I hadn't expected the room to feel lighter after everything Cindy and I had just gone through, but somehow it did. A moment ago, the weight of our secret pressed down on me—now, after finally talking, something inside me eased. For the first time since the spider bite, I didn't feel completely alone in this.
She perched on the edge of my bed, twisting the hoodie's drawstring, while I leaned back in my chair, rocking, trying to appear calm even as my mind spun.
"So," she said finally, breaking the silence. "You're really serious about this hero thing."
"Dead serious," I said, maybe too fast. "It's about responsibility. If we can do what others can't, it's our problem. Someone has to step up."
She raised an eyebrow. "You sound like a PSA."
I smirked. "Maybe. But it doesn't make it less true."
Her expression softened. She looked at her hands, then back at me with a small sigh. "I can't tell anyone. My parents wouldn't understand. They're strict. If they found out, they'd panic. Maybe lock me up or send me away."
The way she said it—half-joking, half-serious—tightened my chest.
"Cindy," I said gently, "tell someone. Not your parents, if you aren't ready. But someone you trust. Doing this alone will consume you. Believe me, I tried—it's exhausting."
She chewed her lip, hesitant. "You mean… tell your aunt and uncle?"
"Yeah," I said. "They're good people. They raised me. I hadn't planned to tell them yet, but secrets like this only get harder to keep. If they find out by accident, it'll hurt more."
Cindy hugged herself, staring at the floor. "You really think they won't freak out?"
I hesitated, thinking of May's soft heart and Ben's terrible dad jokes. "They'll freak out. But in a supportive, loving way. You'll see."
She sat, doubt written on her face. Then she nodded. "Okay. Let's do it."
I pushed out of my chair, offering her a hand. She took it, and we walked out of the room together.
Halfway down the stairs, Cindy slowed. "What if I mess this up?" she whispered.
"You won't," I said. "Trust me."
She nodded, though I could tell she wasn't fully convinced.
The aroma struck first—warm, rich, undeniably May Parker's cooking. Garlic and onions sizzled, potatoes lined up, ready. My stomach rumbled loud enough for Cindy to glance over and snort.
We stepped into the kitchen, and sure enough, Aunt May was at the stove, spatula in hand, shooing away Uncle Ben as he reached over her shoulder with practiced mischief.
"Ben!" she scolded, swatting at his hand. "Lunch isn't ready yet. You'll ruin the roast if you keep picking at it."
"I wasn't picking, I was taste-testing," he said, grinning that boyish grin that never seemed to fade despite the silver in his hair.
"Uh-huh," she muttered, rolling her eyes but smiling all the same. She pushed the cookbook open with her elbow, flipping to the next page while continuing to work the spatula.
I cleared my throat. "Uh, hey, Aunt May? Uncle Ben? This is Cindy Moon. She, uh, goes to school with me. She was in my group during the Oscorp field trip and—"
Uncle Ben interrupted with a nod, his eyes twinkling. "And she's got abilities like you do."
I froze. Cindy froze. Both of us stared at him like he'd just read our minds.
"What?" I blurted.
May didn't even turn from the stove as she said, matter-of-factly, "We could hear everything from here." Then she turned just enough to fix me with one of her patented Aunt May glares. "And you, young man, had better not be doing anything until you're at least eighteen. We don't want a baby so soon."
My face went nuclear. Cindy did too. She slapped her hands over her cheeks as if she could physically hide the blush spreading across her skin.
"May!" I sputtered. "That's not— We're not—!"
Uncle Ben barked out a laugh, so hard he had to lean on the counter. "Oh, I like her already. Poor Peter doesn't know what hit him."
"Uncle Ben!" I groaned, burying my face in my hands.
Cindy made a small squeak beside me, mumbling, "I should've stayed home…"
Ben wiped his eyes, still chuckling, before looking at Cindy more warmly. "So, Cindy, are you staying for lunch?"
She glanced at me nervously, then back at him. "I… if it's okay?"
"You're more than welcome," Ben said, his smile genuine.
"Lunch will be ready in about an hour," May added, flipping something in the pan. "Ben, peel those potatoes before I lose my patience." She pressed the peeler into his hand without even looking up.
Ben sighed theatrically but didn't argue. He grabbed the bowl of potatoes, muttering under his breath. "Slave labor in my own house…"
May smirked, clearly hearing him, and leaned over just enough to kiss his cheek. "Love you."
"Love you too," he replied automatically, grinning like he'd just won the lottery, even while peeling.
Cindy's blush had softened into something else now—something like awe. For a moment, the awkwardness faded, replaced by quiet admiration as she watched May and Ben together, witnessing the kind of love you could feel just by being in the same room.
I cleared my throat, desperate to escape before May made another comment that would permanently scar me. "We'll be back in an hour then."
May waved a hand, already absorbed in her cookbook. "Go. But don't be late."
Ben shot us a look—half playful, half vigilant—before returning to his peeling.
Cindy and I slipped out the front door, the cool air rushing to meet us as we stepped onto the walkway.
For a long moment, neither of us said anything. The sounds of the kitchen—May humming, Ben grumbling good-naturedly—faded behind us.
Finally, Cindy let out a breath she'd clearly been holding. "They're… amazing."
"Yeah," I said softly, a smile tugging at my lips. "Yeah, they are."
The warm air of early summer clung to us as Cindy and I walked side by side down the cracked pavement. I shoved my hands into my pockets, trying to look casual, but every step felt strange. Not because of her—well, partly because—but mostly because everything in my life was suddenly different. Just a couple of weeks ago, I was the quiet kid in the back, more likely to sketch in my notebook than speak up. Now? I walked next to Cindy Moon, a girl who also carried a secret as heavy as mine.
"So," I said, breaking the silence. "Final exams. How bad did they get you this year?"
Cindy groaned dramatically, tossing her head back as if the memory itself was unbearable. "Don't remind me. I thought I was prepared. I studied every night for weeks. But then they gave us that math section, and my brain just… melted. I swear half the class was ready to walk out."
I laughed, a real laugh, one that eased the tension that always seemed to hover over us lately. "Well, it's almost over. One more week, then freedom. Two whole months without textbooks. I think that's something worth celebrating."
Her lips curved into a smile, and she nudged me with her elbow. "Yeah, but I'm still gonna be stuck babysitting my little cousins. Not exactly my idea of freedom."
"Could be worse," I said, smirking. "At least you'll get a break before junior year. Me? I'm going to walk back into Midtown in September and no one's even going to recognize me."
She gave me a sideways look. "Oh, you're already planning your grand re-entrance?"
"Hey, I'm serious," I said, chuckling. "When I left school, I was this scrawny, nerdy kid who tripped over his own shoelaces. Now I'm taller, stronger… I can actually catch a football without it breaking my face."
Cindy laughed, the sound light and easy, and for a moment, I felt like maybe—just maybe—the world wasn't so heavy. We joked and teased each other as we turned back toward the house, the afternoon sun hanging low, casting streaks of orange and pink across the sky.
But then it happened. In an instant, the lightness vanished—a sharp pulse ran through me, a warning. My whole body stiffened. The air thickened, and my chest tightened with fear as my spider-sense flared so violently I almost doubled over.
"Peter?" Cindy whispered, noticing the change in my expression.
I held up a hand, signaling for her to keep quiet. My gaze swept the street, heart pounding. There—a man walking up the block, head down, shoulders hunched. He didn't look like a neighbor. His clothes were dark, loose. Yet it was the way he moved, hand jammed in his jacket pocket. Then, the glint—metal, unmistakable, catching a last sunbeam.
A gun.
My stomach dropped. He was heading for our house.
"Cindy," I hissed, forcing my voice to stay low and controlled, "call the cops. Right now. Tell them there's a man with a gun heading toward 12 Ingram Street."
Her eyes widened, but she didn't hesitate. She fumbled for her phone, fingers trembling slightly as she dialed. I didn't wait to see if she connected. My legs were already moving, pumping hard as I sprinted toward the house.
No. No way. Not like this. Not tonight.
I wasn't going to let Uncle Ben die.
The front door was already ajar by the time I reached the steps. I could hear shouting inside—rough, sharp words, the kind that cut deep even if you couldn't make out all of them. I slipped through the crack in the door, every nerve in my body on fire. My eyes adjusted quickly, landing on the scene in the kitchen.
The man stood there, face twisted with anger, a revolver trained directly at Uncle Ben. My uncle's hands were raised, his body angled slightly in front of Aunt May, who was pressed back near the counter. Her eyes flicked toward me for the briefest second before darting back to the weapon. She didn't cry out, didn't give me away. She trusted me.
The intruder sneered. "Old man, you got cash in this house, I know it. Don't play dumb with me."
Uncle Ben's voice was calm, steadier than I thought possible. "Listen, son, you don't want to do this. Whatever's going on in your life, this isn't the way."
The man snarled, finger tightening around the trigger.
I didn't think. I moved.
I launched myself forward, fist connecting with the side of his head just as he registered I was there. I pulled my strength back at the last second—I couldn't risk killing him—but the impact was still enough to send him crashing into the fridge, the metal door denting with a loud crunch. The revolver clattered against the linoleum, and in a split second, I flicked my wrist, webbing the weapon and yanking it into the air. Another webline pinned it to the ceiling, cocooned in sticky strands well out of reach.
The man groaned, disoriented, but I didn't let him recover. I grabbed him by the collar, yanking him close. His eyes widened as he saw my face—just a kid, but not just a kid. My voice came out low, firm, and sharper than I intended. "You're done. Next time, you won't get a second chance. Think about that in prison."
I hurled him to the floor, pinning him there with another strand of web. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder by the second.
Aunt May's hands trembled slightly, but she didn't scream. The door burst open, heavy boots pounding against the floor. "NYPD! Hands where we can see them!"
Red and blue lights flashed through the windows as uniformed officers swept in, weapons drawn. My heart pounded, and for a brief second, I froze. But then Uncle Ben stepped forward, hands raised.
"Easy, officers," he said calmly. "It's alright. This man broke into our home. He threatened us with a gun."
One of the officers—a tall man with graying hair and a commanding presence—stepped into the kitchen, eyes narrowing at the sight of the would-be burglar pinned by webs and the dented refrigerator behind him. His gaze flicked upward, catching on the strange cocoon of webbing where the revolver hung.
"Well, that's… unusual," he muttered.
Another officer moved to cuff the man on the floor, who spat curses and struggled weakly. "You're all crazy! Kid came out of nowhere, attacked me—!"
"Save it for the station," the tall officer cut him off. His attention shifted to Uncle Ben. "I'm Captain George Stacy. You and your family alright?"
Ben nodded, his face steady but his arm sliding back protectively around May's shoulders. "We're fine, Captain. Shaken, but fine. He barged in, demanded money, and pulled a gun. If it weren't for… well, let's just say we got lucky tonight."
Stacy studied him for a long moment, then glanced back at the dented fridge and the criminal still muttering on the floor. He didn't press. "We'll take it from here. I'll have my men log this as an armed burglary and attempted assault. You won't have to worry about him for a while."
"Thank you," Uncle Ben said sincerely. "Really."
The captain gave a curt nod, then gestured for his men to haul the burglar up and drag him out. The chaos spilled back onto the street, voices and radios crackling as the night settled again.
As the last of the officers left, Stacy lingered in the doorway. "One more thing. Keep your doors locked. People like him look for easy targets. Don't make yourselves one." He gave Uncle Ben a look that almost seemed to say more than his words, then tipped his head politely and followed his men out.
The door shut, and silence returned.
I exhaled slowly, realizing I'd been holding my breath. Aunt May finally sagged into a chair, covering her mouth with one hand. Uncle Ben rubbed her shoulder gently, his expression unreadable.
My eyes drifted upward, to the webbed bundle on the ceiling. The revolver. The cops hadn't noticed it—or if they had, they'd chosen not to mention it. Either way, it was still there, waiting. And I already knew what I was going to do. That weapon wasn't just a gun anymore. It was raw material, a piece of the puzzle I needed for what was to come next.
I'd dismantle it and recreate one of my many inventions, earning billions.