more important.

A few hours later, she emerged from her room hearing voices other than Peter’s. She gripped the banister tightly as she carefully descended the stairs wearing wedge-heeled, suede boots that rested just below her knee. She tugged down the hem of the form-fitting, cashmere turtleneck dress. It took all of her will not to continually tug on the neck, which felt like a collar choking her. She didn’t look like herself at all. A vampy black-on-black look. She felt ridiculous. And itchy.

She loathed turtlenecks, but of the options she’d arrived with, her only other nice blouse was the shirt dirtied by yesterday’s tree-climbing adventure. For some reason beyond her understanding, the idea of embarrassing Peter by looking like that dirty kid from the Peanuts cartoon was mortifying.

It was ridiculous, really. Infuriatingly so.

She was a kidnapping victim, for Christsakes. Why did it matter what she looked like? Why did she care what he thought?

Why did she spend an hour doing her makeup, then debating whether she should wear jeans and a camisole, and how much boob is too much boob? and maybe she could do laundry—there’s gotta be a laundry room—and fuck it, I’m wearing sweatpants—before finally settling on dress she wore. As if it wasn’t one of three options.

She wore a timid look at the bottom of the steps. It was the winter formal all over again, and she was without a date. Except around her was a small group of mobsters. About fifteen of them, in total.

The group of mostly men clamoured on, chatting with occasionally raucous peaks. People were milling about the living room and dining area. Some faces she recognized. A couple of them leaned over a pool table, cue in hand, lining up their shots—wait, she hadn’t even noticed the pool table?

Everyone had a drink in hand. But Peter had been right—this didn’t feel like a celebration.

Instead, there was an air of tension hanging over the group. Everyone on edge. Every entrance blocked by men who weren’t socializing like the others. Guards, she assumed. Probably with guns. The thought of sneaking out the door while everyone was distracted vanished. She took another step forward, approaching the crowd from the staircase.

A dip in conversation caught her attention. Some faces looked her in her direction with blaring silence, eyeing her in a way that made her want to scamper back up the stairs. She didn’t belong here. Perhaps they were thinking the same thing. She kept her eyes down, until she spotted Peter entering the room.

He looked absolutely lethal. Devastatingly handsome. Wearing a designer straight-fit jacket with a notched collar and wide, fluid trousers, both in midnight-black and moonlight-silver pinstriped wool. His collared, matte-black silk shirt had the top buttons unfastened, revealing a contrast of pale skin past his collarbone. His lambskin black leather boots were glossed to a high shine, the pointed toe peaking out beneath the width of the pants leg.

As she took him in, one question rang in her mind: where the fuck was he going dressed like that? The next question was why was her mouth watering, and could anyone notice?

Before she thought too hard about it, his eyes were on her. Whiskey-gold, entranced, and hungry. She felt heat creep up her back.

Blushing, she looked away as he breezed up to her, stopping just barely out of arm’s reach. She felt dizzy, the skin beneath the turtleneck prickling with sweat.

“You, uh...” Peter began, his tone shy, “you look... amazing.”

Butterflies fluttered in her belly, and she wanted nothing more than to crush them beneath her foot. “Thanks,” she swallowed hard. She tried to avoid eye contact, because him looking at her made her weaker, and she couldn’t afford to forget what he was.

Who was he again?

“I thought you said you weren’t having a party.” Her tone was calm, coquettish.

“Uh, yeah, um,” Peter glanced around, as if remembering the room was full of people. “These, uh... these people work with me.”

She lifted a brow. “You have co-workers in your gang?”

“It’s not a—” he bit off, flinching. “It’s... complicated.”

“The gang or the co-workers?”

“They work for me,” Peter clarified. “I trust them with my life.” He swallowed hard, glancing down at his feet, then back up at her. There was that boyish look that contrasted so much with who he was trying to be. “You said you wanted to know about Peter Parker,” he added. “These are the right people to ask.”

She watched him, intrigued. Fascinacion meeting confusion. He was hot and cold. Darkness and light. Wide open and closed shut. Right now, he was trying to open up. He looked nervous, despite the confidence he exuded when he walked into the room.

A chilly draft breezed in, as they both turned towards the source. Breathlessly, Miles strolled in with a giant backpack slung over his shoulder. Her tension lifted as she recognized the teen’s friendly face. He walked up to them, gripping the bulging bag tight.

“Miles,” Peter said curiously, sounding surprised to see him.

“Hi, sorry I’m late I got caught up inna thing is the food here?” All of the words came flooding out at once, in between winded breaths.

“You’re supposed to be back home,” Peter admonished. He sounded... parental, almost.

“Yeah, I just... need some help with somethin’. Real quick.” Miles began with sheepish eyes, lifting the backpack over his shoulder. Peter tilted his head, letting his shoulders slump. He looked disappointed. Honey glanced back between the two men curiously.

“When’s the test?” Peter sighed.

Miles said with a wince, “Um... now?”

“Now?” Peter exclaimed.

Miles glanced at his watch, “I mean, now until... 11:59pm.”

“Miles!” he groaned. “Again?”

“Okay, I know what you’re gonna say,” the teenager replied, “and I really wanna hear you out because it is all valid, but... we’ve only got like 57 minutes to talk this out before time is up.”

“Talk what out?” Peter sighed, planting his hands on his hips.

Miles dug his hand into his backpack, pulling out his laptop in one fluid yank. He popped open the lid, opening the screen up to a jumble of letters and numbers in a web browser. Peter huffed as he glanced at the screen and the timer steadily counting down. Full ‘disappointed dad’ face.

Miles took a deep breath, and began, “Okay, so obtaining equilibrium in the decomposition of ammonia...”

That was the first thing Honey learned about Peter Parker: He was smart. Really smart.

“Kind of a bookworm type, ya know? He’s got a big brain.”

That summary came from a tall, loud-mouthed, blonde with a million-dollar smile, who was way too handsome to be in crime. Unless being handsome was the crime.

The only unattractive thing about him was that he obviously knew he was attractive. Dripping with a flirtatious charm that bordered on cocky, he leaned back on the edge of the pool table. His biceps bulged from a t-shirt that was two sizes too small.

He’d been fast-talking Honey’s ear off since he saw her standing alone, people-watching from the sidelines. She would’ve been flattered if he didn’t remind her of every frat guy morphed together at once. Like a Frat-kenstien.

She heard Miguel refer to him as “Torchy.” She had asked for his name, and when he told her it was Johnny Storm she scoffed to herself, rolling her eyes. As far as aliases go, his was the fakest-sounding name of all.

“I mean, not the biggest in the room,” he snickered. “I’ve seen bigger.” Honey blinked a few times, wondering is this guy seriously making a dick joke right now.

“You sure you don’t want one?” he asked. He reached over and offered a shot glass filled with a double-pour of amber liquid. She glanced down at the glass with a frown, the spicy cinnamon scent stinging her nostrils.

“No, thanks,” Honey replied, polite. “It’s a little early for Fireball.”

“Early? It’s past 11, party girl,” he laughed. He put the glass to his lips and downed it in a gulp like a seasoned pro. She winced as she watched, amazed that the burn didn’t phase him. “You like to stay up late, huh?” he questioned, his breath coming out hot like fire.

“So what did you mean when you said it ‘ran in Peter’s family’?” she asked, much to his disappointment. “How long have you known Peter? Are you best friends? Do you know his family?”

“Uh, no... Haven’t known him that long. Only a couple years,” he answered. His body seemed to relax, as if he was sucking in the whole time and he let himself deflate. “And no, I didn’t meet ‘em. Read about ‘em though. His dad was some crazy smart scientist. And uh, yeah... I guess genius runs in the family.”

“As for the other thing,” Johnny added, thoughtfully, “I don’t think Peter has any best friends.”

It wasn’t unkind, the way he said it. But the answer was painful to process. It fit in with the portrait she was beginning to paint. Then, she considered his earlier response. “Was?” Honey asked. “His dad was a genius?”

That was the next thing she learned: Peter was an orphan.

“It’s a dark tale,” another man with a solemn face explained. Honey had noticed him sitting by himself, hunched over the bar. He seemed older than the others, with long facial features and a sharp hooked nose poking out from the brim of a black fedora. He hadn’t bothered to remove the black duster jacket the whole time.

She’d asked for his name too, but she got another stupid codename: Noir.

“What happened?” Honey asked, morbidly intrigued.

“I’d tell you,” he said, grimly, “but I’d have to kill you.” She stared at him, face twisted in confusion. Without looking in her direction, Noir stood from the bar, taking his glass of whiskey, and breezed off.

Getting answers about Peter Parker was proving more difficult than asking Peter for details directly. She sighed, knowing she needed to pivot. So she continued the line of questioning that yielded the most success.

“If Peter was a tree—?”

“Yes,” Honey replied, repeating her earlier question. “What kind of tree would he be?” She stood with two other men—Miguel O’Hara, and a dark-skinned, lanky man with an East London accent sporting a mohawk fade.

The Brit with the distressed denim vest adorned in pins and patches glanced at Miguel, who silently pondered the question. “What kinda bonkers question is‘at?” he said, although with his accent it sounded more garbled.

Miguel kept his arms crossed in front of his chest, debating quietly. A smirk settled on his face. He gave her his answer. “A weeping willow.”

“Maple tree,” the one called Eddie answered, his mouth stuffed full of chocolate cupcake. Honey stood with him in the corner of the kitchen next to the refrigerator. He’d been alone since he arrived, keeping to himself and pretending not to notice the dirty looks the others gave him. Honey noticed.

She also noticed that no cupcakes were served. Didn’t recall seeing any in the refrigerator, either.

“Hmm...” She pondered his response and also—did this guy just bring a cupcake for himself, who does that, is he diabetic? “Interesting,” she replied, straight-faced.

“Maple, because he’s gotta sweet tooth,” Eddie explained, licking buttercream frosting from his fingers. “I’ve seen it.”

“Apple tree.” Felicia sounded confident in her answer.

Standing near a temperature-controlled wine case, which of course encompassed the entire wall, Honey watched her pop the cork on a bottle of Dom Perignon. She helped herself, plucking the rose gold foil-wrapped bottle from the top rack. Honey caught a glimpse at the vintage year on the label. The bottle was older than she was.

“Want some?” Without waiting for a reply, Felicia poured the champagne into a crystal flute and handed it over, before pouring one for herself.

“Oh, uh…” Honey considered protesting, but it was too late. She watched Felicia down her glass. “Apple, huh? What makes you say that?”

Felicia gave her a sly look. “Have you seen his ass?”

Honey choked on the bubbles of her drink, her face flushing with embarrassment.

Felicia grinned salaciously, “I mean, doesn’t it just, y’know... kinda make you wanna take a bite out of it?” She hopped up on the counter, crossed her thighs while she poured herself another glass.

“Um, I, uh—” Honey timidly stuttered.

She was used to Nasrin’s crude wisecracks making her blush, but this was turning her red. She glanced across the room to see Peter still tucked away in a corner with Miles as he explained advanced chemistry in under seven minutes. She couldn’t help but recall the prurient memory of Peter, dripping wet in the shower that morning.

‘Apple’ really was a good description. Honey attempted to brush the guilty look off her face, but Felicia saw it and ran with it.

“Yeah, I see you,” she teased with a smirk. “See, it’s the pants.” Honey glanced over at her curiously, before the silver-haired woman explained. “Tailoring is a must. If only you coulda seen him when I met him. All baggy, wrinkled t-shirts and skinny jeans with holes. Not an ounce of style. He thought Saint Laurent was an actual saint! If I hadn’t intervened, he’d still look like some sort of homeless hipster. I practically saved his life.”

Both women were staring now, sizing him up from across the room. Honey found their blatant objectification disgusting. Sorta.

“He’s certainly learned a few things, but most of his wardrobe inspiration came from me,” Felicia added, an air of pride in her voice. She took a sip, savoring it this time. “We did a whole Pretty Woman montage and everything. ‘Cept, he was the hooker and I was the one with the black card.”

“Oh,” she replied, the thought hitting her like a truck. “Then are you… and Peter…um... Are you—?” She let the words taper off, feigning mild curiosity. In reality, she went rigid at the thought of Peter being with another woman. A gorgeous woman. A tall, gorgeous woman. What was that? Jealousy?

“What?” Felicia didn’t mince words. “Are we fucking?” She barked out a laugh. “Oh, god no,” Honey cracked an amused smile, trying to hide her relief. Why was she so relieved? “I mean… he’s cute,” she went on, “but... sorta in an annoying little brother way?”

Honey sneaked another glance over at Peter, imagining what his younger self must have looked like. Was he as shy and awkward as she was in high school?

“Well, his idea of Casual Friday has certainly elevated,” Honey bitterly grumbled, recalling his snarky comment about her outfit.

“Ugh, he’s a man. A Leo man. If I had to guess, it’s probably more of a pride thing,” Felicia shrugged thoughtfully. “It’s called power dressing for a reason.”

Honey watched Felicia’s eyes drift down her dress, sizing her up. She blushed at the attention. “It’s important to acknowledge our assets,” the silver-haired vixen clinked her glass against hers. It was a strange sort of camaraderie. “They can be handy tools when you need ‘em. Believe me, sweetie, an ass like yours in that dress, I’m sure Petey will fall right in line.”

Honey flushed with embarrassment. “I, uh... I wasn’t trying... to— It’s not like.... I don’t even like turtlenecks.”

“So why dontcha wear something else? It’s not like you don’t have options.”

“What are you talking about? What options?”

When she looked back at Felicia, the woman was staring at her incredulously. She snorted and burst into laughter, forced to hold her nose.

Honey watched her struggle to regain her composure. “What’s so funny?”

Felicia pulled herself together, shaking her head apologetically. “Did Peter not even tell you about the clothes? All that stuff in the closet?”

She shuddered uncomfortably, recalling that she borrowed a pair of hiking boots the day before. “I don’t know who that stuff belongs to,” she explained. “I can’t just… wear someone else’s underwear...”

The woman’s expertly microbladed brows shifted high. “Oh, Honey,” Felicia shook her head, using the same term of endearment that Peter used. “You think those clothes belong to someone else? He bought them for you.”

Honey blinked at her, her brain struggling to catch up. The giant walk-in closet in the guest room. The shelves of shoes in every style. In her size.

“I don’t know what idea you had about Petey,” Felicia smirked, “but that underwear is yours, sweetie.”

Whatever came next in the conversation, Honey couldn’t keep up. Her mind kept drifting back to the same place. He’d bought her a wardrobe. He’d bought her those shoes.

That’s the next thing she learned about Peter: he had no intention of letting her go.

At some point, the conversation died down. The small crowd began to shuffle out of the common space. Honey placed her emptied champagne glass on the kitchen bar. As she turned to follow the crowd, Peter appeared, blocking her path.

She tensed, coming face-to-face with him. He noticed .

“I, uh... have some business to attend to,” Peter explained. He sounded apologetic. She looked over his shoulder to see the room nearly empty. “I want you to hang out here with Miles.”

She looked over to see the teenager posted up at the dining table, tapping away on his keyboard. It wasn’t like he needed help, or a babysitter— His true intention struck her. She was the one being watched. Bitterly, her eyes flicked back to Peter. She crossed her arms, visibly annoyed, but didn’t bother to argue. It was useless anyway.

A smile formed on his lips. “Good girl.”

A chill crawled down her spine. She was powerless against it. He shouldn’t make her react that way. She shouldn’t react that way.

Peter hesitated a moment more, eyeing her quietly. She had the uncomfortable feeling she was being read. He then stepped away. She watched him disappear into a different wing of the house.

Again, it was just her and Miles. With a huff, she retrieved her champagne flute again, and gave herself a generous pour of the expensive champagne.

She brought the glass to her lips, rueing her situation and every choice in her life leading up to that point. The tapping ceased as Miles jumped to his feet excitedly.

“Done!” he cheered, with a celebratory fist pump in the air. “Woooo. Take that, AP Chemistry!” He shuffled his feet, wiggling out a happy dance, then abruptly stopped.

“Gotta pee,” Miles announced, eyes suddenly panicked. Urgently, he rushed off towards the nearest bathroom. Honey couldn’t help but chuckle at the interaction, hearing the door slam. She shook her head, amused, glancing around at the empty room.

Her eyes settled on Miles’ laptop. Left open. Unattended.

Honey glanced out of the windows into the darkness outside. Wherever the guards had gone, they were out of sight. She struggled indecisively, anxiously glancing around. Heart pounding, she set her glass down and darted over to the open laptop.

To her delight, it was unlocked. She glanced warily at the still-closed bathroom door. She pulled up a new tab in the web browser.

What was she even doing? This was wrong. She was betraying Peter’s trust.

She had to get out of there. Needed to communicate with someone, and fast. Was 911 an option online?

Pulled up a search bar, typing “New York City police” with the keyboard and hitting the search button. The first results came up. Her eyes froze, fixed on two photos on the screen. Women that she recognized as her co-workers.

She was confused. Her mind was spinning. She clicked on the images, bringing up the full-page news article. Words swam in front of her and her skin felt clammy. She felt nauseous. She read the headline over and over.

Confused. Mistaken.

She read the headline again. The one directly over the photos. The photos of the kind faces she saw just a couple of days ago. The women she knew.

POLICE ASK FOR PUBLIC’S HELP: NO SUSPECTS IN BRUTAL MIDTOWN SLAYINGS - Mayor: No rest until ‘savage’ killers are captured

She scrolled down. Looked at their faces. Looked at the headline. Her eyes were ahead, but her mind was far behind.

Eighteen months in the past, as she’s shaking Nasrin’s hand, and spends the rest of the afternoon learning that she’s a pre-med student, and she has two little brothers that annoy her, and her mother worries too much about her.

Four weeks ago, she’s looking up at Leyla as she calmly helps her mop up a gallon of knocked over milk, joking that there’s no use crying over it. Except that Honey actually wants to cry because this motherlike woman is so kind and positive about it, and Honey isn’t used to anyone reacting that way when she made mistake.

Her eyes are reading words that don’t correlate. Words like ‘murder’ and ‘arson’ and ‘stabbing.’ There’s a photo of the coffee shop that looks just like the one she works at, except it’s barely recognizable. It’s a charred, burned-out skeleton of a frame.

There’s a picture forming in Honey’s head as she puts the pieces together. Two innocent women were murdered, viciously. Cruelly. Without mercy. Stabbed to death, and their bodies further desecrated and then burned beyond recognition. Ensuring that no one would see their faces again.

There were shocked reactions from the community. Funerals planned. Flowers and a candlelight vigil.

And all of it had happened because of her.

Hands were gripping her forearms. Her face was cold. Wet with tears. She was freezing cold.

Honey was shrieking at the top of her lungs, unable to recall when she had begun. Shaking uncontrollably.

She howled and bawled, muttering incoherently nonononononono through heaving sobs.

There was a woman holding her up. It was Felicia. The entire room was full again. Men on high alert, stirred into action at the sound of her panicked screams. Miles stood nearby, looking blindsided. Panicked. Regretful.

He was saying something—just left her for a minute, I didn’t know—and he sounded desperate. There’s a voice barking back at him. It’s Peter’s.

“Everybody out!” Peter snapped, his voice booming like thunder.

Miguel answered, tension and impatience thinning his tone, “Parker, we still have unfinished business to sort out—”

“I said everybody out!” he roared, eyes flashing, black as coal. The whole room fell silent. “Now!”

Without further hesitation, Peter’s men shifted and filed out of the exits. Soon, only Miles and Felicia remained.

Miles was at the end of Peter’s razor-sharp gaze. “Go home.” His voice was a bit calmer, but no less cold. The teenager looked like a kicked puppy. He gathered his laptop and his backpack and slinked out of sight.

Peter then turned to Felicia, who was still gripping Honey by the shoulders. She sat with her on the couch, trying to keep the hysterical woman upright.

“That means you, too,” he firmly ordered.

Felicia shook her head, the young woman’s cries having cut her deep. Maybe it was a memory that struck too close to home. “Just give the girl a minute, will ya, Pete?” she snapped with frustration.

Peter’s voice dropped lower, as did the temperature of the room. “Out, Felicia. Now.”

The timbre of his voice was piercing. A silent scream. Felicia glanced up at him, stunned. Unnerved. He glared right back, blood pumping with rage. The darkness tinting his eyes made him unrecognizable. Even to her.

Reluctantly—bitterly—she released her hold on Honey’s arms. She stared at her boss with a flicker of defiance, a subtle warning. Then she stormed off, her heels clicking like a shrill drum.

They were alone. Peter took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through his nose. His eyes softened as they rested on her. She looked at him, feeling tiny in his towering gaze. He looked like a god looming over her. And she hated him for it.

“I’m sorry,” Peter began gently. “Tried to keep you from the news. Didn’t want you to find out this—”

“Fuck you!” Honey roared, cutting him off. She jumped to her feet, her voice shattering like glass. For a moment, he thought she’d attack him. A lionness on the defense. He pictured her leaping onto his head and digging claws and fangs into his flesh.

Hot tears spilled tracks of mascara down her cheeks. She vibrated with rage. She was a trembling, trashed, snotty mess and all she wanted was to inflict pain. “You killed them!”

“I didn’t,” Peter quickly replied, keeping his voice calm. Slowly approached. He held his hands away from his body, inching closer towards her. “I didn’t, I swear—“

“I don’t believe you!”

“It was Kingpin,” Peter explained, placating in soothing tones. “I thought once I rescued you, he’d regroup. He didn’t. He sent his men to your shop the next morning. By the time we got there, it was too late—”

“Shut up!” she growled, tugging at her hair as she tried to cover her ears. “Shut up! Shut up! I don’t wanna hear it! I don’t care! You killed them! They didn’t do anything— they’re not a part of—you-you fucking did this! This is all your fault!”

“I know,” he whispered. His voice was thick with heartbreak. “I know.”

“You know?” she cried lividly. Her tone was sharp enough to amputate limbs. “You know?!”

Her eyes were glowing with fury. He knew that look. The desperate, consuming sort of rage where all you want is hell on earth.

“I know exactly who you are, Peter Parker!” She spat out each syllable like rotten fruit. Like poison. “You’re a goddamn curse!”

His lashes fluttered in the heat waves coming off of her. His jaw clenched.

“You’re a cancer! A fucking plague! You’ve destroyed my entire fucking life! Fucking monster! You’ve ruined everything!”

He stood still. Gazing down at her. Eyes soft. Mournful. Holy. She wanted to rip them from his skull. To gauge them out with her thumbs.

“What the fuck did I do to deserve you?” she hissed, frustrated by her inability to exact the violence she craved. Upset by the injustice she could not avenge. “Tell me—what did I do? Fucking asshole! You ruin everything you touch!”

Peter bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, keeping his face solemn and pliant. It wasn't lack of remorse. He simply refused to fight back. And it infuriated her further.

“You should be the one that they killed! Not them!”

The faintest twitch ghosted across his face. He swallowed it up, pushing it down. She relished in the sight of his pain.

It wasn’t enough.

“I wish you were dead! You hear me? I wish you’d fucking burn! I hate you! I fucking hate you!”

It still wasn’t enough.

She brought her hand up and struck him across the cheek. It made the inside of her palm sting. The burn flowed through her fingers and left a red mark, like rattlesnake venom poisoning his face. Her heart thrummed at the thought.

She pulled her hand back. Took another shot. She felt confounding relief and agony at the sensation of her fingers slamming into his cheek. She tightened her palm into a fist. Did it again. And again, each blow landing heavier, taking more out of her.

She felt her fingernails slice through his skin, leaving a bloody red gash within his beard. Peter left his eyelids closed this time, as if lost in a dream somewhere. A nightmare. Absorbing the pain. Letting it sink into his bones.

The sight of his blood just made her imagine the mutilated bodies of her friends. Innocent women. Now he bled, like them.

It wasn’t enough.

She brought her fist down again, but this time on his shoulder. She repeated with the other fist, hammering it down on his chest. Her lungs were burning, sweat beading at her brow. She beat on him like she was attempting to break down a door. Each swing drawing out her energy. Draining out her soul.

“It’s your fault, it’s your fault your fault your fault,” she repeated like a prayer until it was no more than a broken whimper.

Fists sore, she could feel them already starting to bruise. Her biceps were on fire. Acid tears streaming down her cheeks.

Peter stood there. His face scratched up. Hair disheveled. His eyes glimmering with unshed tears. It was ridiculous of him, looking like some sort of innocent fawn. Watching her without judgment. Silently participating in the beating. It was offensive.

She was so furious she could barely breathe. Could barely stand. Until finally, she wasn’t. Her knees buckled beneath her. Threw her weight down through her arms, bringing both fists down in a final, exhausted blow.

Peter caught her before she fell. She collapsed in his arms and he slowly sank with her down to the floor. He held her like that. No more words were spoken between them. They both let each other just be.

A crude mirror-image of one another.