Breakfast in our household was usually a calm, quiet affair. Aunt May believed in the sanctity of mornings, which meant the kitchen smelled like fresh coffee and toast before the sun had properly climbed over the horizon. Uncle Ben believed in the sanctity of bacon, which meant the sound of sizzling grease accompanied the smell of coffee like a loyal duet. Me? I believed in sleep, which meant I dragged myself to the table with my hair sticking up in every possible direction and my eyes half-shut, still clinging to the dream that maybe, just maybe, New York would grant me one day off.
Not happening, of course.
But this morning was different. For one thing, Cindy Moon—my girlfriend, which still sounded surreal every time I thought it—was seated at the table across from me, sipping orange juice like she belonged here. Which, after last night, she sort of did.
Aunt May bustled around the stove, humming to herself, while Uncle Ben flipped pancakes with the kind of quiet satisfaction only a man who had perfected the art of Saturday breakfasts could manage. And there I was, trying very hard to act like this was normal, like I hadn't just woken up with Cindy's head on my shoulder.
Uncle Ben set down a plate. "So, how's Spider-Man doing these days?"
I nearly choked on my coffee. "Uncle Ben!"
He winked. "Relax. Walls have ears, but they're our walls. Just making sure you're still kicking."
Cindy smirked over her glass. "He's kicking. Sleep, maybe less so."
Aunt May shot her a look that was equal parts curious and concerned. "Don't encourage him, Cindy. He already runs himself ragged."
"I'm fine," I said, cutting into my pancakes. "See? Eating a balanced breakfast. Practically a vacation."
Cindy nudged me. "Balanced breakfast today, concussion tomorrow."
"Wow," I muttered. "You sound like the system notifications in my head."
She tilted her head. "Maybe I'm the upgrade you didn't know you needed."
Uncle Ben chuckled, and Aunt May gave us both that small, knowing smile of hers that could either mean she was charmed or mentally preparing The Talk. I wasn't about to risk finding out.
"Anyway," I said quickly, "I helped Cindy download the Emergency Web App last night. Got her set up with a 'Hero' status."
Aunt May blinked. "Emergency Web App?"
"Yeah," I explained. "It's basically a network for emergencies. If something significant happens, the app alerts anyone nearby who's registered. Heroes, first responders, civilians—it keeps communication flowing. I gave Cindy her own account. Hero name: Silk."
Aunt May raised an eyebrow. "Silk, huh? I like it. Has a ring to it."
Cindy only grinned.
"But," I continued, "her profile's set to offline until she's ready to reveal herself. Still, people noticed. There's already hype building about some new mystery hero called Silk."
"Already?" Aunt May asked, setting down a bowl of fruit.
"Yep," I said. "This city has the attention span of a toddler hopped up on sugar. One whiff of something new and suddenly it's trending."
Cindy shrugged. "Could be worse. At least they're excited instead of panicking."
I grinned and went back to my pancakes. For a moment, everything felt… normal. Almost painfully so. Cindy beside me, Aunt May bustling in the kitchen, Uncle Ben making dumb dad comments about superheroes like it was the weather. I wanted to freeze-frame the whole morning and keep it forever.
Then Cindy spoke up. "Hey, speaking of programs and apps and whatnot—did you hear about Dr. Curtis Connors? He's running this summer's biology program at Oscorp. Students can sign up, shadow him, and get a hands-on intro to his work. Thought it might be something you'd be interested in."
My fork hovered midair. "Wait—Connors? As in the Connors? The guy with the limb regeneration research?"
"That's the one."
Uncle Ben lowered his paper, brows furrowing. "Speaking of Oscorp, Peter… have you heard anything from that Harry boy?"
The question blindsided me. I froze, pancake halfway chewed. "Harry who?"
"Harry Osborn," Ben said, like it was obvious. "Your friend. You haven't seen him lately?"
I blinked. Friend? I racked my brain, flipping through memories like a filing cabinet, and came up with exactly nothing. But apparently, in this world, I was supposed to be friends with him.
Before I could fumble an answer, Cindy piped up. "He's been posting photos from that overseas program he joined. Europe, I think? Some science exchange thing. He only just started using social media."
Oh. That explained it. No wonder I hadn't seen or heard from him.
"Any word on when he's back?" I asked.
Cindy sipped her juice, scrolling on her phone. "Hype says this year. Probably before school starts up again."
Ben nodded approvingly. "Good. You two should reconnect. Never hurts to have good friends."
I mumbled something noncommittal, avoiding everyone's gaze, and went back to eating, filing the name Harry Osborn in the mental "Figure This Out Later" drawer.
The conversation drifted again until Aunt May cleared her throat, clearly building up to something. "Peter, I was talking to one of my friends the other day, and she gave me the contact info for her son. He's studying fashion design in college. His name's Luke Jacobson. I thought maybe he could help you with… your other clothes."
I blinked. "You mean my—"
"Your hero costumes," she said bluntly, pouring herself tea.
I nearly dropped my fork. "Aunt May, you can't just—"
She waved me off. "I didn't tell the whole neighborhood. Just a close friend I trust. Luke's talented. He could make you something safer, more durable. You can't keep patching up that homemade thing forever."
Cindy raised her brows, pressing her lips together to stifle a laugh, clearly amused by Aunt May's suggestion.
My brain scrambled. Luke Jacobson. Wait… wasn't he that guy from the She-Hulk series? God, that show was awful. But if this Luke was half as good as his rep suggested, maybe it was worth considering.
"He might be able to help with your hero costumes. You can't keep patching those suits yourself forever."
"Uh…" I rubbed the back of my neck. "Yeah, maybe. I mean… Jacobson's legit, right? Like, he can actually make costumes that, you know, don't rip after one swing?"
Aunt May gave me a look. "Peter."
"Do you have any of his work?" I asked cautiously.
May beamed like she'd been waiting for that question. She pulled out her new phone—one of the ones I'd gotten for her and Uncle Ben—and swiped through her gallery. She held up a series of photos that made my jaw slacken.
These weren't beginner projects. These were masterpieces. Crisp lines, bold designs, fabrics that practically breathed luxury. From streetwear to formal gowns, the guy's range was insane.
Cindy leaned in, her eyes wide. We exchanged a look. This guy wasn't just good. He was too good.
I cleared my throat. "Okay, yeah. Maybe set up a meeting. But make sure he knows exactly what he's signing up for. Spidey suits aren't exactly… normal commissions."
"I'll make sure he understands," she said with a nod.
A couple of hours later, I found myself walking through Manhattan, the peaceful morning at home now a memory as I shifted into my next role.
A couple of hours later, I was walking through Manhattan, dressed in the nicest clothes I owned. Which, thanks to some careful budgeting and a little extra help from Cindy, actually made me look like I belonged somewhere fancier than a comic book store.
Black slim-fit dress pants. A crisp white button-down with the top button undone. A tailored charcoal vest under a long, dark trench coat that swished behind me with every step. Polished black shoes that pinched slightly because I hadn't broken them in yet. A messenger bag slung across my chest—inside, my trusty homemade suit. Just in case. Always just in case.
Cindy had signed me up for Connors' program, but she had plans with her friends today, so I was flying solo. I couldn't decide if that was a blessing or a curse.
Oscorp Tower loomed ahead, sleek and intimidating, its glass panels gleaming in the afternoon sun. The receptionist gave me a visitor badge and pointed me toward the waiting area.
I followed the signs and stepped into a room already buzzing with nervous energy. A couple of dozen teens and young college students sat scattered across rows of chairs, clutching notebooks, phones, or just their own knees. The future of science, gathered in one place.
Inside the waiting area, I scanned the crowd for familiar faces. That's when I saw her.
Sitting near the back, flipping through a notebook, hair catching the light in that annoyingly perfect way.
And, of course, sitting right next to her was Flash Thompson.
Because apparently the universe just loved throwing me curveballs today.
MJ spotted me almost instantly, her red hair catching the light as she waved. Flash sat beside her, arms crossed, looking like someone had just told him football was canceled forever.
Determined to avoid awkward reunions, I made a beeline for an empty seat, pulled out my phone, and tried to disappear into Instagram.
@official.peterparker. My new account. Cindy had bullied me into making it, insisting that normal teenagers had social media, and I couldn't keep living like a ghost. So now I had a feed full of my photography, some awkward selfies, pictures of me with May and Ben, and, more recently, shots of Cindy and me together. My girlfriend. Still felt weird to think about. Weird in a good way.
I found Harry Osborn's account, followed him, and within seconds got a DM.
Harry: "???"
Harry: "omg dude you finally got social media!!"
I chuckled, typing back. We traded messages, swapped numbers, and started texting. He was floored that I had a girlfriend. I explained that the landline was down and that contractors were working on it. He sent me a barrage of laughing emojis and promised we'd hang out soon.
Then someone cleared their throat.
I looked up, and there they were. MJ and Flash, standing right in front of me.
"Uh," I said, sliding my phone down. "Hey."
Flash shifted awkwardly, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. His usual smirk was missing, replaced with something halfway between guilt and discomfort. MJ nudged him pointedly.
Flash grumbled something under his breath.
I frowned. "What?"
He sighed, staring at the floor. "I said… I'm glad you didn't die from the spider bite."
I blinked. "Uh. Thanks?"
He shrugged stiffly, clearly hating every second of this.
"What are you even doing here?" I asked.
"MJ wanted to check out Connors' program," Flash muttered. "She's planning to take his class next year. I just… tagged along."
MJ gave me a sheepish smile. "Ignore him. He's trying."
"Trying what?" I asked.
"To be nice," she said plainly.
I squinted at Flash. "Since when?"
He shifted again, clearly uncomfortable. "You wouldn't get it."
"Try me."
He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fine. It's Spider-Man, okay? He's—he's awesome. The best. Guy saves people, cracks jokes, and makes it look easy. He's everything I want to be. So yeah, I'm… working on myself. Trying not to be a total jerk anymore. Don't make it weird."
I stared. MJ smirked. Flash glared at me like daring me to laugh.
I didn't. I just raised my brows and said, "Huh. Never thought I'd see the day."
"Shut up," he muttered.
Before I could push it further, the door opened and a man strode in.
Dr. Curtis Connors.
His presence filled the room immediately. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a crisp lab coat over a dress shirt and slacks. His voice was warm and animated as he greeted us, but my eyes snagged instantly on his right sleeve—rolled and pinned just below the elbow, revealing the stump where his arm ended.
He strode in, smiling warmly. "Welcome, everyone. I'm thrilled to see so many bright young minds here today."
He launched into his introduction, his passion clear as he spoke. "Human healing is limited. We scar. We lose limbs. We live with those limitations. But nature has other answers. Lizards regrow tails. Certain amphibians regenerate limbs entirely. Imagine what humanity could achieve if we unlocked those secrets."
His gaze flicked briefly to his stump before sweeping over us again.
"That is the work we're doing here at Oscorp. That is the future we're chasing."
And just like that, a chill crawled down my spine.
As I sat there, listening to Dr. Connors, I realized something.
With how things were going, there was a 70% chance that I had just officially met my first supervillain.