The thing about being Spider-Man? Nobody tells you how much it hurts.
Not just the punches—though, yeah, getting slammed into a brick wall by some guy named Rhino definitely leaves a mark—but the little things. The way your shoulders ache after swinging for hours. The way your fingers go numb when you're clinging to the side of a building in December. The way your stomach growls because web fluid ingredients aren't free, and ramen only fills so much of the gap.
But then there are the good hurts.
Like the way your cheeks sting from grinning after you flip over a taxi and land in a crouch, and some kid on the sidewalk gasps, "That was awesome!"
Or the way your heart does this weird, fluttery thing when Mary Jane Watson leans in and says, "You're such a dork, Parker," right before she kisses you.
Tonight? Tonight's a mix of both.
Peter Parker's lungs burned as he sprinted across the rooftop, the neon glow of Queens painting the skyline in streaks of pink and orange. Below, the city hummed—car horns, laughter, the distant wail of a police siren. Normal sounds. His sounds.
"Hey, Spidey! Catch!"
He barely had time to turn before the garbage can lid came flying at his head.
THWACK.
"Ghk—!" He staggered, clutching his forehead. "Okay, ow? What the hell, man?"
The thief—a wiry guy in a ski mask—just grinned, already scaling the fire escape. "Heard you were sticky! Didn't think you were slow!"
Peter sighed. "Yeah, yeah. Comedy gold." He shot a web, yanking the lid out of midair and flinging it back. It nailed the guy square in the back, sending him tumbling into a pile of laundry bags.
"Sorry about your… everything," Peter said, webbing him to the wall. He patted him down, pulling out a wad of cash and a cheap flip phone. "Oof. Robbin' Hood over here. What'd you take, like sixty bucks?"
The guy groaned. "S'my lunch money…"
"And now it's evidence," Peter said, tucking it into his waistband. He paused. "Wait, did you just quote Die Hard at me?"
The police arrived ten minutes later. By then, Peter was already three blocks away, perched on a billboard of Tony Stark smirking down at the city. He peeled off his mask just enough to bite into a cold hot dog he'd definitely paid for.
"One year," he muttered, chewing. "Twelve months of this. And I still get hit with trash."
His phone buzzed. A text from MJ:
[MJ]: movie night. my place. aunt anna's making lasagna. you're coming. no excuses.
Peter smiled.
"...Worth it."
To Be Continued…