“Are you ever going to tell Peter? Or are you going to wait for him…” He asked, avoiding my gaze. The question hung in the air, a familiar weight. + 

“Well, first of all, no, and second of all, no, because he’s never going to like me back.” I crossed my arms, trying to appear nonchalant, but the tremor in my voice betrayed my anxiety. + 

“W-what? How would you know?” His voice was laced with disbelief. He’d always been my confidante, but his naivete was sometimes infuriating. + 

I shot him an annoyed look. “Peterson! I’ve told you for months that he likes my best friend, not me.” A small laugh escaped me, brittle and hollow. The image of *her* and Peter, laughing together, burned behind my eyes. + 

“Y-yeah, I recall that! But what if he doesn’t like your best friend?” He persisted, his brow furrowed in concern. He meant well, but he didn't understand. + 

“Well, by the looks of it, he does.” I stopped pacing, turning to face him fully. I needed to distract, to deflect. “So when are you going to take your mask off and show me who you are?” The question was pointed, a challenge. He always hid behind a carefully constructed façade. + 

“When you confess to Peter.” His response was immediate, a sly smile playing on his lips. He was mirroring my own tactics, refusing to reveal his hand until I showed mine. + 

The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken desires and fears. I could feel my pulse quicken, my palms sweat. + 

“You complete me, Peterson Parker.” The words slipped out before I could stop them, a confession of sorts, a desperate plea for connection. + 