Peter told himself he'd go home after the second stop. Two, because one would feel like a fluke and three would feel like a pattern, and he wasn't in the mood to be diagnosed by his own math.
Stop one: a guy tried to yank a bike from a delivery rack outside a deli. Peter dropped between them, stuck the thief's shoes to the sidewalk, and gave the deli owner a very sincere lecture on investing in a sturdier chain. He left a $10 bill on the counter for the trouble. It wasn't his $10; technically it was Harry's, because Harry had shoved a folded bill into his pocket with an eye roll when Peter said he'd "pay him back in smoothies." Close enough.
Stop two: an apartment kitchen fire that set off the building alarms. He didn't even suit all the way up for that—just climbed three floors in a hoodie and used webbing to pull the smoking pan into the sink before the sprinklers could soak every unit. The aunt who lived there yelled at him for touching her sauce. He apologized and took the yelling. When she calmed down, he fixed her window latch because it had two screws missing and because he could.
Then he saw the guy sprinting with a messenger bag and heard the "Hey!" from half a block down.
Stop three happened by accident.
He always tells himself that.
It should have been quick—cut the path, web the ankles, make a joke about Amazon Prime running late—but his timing was off and his shoulder ached from yesterday's swing where he took a weird angle off a billboard. The thief juked, Peter corrected, and they both skidded into a street vendor's table. A pile of fake Yankees caps hit the ground and a handful of tourists clapped like someone had booked them a matinee.
"Autographs after the chase," Peter called, because humor is free. He got the bag back and handed it to the guy who'd been yelling, then helped the vendor stack the hats again. He bought one with another of Harry's tens and wore it for six blocks until the sweat under the brim made him itchy.
By the time he realized he had accidentally made it to stop four, the sun had climbed higher and the air felt like it had hands. He perched on a fire escape to breathe and check his phone. Three texts from Gwen, one from Miles, two from May.
Gwen: You alive?
Gwen: That was not rhetorical, Parker.
Gwen: Group patrol later?
Miles: Morning, big bro. Got a chem lab w/ my mom. Try not to break Brooklyn.
May: They marked down strawberries at Russo's. Want me to grab a carton?
May: Also, how are you? (And not the "I'm fine" answer.)
Peter smiled at the screen for a second longer than he meant to. He typed something to Gwen that said "Always" and felt flimsy the moment he sent it. To Miles, he sent a web gif. To May, he typed "Smoothies soon? I'll stop by later," then deleted the second sentence and sent only the first. He would stop by. Just— later. After the pattern broke.
A siren wailed three streets over. He told himself that wasn't for him. He stayed put for a full count of five. At six, he was already moving.
Stop four was a car door that wouldn't open because the passenger's seatbelt had jammed and the latch had bent in the heat. Not a crime. Not really a Spider-Man thing. He did it anyway. The driver said, "You saved my dog," like Peter had pulled the labradoodle from a burning building, and Peter didn't correct him. He scratched the dog and pretended that counted.
Stop five was an attempted grab-and-run on a florist. The guy was jittery, the kind of desperate that read like hunger. Peter webbed the bills back onto the counter and looked the kid in the face and saw himself at twelve pretending he didn't need help. He didn't do speeches. He just said, "Don't make it worse," and let the webbing dissolve before the cops got there. The florist called him an angel. The kid ran. Peter left with the taste of chalk in his mouth.
The city throbbed around him, too awake for mid-morning, a treadmill he couldn't step off without falling. He told himself he was doing this because it was quiet, because Harry had a meeting and Peter had no classes, because it was either swing or sit on the couch counting the points where the ceiling paint bubbled and the boxes he still hadn't unpacked. He told himself he could rest later.
He knows how to lie to himself without moving his mouth.
On a roof above Canal, he peeled his mask to his nose and let the breeze do the work his lungs were fighting. He drank half a warm bottle of water he'd stashed on a previous patrol and tried not to think about the way Harry's phone had buzzed in the café. He'd promised not to push. It felt like a promise he'd made to the wrong part of himself.
His shoulder twinged when he rolled it. He'd been avoiding stretching because stretching meant slowing down and slowing down meant thinking. He made a mental note to tell Gwen he'd do that yoga video she keeps threatening him with. He would not do the yoga video.
He pulled the mask back down and moved again.
By late morning, the clouds had decided to pretend they were helpful and parked themselves in front of the sun. Peter took it like a blessing he hadn't earned. He web-zipped to a billboard rail because it gave him a clear line on a block where scooters tended to get lifted. He stayed there long enough to spot two familiar store clerks arguing over whose turn it was to clean a sidewalk chalk drawing.
He could've left. He didn't. He watched a minute longer, then another, because his hands didn't feel steady yet. The city made more sense when he was part of it at velocity; at stillness, he was just a kid with a lot of noise behind his ribs.
His phone buzzed in the suit pocket again.
Gwen: If you ignore me, I'm telling May you're eating pretzels for breakfast again.
He huffed. Typed: Joke's on you. No pretzels. Smoothies.
She took thirteen seconds to reply.
Gwen: I'm proud and also deeply suspicious. I'm free at two.
He looked at the time. 11:43. Plenty of minutes to do nothing with. He typed: Two works. Light route.
As if he believes that.
He was about to leave the billboard when a drone drifted across his peripheral. His body stilled before his brain caught up. He tracked it. Small. Cheap. Not Oscorp sleek; not the heavy hum of NYPD either. Somebody's hobby toy with a camera taped on. It hovered, wobbled, then pinged off toward the river. He cataloged it and didn't chase. Not every shadow had to be a threat. Not yet.
On his way down, he passed a bus with an Oscorp banner stretched along its side: INNOVATION FOR EVERY DAY. He tried not to flinch at the font. He failed. He thought about the way Harry had said "loved one" to the board via email in a café that smelled like old sugar and burnt espresso and how the words felt like a bruise he liked pressing.
A kid pointed up at him from the corner with a grin that took up half his face.
"Hey! Spider-Man!"
Peter saluted, flipped, landed in an alley to catch his breath and his balance. He texted Harry: You survive the morning?
The typing bubble showed up. Vanished. Showed up again.
Harry: Board survived me. Coming up for air. You?
He answered with a photo from the water tower— skyline, sliver of the river, his boot in the foreground like a clown. He didn't include his face; he didn't need to. Harry would know the angle.
Harry: Show-off.
Peter smiled into the mask and told himself he would go home after the next one. He wasn't hungry. His body disagreed—the kind of hollow grind that felt like two missed meals and not enough hours—but hunger was a negotiable state when you had web-fluid and momentum and a city that always wore another emergency like a jacket.
Stop six announced itself at the edge of his spider-sense, a prickle that felt like static. He followed it to a bodega where the owner had posted hand-lettered signs about a cash-only register and a cat named Duke who bites. A man with a knife stood at the counter, shaking, blade too close to the clerk's wrist.
"Hey," Peter said as he walked in, casual like he'd been invited, hands up. "Duke's going to judge you so hard if you go through with this."
The man looked, because they always did, and in that glance Peter webbed the knife to the counter and the man's sleeve to a stack of scratch-off tickets. Duke hissed like he'd been paid to. The clerk blinked twice, then swore, then laughed in a single breath. Peter handed him a 911 call he didn't have to make by already dialing it, and slipped out before the sirens could arrive. He took a banana from the display on his way because the sign said 2 FOR $1 and he had exactly one more of Harry's dollars left. He put it down with a wink.
"Breakfast," he told Duke. The cat yawned.
When he reached the roof across the street, his hands shook hard enough to make the webline tremble. He unpeeled the banana like he was diffusing a bomb and ate it in four bites, because he hated bananas and because it was there.
The group chat pinged again. Miles had sent a picture of a lab beaker with a sticky note on it that read: DON'T DRINK. and below it, his own sticky note: WHAT IF IT'S A SMOOTHIE.
Peter snorted. Typed back: That's how you get superpowers. Trust me. He didn't add the part where sometimes he wished that getting powers had come with instructions for the hours in between.
At 12:12, he checked the time and told himself, out loud this time so it would count, "One more." The voice sounded steady enough that he almost believed it. He stood, rolled his shoulder again, and moved.
The city answered, because it always did.
"One more" turned into a corner store scuffle he didn't see coming.
He dropped down expecting the usual—an argument about a lottery ticket or a pack of cigarettes. What he got was two guys in the middle of the aisle, fists swinging, knocking over a stand of gum packets and sunflower seeds. The cashier looked about fourteen and terrified.
"Gentlemen," Peter said, landing square in the mess of gum, "you know, they sell stress balls two aisles over."
The bigger guy turned, fist still cocked. Peter stepped in, caught his wrist mid-swing, and webbed him to a shelf of paper towels. The smaller guy took one look at that and bolted. Peter didn't chase. Not every fight needed an equal response.
He dusted himself off and said something about aisle cleanup in progress. The cashier laughed nervously and gave him a thumbs up like she wasn't sure if she should call the cops or a janitor.
Outside, Peter leaned against the brick wall and pressed his palm to his ribs. Just sore, he told himself. Not bruised. The adrenaline made it all blur together anyway. He checked his phone: 12:37. Time slid out from under him like a rug.
He typed a message to Gwen: Running late. Might be closer to 2:30.
He deleted it before sending. He wasn't late yet.
Another siren. Different pitch, different direction. He didn't even think this time. The mask was already back in place.
---
By the time he reached the docks, the heat had climbed again. The air smelled like salt and diesel, and his suit clung damp under his arms. A handful of men were arguing near a van, voices sharp, one of them waving a crowbar.
Peter landed on the roof of the van and let the thud speak first. Every head snapped up.
"Hi. Your Yelp reviews are about to tank."
They scattered—three into the alley, one into the driver's seat, the one with the crowbar swinging blind toward the roof. Peter dodged, webbed the crowbar, yanked it up and out of his hands. It spun, clattered across the van roof, and skidded to the ground.
The driver floored it before Peter could anchor the wheels. The tires screeched, the van lurched forward, and Peter vaulted clear at the last second. He landed wrong on his ankle, hissed, then webbed the bumper anyway. He skated behind it for a block before the web snapped under the strain. The van disappeared into traffic.
He crouched on the curb, breathing hard, and told himself it was fine. He'd stopped worse. He'd catch them next time. He flexed his ankle, winced, then jumped back to the roofline because stopping here would mean admitting he was done.
---
At 1:04, he bought a pretzel from a cart because his hands wouldn't stop shaking and food was the only thing that tricked his body into thinking he was grounded. The vendor asked if he wanted mustard. He said no, then regretted it instantly.
He ate half of it on the run, crouched in an alley where the shadows made him look like something the city hadn't fully claimed. The salt stung the crack on his lip. He licked it anyway.
"Spider-Man?" a voice called. A kid on a bike, maybe twelve, maybe younger, staring wide-eyed at him.
Peter straightened, wiped the crumbs off his gloves, and gave a two-finger salute. "Stay in school," he called, swinging off before the kid could say anything else. The words tasted tired in his mouth.
---
His spider-sense tugged again before he'd even caught his next perch. He pivoted, redirected, landed on a building across from a jewelry shop with the alarm blaring. The glass had spiderwebbed from impact—he hated that word—and two guys were halfway through climbing inside.
He webbed one to the window frame before he even hit the ground. The second bolted deeper into the store. Peter followed, heart racing, ankle still sore. The aisles gleamed with too much light. His reflection bounced back at him from every case.
He caught the second guy by the collar and tugged him back with just enough force to keep the glass from slicing his arms. Webbed him to the floor. Handed them both over to the shop owner, who alternated between gratitude and outrage at the broken display.
"Sorry about the window," Peter muttered, slipping out before the cops arrived.
Back on the roof, he bent double with his hands on his knees, dragging in breath after breath like air might decide not to show up if he didn't pull hard enough.
His phone buzzed again.
Gwen: You're gonna be late. Aren't you?
He typed: No. Just one more.
He didn't hit send. He shut the phone off instead.
---
By 1:42, his legs felt like rubber. He perched on a lamppost above a crosswalk and watched the light change from red to green and back again, hypnotic in its rhythm. He could sit here, he thought. Just watch people cross. Watch kids with ice cream cones and tourists with cameras and women balancing coffee trays like a circus act.
But his chest felt too tight and his ankle still throbbed, and every time he blinked he saw the way Harry's hand had lingered on the counter that morning, steadying himself.
So he moved again.
---
Stop nine—he'd lost count, but his body hadn't—was a purse snatcher who barely made it half a block before Peter swung low and cut him off. The woman thanked him three times too many. Peter smiled like it didn't sting.
He dropped the thief with a neat web to a mailbox, straightened up, and felt his balance tip sideways for half a second. He caught himself. He always caught himself.
The city blurred a little at the edges. He blinked until it sharpened again.
He checked the time. 1:56.
Plenty of time, he told himself. Plenty.
---
That was a lie.
He knew it when he said it, when he thought it, when he swung from the light pole into the next avenue like he hadn't been counting stops since breakfast. His body wasn't buying the story anymore. The ache had settled deep, past muscles and into joints, a reminder that he wasn't built for endless momentum no matter how much the mask tricked him into believing otherwise.
He landed on a rooftop too hard, knees jarring, palms skidding across gravel. The sting snapped through him, sharp enough to make his teeth clench. He hissed under his breath and rolled to his back, staring at the flat expanse of cloudy sky.
For thirty full seconds, he didn't move.
Maybe this was rest.
He thought about May's text—"How are you?"—and the way she always seemed to know when his default answers weren't enough. He thought about Harry's typing bubble blinking out, about the way Gwen's messages stacked in triples like she was pacing the length of her room and trying to wring words into submission. He thought about Miles, younger but already steadier, checking in like he was the older brother.
His phone buzzed again. He didn't check it.
Instead, he sat up too fast and felt the world lurch sideways. He caught the edge of the roof with one hand, squeezed until the shudder passed. His body whispered stop. He didn't.
He swung again.
---
The next block was quiet. Too quiet. He landed on a fire escape to check—habit, instinct, paranoia—and found himself staring into a window where a family was eating lunch together. Nothing special: two kids arguing over fries, a dad pretending not to sneak bites, a mom balancing a phone against a water glass so a grandmother could join from a distance.
Peter crouched there longer than he meant to. The smell of fried onions drifted through the cracked window and his stomach growled so loud he winced. He backed away before they could notice the shadow watching.
On the swing out, his ankle gave another warning twist. He bit back the sound it wanted to drag out of him.
"Fine," he muttered. His own voice sounded brittle inside the mask.
---
He cut across to Midtown, more out of muscle memory than decision. A bank alarm blared somewhere behind him, but he didn't turn. Someone else could take it. The NYPD had to earn their paychecks too.
And yet, five blocks later, he was crouched above a pharmacy watching a would-be shoplifter shove bottles into his backpack.
"Man," Peter called, dropping into the aisle, "if you wanted vitamins that bad, you could've just asked."
The kid jolted, wide-eyed, and bolted. Peter let him go. He didn't have the energy to chase someone who wasn't hurting anyone. He picked up one of the fallen bottles instead—vitamin C, half-smashed—and set it back on the shelf.
The pharmacist peeked out, thanked him like he'd stopped a full-scale robbery. Peter smiled with only half his face.
He climbed back to the roof and sat there, hands dangling between his knees, pulse thudding hard against his throat.
He told himself again: just one more.
---
2:14. His phone buzzed again, persistent. This time he checked.
Gwen: I can see you from here. Don't bother lying.
His head snapped up, scanning rooftops. Sure enough, across the avenue, Ghost-Spider stood with her arms crossed, mask tilted like she was unimpressed even from fifty feet away.
His stomach sank.
"Great," he muttered.
She swung over in two smooth arcs, landing beside him with the kind of ease that made him feel sloppy in comparison. Her suit was brighter against the dull sky, and her posture screamed practiced patience.
"You were supposed to meet us twenty minutes ago," she said. Her tone was calm, which was worse than yelling.
"I was—uh—detoured."
She raised a brow under the mask. He could hear it.
"Look, I'm fine—"
"Peter."
He shut his mouth.
For a beat, all he heard was the city beneath them: horns, chatter, the hum of air conditioners stacked against brick. Gwen didn't move. Didn't press. Just stood there, waiting, like she had all the time in the world.
The back of his throat tightened. He hated that it made him want to keep moving again.
Before he could reach for an excuse, another voice cut in from above.
"You're terrible at cover stories," Miles said, dropping neatly onto the ledge behind them. He still had his hoodie half-zipped over the suit, mask pulled back just enough to grin.
Peter cursed under his breath. He hadn't expected backup.
"Do you two coordinate ambushes now?" he asked. Humor was the only card left in his hand.
"Only when you're being stupid," Miles said easily.
Gwen didn't laugh.
Peter's mouth went dry.
He stood, rolled his shoulders like he could shake the weight off. "I'm fine," he repeated, softer this time, already stepping toward the edge like he could prove it with movement.
Miles webbed his shoe to the roof in one flick. Not hard, not even enough to hold him if Peter pulled—but enough to make him pause.
"Sit down," Miles said, voice lighter but still firm.
Peter stared at him, at Gwen, at the skyline blurred by heat. His chest felt too tight, his ankle ached, his whole body hummed like a frayed wire.
He sat.
It felt like defeat.
He tugged his heel free of Miles' web and pretended the gluey sound wasn't a metaphor.
"Okay," he said. "Five minutes. Then we do a quick loop and grab food."
"Food first," Gwen said.
"Loop first," he countered.
Miles looked between them, sighed, and reached into his hoodie pocket. He tossed Peter a crushed granola bar like he'd been keeping it there for weeks just in case. "Compromise."
Peter caught it on reflex. "This is… sawdust."
"It's peanut butter," Miles said. "Eat it."
Peter tore it open and took a bite because arguing meant more talking and more talking meant he'd hear the worry in Gwen's voice. The bar stuck to his teeth in a way that felt like punishment. He swallowed anyway. "Fine. Half a loop."
Gwen tilted her head. "Define 'half.'"
He stood. The city was already tugging at him. "We'll know it when we see it."
"Cool," Miles said dryly. "So: none."
They moved. It should've been awkward—two of them adjusting their swing speeds to match him, keeping a little closer than usual—but Gwen and Miles were annoyingly good at reading him, even when he was doing his best impression of a closed book. He aimed for rooftops with long lines, easy angles, nothing flashy. His ankle complained, then quieted under the rhythm.
It didn't stay quiet long.
They hadn't even crossed to the next block when his spider-sense buzzed, a fast zip under his skin. Down on the avenue, two guys were shoving at each other outside a smoke shop, voices rising, a third person filming. The kind of thing that could go nowhere or sideways in a heartbeat.
"I've got it," Peter said.
Gwen landed with him without asking. "We've got it."
The bigger one had a fistful of the other's collar. Peter stepped between, hands up, and made his voice easy. "Hey. Bad day? Don't make it worse."
He would've webbed the wrist and been done with it, but Gwen was faster, flicking a clean shot that took the guy's elbow to the doorframe instead of his face. Miles cut behind the smaller one, gently steering him back two steps with a palm to the shoulder.
"Breathe," Miles told him. "In, out. You're being recorded. Decide what you want people to see."
The phone dropped a few inches. The moment loosened. Peter let it. They didn't need him to run point; the heat in his chest said run anyway. He stayed still. Let the scene de-escalate, let the clerk lock the door, let everyone go their separate ways with pride intact and nothing broken.
Back on the roof, Gwen glanced over. "See? Team."
Peter shrugged like it was nothing. "Lucky break."
She didn't answer. She didn't have to.
They swung again. "Half a loop" became four more blocks, then six. Peter picked low-stakes problems where he could—steering a stroller wheel out of a subway grate, redirecting a delivery bike from a tangle of pedestrians, pointing a lost tourist toward the right bridge. He avoided the kind of siren that meant a report later. Still doing good. Still moving.
His phone buzzed. May again.
May: Smoothies later? I'm serious. Peter, answer me.
He shoved the phone back in the suit pocket and told himself he'd stop by May's after he checked one more block. Or after lunch. Or tonight.
Gwen caught the motion. "You can answer her," she said.
"I will," he said.
"When?"
"Later."
"Peter."
He cut to the next roof before she could say his name like a sentence.
Two rooftops over, Miles matched pace at his shoulder. "You're limping."
"I'm stylish," Peter said.
"Uh-huh." Miles clicked his tongue. "Style isn't supposed to wince."
Peter snorted despite himself. "Thanks for the feedback, Mr. Hoodie Over Suit."
"It's my thing," Miles said. "Let me have it."
Another buzz under Peter's skin. South. He pointed. "There."
By the river, a rental boat had drifted too close to the pilings. The outboard sputtered and died while the guy inside argued with physics. Peter's first instinct was to dive, sling a web, haul it free by sheer stubbornness. He stepped onto the rail and Gwen grabbed his arm.
"You do not need to blow out your shoulder for a boat," she said.
"I wouldn't—"
"You would."
She went instead, a long arc over the water, webbing pilings to gunnel, bracing, letting the guy push off as she stabilized the bow. Miles dropped to the walkway and shouted simple directions over the chop, keeping the man focused on throttle angles and not on the white-suited superhero riding his rental. Peter anchored a line at the far end and added a gentle tug—support, not heroics. It took three minutes. No one drowned. The guy waved like he'd participated in a magic trick.
"See?" Gwen called back. "Still not a solo sport."
Peter gave a two-finger salute that felt more like surrender than victory and pretended the fine tremor in his hands was just the river breeze.
They regrouped on the railing. Miles pulled out a water bottle and shoved it into Peter's chest.
"Hydrate."
Peter drank. It helped more than he wanted to admit. He tipped the rest over his head under the mask and yelped when cold hit hot.
Gwen huffed, amused despite herself. "Dramatic."
"It's my thing," he shot back, and she rolled her eyes. Points for balance.
They moved again. The city washed under them in stripes—brick, glass, brick, sky. Their route bent toward where they usually called it when it was supposed to be a "light loop." Peter could say the words, even gesture at the deli they sometimes used as a baseline, but when an older man missed a curb and stumbled into the street, Peter was already dropping to scoop him back to the sidewalk before the thought finished forming.
The man gripped Peter's forearm, eyes wet. "Thank you, son."
"Anytime," Peter said, voice catching on the second syllable for no good reason. He slipped back to the wall before it could turn into a moment.
Up top, Gwen watched him sideways. "How many is that today?"
Peter didn't pretend not to understand. "Like… five."
Miles barked a laugh. "Five before breakfast, maybe."
Peter stared at the horizon. "I lost count."
"That's the problem," Gwen said quietly.
He wanted to argue. He wanted to list every time the extra stop made a difference. He wanted to say that moving felt better than thinking. He wanted to say he had it under control.
His phone buzzed again. Harry this time.
Harry: Board meeting over. Survived. You owe me a better smoothie place review.
A picture followed: his office window, skyline blurred, a takeout coffee with his name spelled wrong. Harri. The sight held him in place, small and specific, tugging the line between his two lives taut enough to sing.
Gwen leaned a hip against the ledge. "We're doing dinner later," she said. "All of us. May's cooking. Non-negotiable."
Peter made a face. "Since when do you negotiate with May?"
"Since always," Gwen said. "She wins."
Miles nodded solemnly. "She weaponizes lasagna."
Peter's mouth quirked. He typed back to Harry—Survived too. Working on a half day. He didn't send it. He put the phone away.
"Okay," he said instead. "Light loop is over. You two go eat. I'll—"
"—come with us," Gwen finished.
"—catch up," Peter tried.
Miles stepped in front of him, not blocking, just there. "Dude."
Peter looked past both of them at the seam of river and sky and thought about the drone he hadn't mentioned earlier, the Oscorp bus wrap that made his stomach crawl, the way a word like "loved one" changes shape depending on who's looking. Too much to unpack on a roof with half of him still vibrating toward movement.
"Fine," he said. "Food. Fifteen minutes."
"Thirty," Gwen said.
"Twenty," he shot back.
Miles held up both hands. "Twenty-five. Before I text May."
Peter grimaced. "You fight dirty."
"Correct," Miles said. "Come on."
They peeled across the last few rooftops together, aiming for the deli with the good bread and the too-sour pickles. On the final jump, Peter overextended. Gwen's hand flashed to his elbow, steadying without making a thing of it. He swallowed the pride and didn't pull away.
On the sidewalk, they split into regular-people space: hoods up, masks down, that practiced casual that said try not to look. They ordered enough sandwiches to make the owner raise an eyebrow. Miles paid before Peter could argue. Gwen slid a Gatorade into Peter's hand without comment.
They ate leaning against a sun-warmed wall. Peter took a bite and tasted salt and tomato and the edges of sanity returning. He let his shoulders drop a fraction. Miles told a story about his mom's lab and a mislabeled reagent that was definitely not a smoothie. Gwen complained about web fluid clogging in humidity. Peter answered like a person, not a siren.
It lasted twelve minutes.
A horn slammed somewhere up the block. A box truck had taken a turn too wide and clipped a hydrant; water geysered, a car swerved, someone stumbled.
Peter was already pushing off the wall.
Gwen didn't stop him. She was moving too. Miles chucked the last bite of his sandwich into the trash and followed.
They handled it fast—Gwen webbed the hydrant cap down, Miles redirected traffic with big clear gestures, Peter hauled the stunned driver from the truck cab and made sure he wasn't bleeding. No heroics. No cameras, or if there were, no one cared.
Afterward, they stood in the spray mist, sticky and damp, and Peter felt the ache come back with a vengeance under the cool. He hid it behind a grin.
"Half day," Gwen reminded.
"Half," Peter echoed.
Miles stared him down. "Say it like you mean it."
Peter tugged his mask up and crammed the last of the sandwich into his mouth as proof of… something. "Hav day," he mumbled.
Gwen shook her head. "Close enough."
They started back toward the rooftops. The city's hum folded around them, the kind of noise that could hide a lot if you let it. Peter slid his phone out long enough to send two messages without overthinking.
To May: Dinner. I'll be there.
To Harry: Alive. Meet later?
Three dots appeared under Harry's name, then vanished, then returned.
Harry: Good. I have exactly one hour where no one owns me. Name the place.
Peter smiled into the collar of his hoodie, the expression small and private. "I'll text you," he told the air, then glanced at Gwen and Miles. "Team loop tomorrow?"
Gwen's mask tilted, unimpressed fond. "Tomorrow and the next day," she said. "We're not letting you run yourself into the ground."
Miles bumped his shoulder. "We're annoying like that."
Peter didn't argue. He didn't promise, either.
They launched for the next roof together, three arcs cutting through the late afternoon light. The city kept moving. So did he. The rest would have to learn to meet him where he was.