𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤

A Wish Come True

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → Emotional vulnerability, grief, mentions of Aunt May's death, loneliness, past trauma, superhero violence references, implied sexual history, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst.

Summary → Peter Parker deserves a sweet birthday surprise.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★

The morning air carries that crisp, pre-dawn chill that usually belongs only to milkmen, insomniacs, and late-night vigilantes. At 5:48 AM, the streets of Queens are muted under a blanket of pastel violet and soft gray fog, the distant rumble of the subway providing a rhythmic beat against the quiet houses.

You balance the heavy cardboard bakery box carefully on one arm, guarding the precious cargo inside with your entire body. In your other hand is a tote bag, emitting a warm, buttery aroma that has been making your mouth water since you took the cookies out of the oven at four in the morning.

Balancing a homemade layer cake topped with delicate chocolate frosting and two dozen fresh chocolate chip cookies, you stepped into the elevator.

Today is August 10th.
Today, Peter Parker turns twenty-three.

You ride the smooth, silent elevator up to the top floor of his building. You step out into the hallway and head down to the very end, sliding your key into the lock of his top-floor studio.

It's cheap because of an old asbestos issue the landlord had to fix, but for Peter, it's a goldmine. The tall, slanted attic ceiling gives him plenty of room, and the spacious layout fits his entire life.

Inside, the apartment smells faintly of stale coffee, cheap laundry detergent, and the unmistakable scent that lingers on Spider-Man's suit after a night of swinging through skyscraper smog.

You set your bag and the cake box down on his clutter-cleared kitchen table, taking a slow breath.

Looking around the studio, your chest aches with a familiar warmth. For four long years-ever since Doctor Strange's spell erased Peter Parker from the world's memory-this boy carried absolute, heartbreaking isolation on his shoulders. He didn't give MJ the letter he wrote her. He let her and Ned to move on, go to MIT, and build a normal, happy existence.

For four years, Peter convinced himself that total anonymity was the price he had to pay to keep the people he loved safe.

And then, eight months ago, he met you.

The memory of the night he confessed everything still sits vividly in the front of your mind.

It was three months into your relationship-a relationship that had started slowly, built on shared late-night coffee shop run ins, quiet giggles over terrible cheap pizza, and the undeniable magnetic pull between two people who just understood each other's silence.
You had made love for the first time in this very apartment, wrapped in scratchy bedsheets that Peter had apologized for at least six times. Afterwards, while the moonlight traced the contours of his incredibly broad shoulders and bruised ribs, Peter had completely broken down.

The dam had burst. He was vulnerable, spent, trembling against your chest as the weight of his secret finally crushed his defenses. He spilled everything in a hushed, breathless rush-the spider bite, Aunt May, the Avengers, the Multiverse, the spell, and the haunting choice to walk away from MJ and Ned so they could live without fear.

"I'm Spider-Man," he had choked out that night, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his fingers gripping your waist like a drowning man clutching a lifeline. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't tell you sooner. If you walk out that door right now, I'll understand. Everyone leaves eventually."