Peter was still staring at his phone screen — Harry flashing across it — when he reached for it without thinking.
His phone was sitting on the bed.
He was sitting in his desk chair, a solid six feet away.
He reached anyway, some instinct further ahead of his conscious mind, fingers curling toward it out of pure habit — Thwip.
A thin, pale strand shot from his wrist, too fast to track, and struck the phone dead center.
Before Peter could even process what had happened, his hand jerked back on reflex and the phone came flying across the room, yanked off the bed on an invisible line, straight into his open palm.
He froze completely, phone clutched in his hand, still ringing.
“…What,” he breathed.
He turned his wrist over slowly, staring at unmarked skin — no device, no mechanism, nothing that explained what he’d just watched happen.
There was no time to process it.
Harry’s name was still glowing on the screen, three rings deep.
Peter shoved the impossible aside for later — there was already a growing list — and answered.
“Hey,” he said, aiming for casual and mostly failing.
“Sorry, I meant to call you back sooner.” “Dude.” Harry’s voice came through thin and tired, none of his usual easy charm behind it.
“You’re alive.
Actually alive.
I was starting to think you fell into another building.” “I’m okay,” Peter said, and meant it more than he expected to.
“Banged up, but okay.
How’s everyone?
Is anyone—” “Everyone’s fine.
Physically, anyway.” A pause, heavier than it should have been.
“It’s just me at school today.
My dad wouldn’t let me stay home — you know how he is, Oscorp’s still standing, life goes on, whatever.
Gwen, MJ, Felicia — none of them came in.” Peter’s stomach tightened.
“None of them?” “None of them,” Harry said again, quieter.
“I don’t think anyone really slept.” There was something worn down in Harry’s voice, something that didn’t sound like him at all — no jokes, no easy deflection, just tired.
Peter sat with it a moment, feeling the weight of it settle somewhere in his chest.
“Harry, I’m sorry,” he said.
“For scaring everyone.
For all of it.” “You don’t have to apologize to me,” Harry said.
“You pulled people out of a burning building, man.
I just—” He exhaled hard.
“I just watched you disappear under a ceiling.
I don’t think I’m gonna forget that for a while.” They talked a little longer — nothing heavy, just enough to feel normal again, Harry cracking one small joke about Peter finally missing a test he hadn’t studied for.
It helped, a little.
By the time they hung up, Peter felt steadier than he had all morning.
He didn’t waste time before calling MJ.
She picked up on the second ring.
“You’ve got some nerve,” she said immediately, no hello, her voice tight and sharp in a way that told him exactly how much she meant it.
“You know that?
Some nerve, calling me like everything’s fine.” “MJ—” “No, I get to talk first.
You threw yourself under a building, Peter.
I watched you disappear.
I thought—” Her voice cracked, and she stopped, took a breath, started again, steadier but no less furious.
“I didn’t know if you were alive.
For like twenty minutes, I genuinely didn’t know.” “I’m sorry,” Peter said quietly, and let her have the silence after it instead of filling it.
MJ exhaled slowly on the other end.
“I’m not mad you saved people.
I’m mad you didn’t think about what happens to the rest of us if you don’t make it back up.” Her voice softened, just slightly, worn thin at the edges.
“You don’t get to just decide you’re expendable, Peter.
That’s not — that’s not a decision you get to make alone.” “I hear you,” he said, and this time it landed differently, sitting heavier in his chest than the first apology had.
“I really do.
I’m not gonna pretend I wouldn’t do it again.
But I hear you.” “Yeah, well.” A long pause.
“Just — be more careful.
Please.” “I will.” “You’d better.” Her voice cracked slightly at the edges, softer now.
“I’m glad you’re okay, Peter.” “Me too.” Gwen’s call went almost the same way — quieter, more measured, but no less pointed.
She didn’t raise her voice the way MJ had; instead her anger came out organized, methodical, exactly like her.
“You didn’t even hesitate,” she said.
“I watched you not even hesitate.” “There wasn’t time to hesitate.” “There’s always a half-second, Peter.
Everyone has a half-second where they could choose not to run toward the falling building.
You didn’t take yours.” Her voice wavered, just barely, the crack in her composure more telling than anything else.
“I catalog things.
I plan for outcomes.
I couldn’t plan for that one and it terrified me.” “I’m sorry, Gwen.” “I know you’d do it again,” she said, and it wasn’t really a question.
“I looked it up, actually.
Survivor guilt in bystanders who witness near-fatal accidents.
I made myself a whole reading list last night instead of sleeping.” A tired, humorless laugh.
“That’s how I cope, apparently.” “That sounds like you,” Peter said gently.
“Just don’t die, okay?
I don’t have a contingency plan for that.” “Okay,” Peter said.
“I promise.” He hesitated a long moment before calling Felicia, phone warm in his palm, replaying the sound of her voice screaming his name through rubble he could still feel pressing on his back if he thought about it too long.
The call rang once.
Twice.
Then went to voicemail.
A few seconds later, his phone buzzed with a text instead.
Felicia: 4pm.
The usual place.
That was it.
No punctuation beyond the period, no explanation, nothing that told him what he was walking into.
Peter stared at the screen for a long moment.
The usual place meant the small café three blocks from school — booth in the back corner, the one with the crack running down the vinyl seat that Felicia always complained about and never let them move away from.
Their spot, for study sessions that usually devolved into everything except studying.
Peter checked the time.
A little after three.
He had an hour.
An hour, he thought, glancing down at his own hands, remembering the drawer that had come apart in his grip that morning, the phone that had flown across his room on a thread he hadn’t known he could make.
Not nearly enough time to understand any of this.
But maybe enough to not accidentally hurt anyone at a café table.
He went downstairs, grabbing his jacket off the hook by the door.
May looked up from the couch immediately, concern flickering across her face.
“Going somewhere?” “Just meeting up with everyone,” Peter said, keeping his voice light.
“Wanted to see them in person, you know?
After everything.” May’s brow furrowed, worry plain on her face.
“Is that a good idea?
You only just woke up yesterday, Peter, and you were—” “I feel fine, May.
Really.” He offered her a reassuring smile, and meant it as much as he could.
“I just need to see them.
I won’t be out long.” She studied him a moment longer, the way she always did when she was deciding whether to push further, then sighed and nodded.
“Okay.
Text me if you need anything.
Anything at all.” “I will.
Promise.” Outside, instead of heading toward the café, Peter turned the opposite direction — toward the old warehouse district two streets over, a route so familiar his feet found it without thinking.
The abandoned warehouse had been his place for years, ever since he was small — a place he used to slip away to after his parents died, back when the house still felt too loud with silence and he needed somewhere to just sit and not be looked at.
Rusted machinery sat frozen mid-motion, dust thick over everything, sunlight cutting weak and gray through broken skylights above.
He hadn’t been back in a long time.
It felt strangely right that this was where he ended up now.
Peter stood in the center of the open floor and took a slow breath.
Not testing limits, he reminded himself, echoing the same careful, deliberate logic he’d used on the wood that morning.
Just — getting familiar.
One thing at a time.
He started small.
He pressed his palm flat against a rusted support beam and let himself climb, slow and controlled, feeling out exactly how much pressure his hands needed before letting go — surprised at how naturally his fingers seemed to know, adjusting themselves without him consciously willing it.
He hung upside down from a crossbeam for a full minute, just breathing, just letting his body adjust to a world turned sideways.
He practiced the web next — aiming carefully at an old barrel across the room, feeling for whatever instinct had fired earlier without thinking.
It took him a dozen failed attempts, nothing but a faint prickling sensation at his wrist, before a thin white strand finally shot free and struck true, and he nearly whooped out loud from sheer disbelief.
He tested his strength against a stack of crates, pushing gently, gently, then a little more, watching wood splinter under hands that used to struggle carrying his own backpack.
By the time forty-five minutes had passed, Peter didn’t feel like he understood any of it.
But he felt, at least, like he wouldn’t accidentally break a coffee mug just by picking it up.
He checked the time, brushed the dust off his jacket as best he could, and made his way toward the cafe.
The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped inside, warm light and the smell of coffee wrapping around him, achingly ordinary after the hour he’d just spent.
And there she was.
Felicia sat in their usual back booth, platinum hair loose over her shoulders, dressed simply in a black top and jeans, an untouched cup of coffee sitting in front of her.
She wasn’t looking at her phone, wasn’t looking at anything in particular — just staring at the door, like she’d been watching it the entire time she’d been waiting.
The moment Peter stepped through, her eyes locked onto his.
He froze for half a second under that look, every ounce of the confidence he’d built up in the warehouse evaporating instantly.
Oh boy, Peter thought, swallowing hard as he made his way toward the table.
She looks mad.
R.I.P – Peter