Ardent [PETER PARKER]

ONE

ONE.

THE SATURDAY MORNING train to Queens had a strange way of suspending time.

Even the air seemed to resist the ticking clock. It hung around Will, damp and stale and smelling of copper. Through the scratched windows, she could see a blur of fluorescent lights as they hurtled past. She was sitting with her hands tucked under her thighs out of habit; she felt every tremble of the subway under her palms, pressed flat against the plastic seat.

Will brought her knees closer as the subway skidded around a corner with a shuddering, grating noise and the people in front of her bumped against her legs. She watched the way they surrendered themselves to the steady rhythm of the train. Even though they swayed from side to side, no one moved from their positions clutching handrails or slumped in seats. The passengers of the Saturday morning train had never seemed so calm and detached, frozen in a moment a world away from her.

But Will felt them.

It was faint, but she could still feel the echo of their emotions, like a current underwater. It crept up her neck and slid into her brain, making it ache with the familiar weight of grief and jealousy and love. Her knuckles pressed into her thighs as her hands curled into fists under her legs.

A world of human emotion is an unfairly immense burden for a fifteen year old girl, Will thought. And so is sitting next to a man who snores when he sleeps.

Her father was half leaning on the plastic seat, half leaning on her shoulder, and was getting dangerously close to drooling on her. He had fallen asleep somewhere in Brooklyn and had started snoring near Williamsburg.

"Dad," she said, nudging him with her shoulder.

When he didn't stir, she pushed her shoulder into his harder. "Dad."

She received an even louder snore in response. Will rolled her eyes. She grabbed the newspaper that lay in between them and swatted the top of his balding head. Her father jerked awake with a snort, eyes wide.

Adrian Toomes groaned and dragged a hand over his face, the fog of sleep slowly lifting. When his eyes landed on Will and the newspaper clutched in her fist, he glared at her.

"I was having a great dream and you ruined it," he grumbled.

"A great dream, huh? What was it about? Not having to gum your food?"

He reached out to flick the side of her head. "I'm not that old!"

"Uh oh!" she said in a mock Australian accent, dodging his hand. "He's angry! He's angry!"

Her father managed to poke the back of her head, although she barely felt it through her mass of curls.

"I thought we agreed no Crocodile Dundee impressions before noon."