Well. That was a waste of time.
I'm on the subway, heading back home. Alone. Somehow even more than when I went.
The lights overhead flickered, probably spelling the word 'LOSER' in morse code. And the whole car reeked of greasy food, wet coats, and something vaguely human but unidentifiable.
Perfect setting for some A-tier self-loathing.
I mean… technically, it wasn't a total loss. Now Matt Murdock—Daredevil—knows about Cletus. That's something. That's huge, actually.
Matt's the failsafe.
But yeah—he's definitely not gonna want to see me again. Ever.
I kinda hoped I'd be more than just the messenger. Thought that maybe—if I came off as halfway decent—he'd see something in me. Potential, grit, I don't know. That maybe he'll train me, you know? Like some Mr. Miyagi shit.
Guess I blew that door straight off its hinges.
Now he probably just sees a dumbass kid who pokes bears and calls it bravery.
Awesome.
I lean my head back against the dirty subway glass. The rumble of the train vibrates through my skull, echoing behind my eyes. I let them close.
---
I don't want to go home. I can't be alone tonight. Not with my own thoughts. Not with Cletus whispering from the back of my skull. Mocking me at every reflection I pass.
My fingers hover over my phone for a few seconds. And then texted Peter.
> Yo
> Can I crash at your place?
> I'll buy pizza on the way there. Please.
I stare at the message. It looks pathetic. Feels desperate. And maybe it is. But I don't care.
I just want to feel human again. Not a screwup.
---
I didn't even have to wait long.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzed.
> Uh… yeah, I think so?
> Hold on—lemme ask Aunt May and Uncle Ben.
> Don't buy the pizza yet!!
I could practically hear the anxiety through the texts.
Another pause.
Then—
> Okay. You're good. Just, don't be weird, okay?
> Also Uncle Ben says he wants to meet you for stepping up to me the other day.
> Which probably means interrogation over dinner. Sorry.
> And May's making tea. You can't say no to tea.
> It's a house rule.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Somewhere between the stress of tonight and the wreckage in my head, I almost forgot what it felt like to be invited in.
I tapped out a reply with tired thumbs and a spark of something less awful in my chest.
> Got it.
> I'll behave. Not gonna be weird.
> On my way.
> What kind of pizza?
A beat later, he texted back.
> Pepperoni.
> Don't you dare put pineapple on it Wade, or our friendship is over.
I snorted and shoved my phone into my pocket, finally pushing myself upright. My spine popped straight as I stood up from the hard subway seat, joints stiff like they'd forgotten what comfort was.
It had been a long day.
But at least I didn't have to end it alone.
Pizza and a conversation sounded like a pretty good deal.
Maybe I'd even sleep without dreaming of fire.
---
The city's still buzzing into my tired ears. Car lights bleed into puddles like melted neon, and the occasional honk cuts through the air like a reminder that New York never really sleeps.
It's getting darker by the minute as I stand dead last in line at the pizza place.
The place wasn't fancy—Black and white cracked tiles, faded menus, a sticky spot here and there—but there was something comforting about it. It's honest. Feels like the kind of place you crawl onto when the world's kicked your teeth in and you need something greasy to remind you you're still alive.
It smells like melted cheese and toasted crust. The good kind—the kind that makes you forget your problems for three whole bites.
Somewhere behind the counter, a busted old radio hums out some old school rock. Feels like something a dad would listen to while fixing a car he'll never finish.
The man making the pizzas looks like he walked straight out of a comic book. Aviator sunglasses indoors, snow-white hair slicked back with style to spare, a mustache so confident it bordered on legendary. And that smile—easy, lived-in, like he'd seen everything this city had to offer and still thought the whole damn mess was kinda funny.
"Rough night?" he asks when I finally get to the front. Voice smooth, warm. Familiar somehow. Like an uncle you only meet at family barbecues, but he remembers your name anyway.
"Something like that" I mumble, rubbing the back of my neck. "One large pepperoni."
He chuckles, already reaching for the dough. "That's how you know a kid's got good taste."
For a moment, I forget about Cletus. About the fire and the ugly weight in my chest.
It's just me, and the smell of good pizza, and this weirdly cool old man tossing dough like it's second nature.
Maybe this city isn't all teeth.
Maybe—just for tonight—it lets me breathe.
The smell of melting cheese, the soft clatter of the oven door, the distant hum of tired rock music from a dusty speaker—it all made the world feel just a little less sharp around the edges.
And maybe it was the exhaustion, but with no one else in the shop and the man behind the counter radiating that weird, familiar warmth. I found the faucet that is my mouth fully open.
"Hey Sir… can I ask you something?"
He didn't look up right away. Just slide the pizza onto the paddle with a practiced hand. "Sure, kid" he said, his voice gravelly but gentle. "Long as it's not about a discount."
I gave a weak laugh. "Nah. If the pizza is good is worth the price."
He chuckled, finally glancing my way over the rims of those awesome sunglasses.
"How do you do it?" I asked, quieter now. "Just… look around and still smile. With all the crap going on out there—violence, crime, good people getting hurt—how can you be so… I dunno. Okay?"
He leaned an elbow on the counter like he had all the time in the world, as if that oven wasn't ticking behind him.
"Well..." he said, thinking. "Lotta folks spend their lives waiting for the world to get better."
He pulled out a pizza cutter and started slicing. "But lemme tell you a secret, kid… the world's always been a mess. Doesn't mean you can't find something good in the middle of it. A hot slice, a good friend, a night without rain. Doesn't gotta be big."
He slid the box across the counter. "You don't smile because everything's perfect. You smile because sometimes, it's not… and you're still here anyway."
I stared at the pizza. Then at him. "Are you some kind of philosopher or something?"
"Nah." he said with a grin. "Just a guy who likes pizza. That'll be twelve bucks."
I handed him the cash, and he handed me the box like it was something sacred.
"Take care of yourself, kid" he added. "Even this city's worst days can't beat someone who keeps getting back up."
And just like that, he turned back to the backdoor—like he hadn't just thrown a life preserver to a drowning kid.
I walked out into the cooling night with pizza in hand and something else in my chest. A little warmth that didn't come from the cheese.
Maybe just enough to keep trying to be better.
---
Peter's house wasn't fancy.
The paint was peeling in a few corners, and the front steps creaked like it had stories to tell. The porch light buzzed softly, flickering like it couldn't quite stay on. But as I stood there holding a pizza box that was already soaking through with grease, it felt… safe.
Old, yeah. But lived in. Loved.
I knocked once, awkwardly, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I could already hear voices from inside—soft, domestic, familiar. Someone laughing. A radio playing something jazzy in the kitchen.
Then the door opened, and there was Peter.
He looked just as awkward as I felt, already mouthing 'don't be weird', like I was some kind of stray animal he snuck in. But behind him—
"Aha, you must be Wade!" came a warm, confident voice.
Uncle Ben.
White hair combed in curtain style with the kind of care that said old-school but not outdated, square glasses perched on his nose, and the kind of quiet wisdom people would fantasize of having—but I bet that still wouldn't save him from an angry Aunt May.
He had this smile, soft at the corners but sharp where it counted, like he'd seen everything life could throw and somehow still believed in the good parts. The kind of smile that didn't just disarm you—it invited you in. No judgment. Just welcoming.
When he reached out and gave my shoulder a pat It was steady. Like he was grounding me. Like he saw past whatever mess I'd made and decided I was worth the time anyway.
Then came Aunt May.
She had that classic warmth about her—like every hug came pre-wrapped in the smell of cinnamon and soft detergent. Wrinkles framed her mouth, not from age, but from a lifetime of smiling—probably at Ben, Peter, or both. You could tell she was gentle by default, but I had no doubt she could snap into fiery in a second if one of them got out of line.
She appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, gray and black hair tied back in a loose bun, glasses sliding just a little down her nose. And when she smiled at me, it was the kind of smile that belonged in a childhood memory—soft and kind, the kind that made you forget for a second that the world could be cruel.
"You didn't have to bring food, sweetheart" she said, her voice was like warm bread "but it's appreciated." Her eyes flicked kindly to the pizza box I was gripping like a lifeline. "Oh, and tea's almost ready. Hope you like it."
I swallowed the knot rising in my throat and nodded, trying not to sound like a lump of nerves. "Huh… yeah. Everything's fine by me, Miss Parker."
Her eyes twinkled as she arched an eyebrow. "Miss Parker, huh? Well, at least someone around here remembers how to show a lady some respect."
She shot Ben a sideways look, and he lifted his hands in a mock surrender, already grinning.
"Hey now" he said, chuckling "I gave up the formalities when you started stealing my fries."
"Borrowed" she corrected, wiping her hands again and imprisoning his hand with hers. "With love."
I smiled—genuinely, unexpectedly. The banter, the warmth, the familiarity… it was like walking into a sitcom.
Inside, the house smelled like home-cooked meals and cinnamon. Mismatched furniture, old family photos, and the kind of clutter that only comes from people who've lived in the same place long enough to make it theirs.
And all I could think about was how different it was from my house.
Mine was bigger. Newer. Quiet to the point of echo. The kind of place that looked like it belonged in a magazine but felt like it was waiting for someone who never showed up. No warmth. No laughter. Just… space.
Empty space.
Here, in this slightly too-warm home with too many tea mugs and... I felt something tighten in my chest.
Not jealousy.
Longing.
Peter nudged me with his elbow as we walked to the kitchen. "Dude, You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah..." I said. "Just… some dirt in my eye."
He gave me a look, but didn't push.
Aunt May poured the tea with the kind of gentleness that made you sit straighter, like you were being trusted with something delicate. The steam curled between us, soft and sweet, chamomile cutting through the scent of pizza grease and worn wood.
"So..." Uncle Ben said, elbows resting on the table, fingers laced around his mug "How's Midtown treating you?" Not like a formality, not the way most adults do when they're just trying to fill time—but like he actually cared. Like the answer mattered.
Aunt May shot me a look that said don't be vague, but it was gentle. Encouraging.
I shifted in my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place I felt at such a cozy table. "It's... a lot" I admitted, rubbing the back of my neck. "The teachers are fine. Most of 'em. But, uh… the students are a whole other battlefield."
May offered me a knowing smile, sliding the sugar bowl closer like I needed it more than anyone. "We've heard a little about that. And about how you stood up for Peter."
I froze mid-reach.
Ben nodded slowly. "Yeah. He didn't give us all the details, just said there was some kind of... situation. Said you put yourself on the line."
My mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. I wasn't used to adults bringing stuff like that up without judgment. Without suspicion.
"I mean..." I started "it wasn't a big thing. Just—someone being a jerk, and I figured… someone should say something."
"You didn't just say something" Peter muttered under his breath, chewing his crust. "You almost got suspended."
I shot him a quick glare. "Thanks, Parker."
May's eyebrows lifted, but she didn't look angry. Just… curious.
Ben leaned back in his chair, thoughtful, his fingers wrapped around his mug. "Standing up for someone… especially when it's not the easy thing to do—that says a lot about a person."
I kept my eyes on the tea, watching the steam rise like it might distract me from the heat crawling up my neck. "I didn't really plan it. I just—got mad. Didn't think. It just… happened."
May exchanged a glance with Ben, then looked back at me with the kind of eyes that didn't miss a thing. "We don't ever want Peter in fights. Or anyone, really. Violence usually makes a mess of things, even when the intention is good."
Ben nodded gently. "But that doesn't mean we don't understand why it happens. Or why someone might step in when it matters."
He leaned forward a little, his voice softer now. "You could've looked the other way. A lot of people do. But you didn't."
There was no lecture. No warning. Just… understanding. The kind you didn't expect from grown-ups.
"You cared." May added, her tone light but unwavering. "That's what we see. That's what we care about."
Something squeezed tight in my chest. Guilt, maybe. Or relief. Or both. Like I'd been bracing for judgment that never came.
And for the first time in a long time… I didn't feel like a ticking time bomb or a walking mistake.
Just a kid.
With two people who made it feel okay to be one.
But the weight in my chest hadn't left. Not really. Something still stung under the ribs—familiar and sharp and mine.
The kind of sting that didn't fade with tea or warm smiles or even pizza.
I sat there, mug in hand, staring at a biscuit I wasn't eating.
Peter was off to the bathroom or something. Which meant it was just me, May, and Ben. The kind of silence that invited honesty crept in around the table.
I cleared my throat. It barely made a sound.
"I, uh…" I started, then shut my mouth again. My tongue felt like it was coated in glue.
Ben glanced up, and so did May. They didn't say anything. Just… waited.
I hated how my voice came out—quiet and tight. "Can I… tell you something? I mean, it's not—I just feel like I should."
Ben gave a single, slow nod. "You can tell us anything."
I swallowed hard. My eyes dropped on my tea. "I used to make Peter's life hell. I was—I was awful to him. Cruel, even. And I can't stop remembering."
May's brows knit slightly. Not angry. Just… concerned.
"I didn't want to say anything tonight. 'cause, you've been nice. Too nice. So I can't just sit here and pretend I wasn't an idiot to Peter."
I breathed in, shaky. "I know Peter's forgave me. He said it. He meant it. But I—I don't know how to let myself off the hook. I feel like I should be punished. Like I haven't earned this seat."
The silence afterward wasn't cold. Just quiet. Thoughtful.
Ben was the one who spoke.
"Well..." he said, leaning back again "that sounds a lot like someone who's already facing consequences."
I blinked.
"You remember what you did. You regret it. You're trying to do better. That's your punishment."
May added gently "You're not pretending, Wade. You're actually trying to be better. That's more than most people ever do."
"But I don't deserve this" I said, voice cracking despite myself. "Your kindness."
Ben shook his head slowly. "You don't earn kindness, Wade. You accept it. And you pass it forward."
I looked down again, and for a long second I didn't trust myself to speak.
Then May slid a fresh napkin toward me. "And besides, if Peter can forgive you—really forgive you—maybe it's time you start learning how to forgive yourself, too."
I stared at that napkin like it was some kind of lifeline. A flag of surrender. A peace treaty I didn't know how to sign.
I just…
God.
This might be my hardest battle. Not fighting bullies. Not stopping a mugging. Not entering a building on fire.
No.
It's this—trying not to cry like a little kid at a table that feels more like home than any place I've been in years.
My throat tightened. I blinked up at the ceiling like maybe the tears would go back where they came from if I didn't look anyone in the eye. My jaw clenched so tight it hurt. But it was that or let everything spill out.
Ben didn't say anything. He just sipped his tea, like giving me space was the most natural thing in the world.
May got up, pretending to fuss with the kettle.
And in that quiet, in that warm kitchen with its mismatched mugs and soft yellow light, I didn't cry.
But I did let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in my ribs for years.
And somehow, it was enough.
_______________________________________
Word count: 3.077