Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Mr. Stark, your father is here.”

Before he entered his office, he heard one of his most disliked phrases. As if the day's busy meetings weren't enough, there he was. 

When he opened the door, he saw his father sitting with his back turned in the chair across from his desk. Next to him stood Pepper, wearing her usual professional smile.

“Come here, Anthony,” Howard said as he turned around, “we were just talking about your reputation for being useless.”

Pepper tilted her head slightly without making eye contact, still smiling. Tony made his way to his desk as she quietly walked out.

"Really? Now you're making fun of my scandalous behaviors?" Tony said, sinking into his chair.

"Now? Pepper's been doing this for years. There's nothing new."

“Is this a visit or an examination?”

Howard rose from the chair and stood up. "Life looks easy from that chair, doesn't it? I should have only given you this when you really deserved it."

“So, disturb the peace?”

"It hasn't been disturbed yet. But as of today it will be. I'm done with your fooling around. I want a marriage, Anthony. In a year at the latest."

Tony lifted his gaze for the first time. “Or else?”

"Or else... At 50, you'll be a lonely, scandalized man. And that cannot be the legacy of Stark Industries. I won't allow it."

“Actually, I'm 48, that makes next year 49.”

"No. 49 would be the year of failure. 50... is the age when you're no longer CEO."

“Is that a threat?”

Howard looked at it without squinting. "You know it's more than that. One year. The time has started."

Tony didn't even bother to move as Howard left the office.

“He looks quite serious this time.” After he left, Pepper stepped back into the room.

“Really? So he told you his whole plan?” Seriously, this guy...

“A year is not exactly a generous deadline to find a wife, you know, Tony.”
Unless, of course, you counted the dozens of other corporate heirs lining up. But they were useless. The old man wouldn’t live long anyway, he needed someone whose divorce would be clean and quiet, who wouldn’t run to the press saying the whole thing had been a sham. Not someone Tony would be manipulated by, but someone he could manipulate.

“Tik-tok, then. I need time to think.”

As Pepper exited the office again, one thought remained with him, Who the hell would willingly throw away their life just to become media bait for Tony Stark?

⋆────꩜────⋆

It was getting late and there were hardly any people left in the building. Tired from sitting in his office for so long, Tony decided to get his own coffee.

When he went down to the cafeteria, a voice in the distance caught his attention. Looking around, he saw one of the young interns sitting at a table in the far corner, not even noticing him coming, looking out the window.

It was unpredictable who he was talking to on the phone, but he could hear some of what he was saying, although his voice was low.

"They took May to the emergency room again today... Yes, they changed the pills. But I still haven't figured out the payment. If the paycheck is late this month-"

He stopped for a moment. A deep breathing sound came from inside. Then another sentence like a whisper, "I'll take care of it. I have to take care of it."

When the coffee was ready, Tony poured it into his cup. The boy's voice was no longer coming or he wasn't speaking. He took one last look in that direction as he left. The boy had put the phone on the table and was staring outside.

⋆────꩜────⋆

Happy knocked lightly on the door and entered without waiting for Tony's nod. He was holding a tablet.

"We've prepared the documents you requested. The file contains Peter Parker's entire internship process, logs in and out, leave requests, and emergency contact information. HR was a little nosy about your request for health information, but we got it done."

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember why HR exists?”

Happy bowed his head and left. Tony picked up the tablet. As his fingers moved across the screen, the folder opened,

"Intern – Parker, P."

First he looked at the basics. Check-in times. Night shifts. The time he arrived on Saturday morning. When he left on Sunday evening. He had never asked anyone for anything, but he was always in the building.

“Night shift request denied.”

"Leave of absence: July 3 - ‘Family emergency.’"

“Note: He returned to work on his own initiative.”

Then came the contact details. The emergency contact: May Parker.

And just below that: Hospital registration link.

Tony stared at the screen for a while. It made him uneasy to find out what this boy wasn't saying, but he didn't stop himself. Then, in the background, a short note added by HR:

'Requested an additional payment plan due to the health condition of a close family member. The request is denied.'

A familiar expression appeared on Tony's face: Not anger, not resentment. “The boy is trying to handle this alone.”

He turned off the tablet screen.

⋆────꩜────⋆

“Parker!” He looked up as the cafeteria worker called out to him. “Mr. Stark wants his coffee served.”

It was late at night. Not many people stayed at this hour. Stark must have had no secretary or errand runner, and he must have been too busy - too lazy - to come and get it himself.

When Peter approached the counter, there was no coffee in sight. “Where is it?” The woman came out wearing her coat and carrying her bag. “This is out of my office hours, take care of it.” 

As she left, Peter looked after her in disbelief. She was working for this kind of company with a very good salary and bonuses. And she didn't have five minutes to spare for her boss?

Worse, he didn't even know how Stark drinks his coffee. Should he make regular filter coffee or add something to it? Or was it too strong for this hour? He stared at the line of coffee beans like they were ticking bombs. What if he made it too weak? What if Stark liked it strong and bitter like... himself?

He tried to make something in the middle as best he could. Something he could drink and call neither too strong nor too soft.

He knocked on the door and went in. The man was sitting at his desk signing what seemed like tons of papers. Peter didn't know where to put the coffee for a moment as he approached, but when he got in front of his desk the man looked up and reached for it.

He was about to move away after a gesture when the man's voice stopped him. "You often work shifts. Workload?"

Did he realize? He didn't usually have any contact with him in the company. Even when he came down to their floor, they might have made eye contact a few times in all these years. 

“No, sir. It's just... the house isn't quieter.”

Tony nodded slowly. "But you also leave early some days. There are notes in the system."

Peter's insides clenched for a moment. " She... some days... hospital appointments. My aunt, May. We had a near-intensive care... situation."

There was silence. Tony's expression didn't change, but his eyes lingered on Peter for a second longer. “Why didn't you tell anyone?”

“I didn't need to. I didn't want to ask for help. I'm on it.”

“With who?”

“By myself.”

Peter looked up at him. In that moment, he realized that Stark was thinking about something, but he couldn't figure out what. Tony took a step forward. He took the coffee from the cup. He smelled it, drank it. “You make good coffee.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“Do you want me to call you ‘Peter’?”

“Whatever you think is appropriate.”

Tony nodded his head slightly. “I'll get them to restore your time off days, and I'll tell them to fix the overtime pay.”

Peter opened his eyes wide. "Really? But why?“

”Because people who do everything alone shouldn't be alone. Besides, you're making up enough of your time off with your work shifts."

You could describe Stark in many words, but Peter didn't think one of them was compassionate. And yet, here he was — tired eyes, cold coffee, and words Peter didn’t know he needed to hear. Yes, even the interns at the company were paid more than most places, and the bonuses were pretty good. But Stark was in their face once a month, once a year. Even though everyone talked about him as a good boss, there was no such thing as a boss-employee relationship.

“Thank you Mr Stark, really. That’s the kindness thing.”

⋆────꩜────⋆

Peter didn’t even know how he had left the company when he got the call. May's condition was more urgent than ever and she was at risk of being transferred to intensive care. The moment Peter threw himself into the street, he jumped into a taxi and headed for the hospital. 

As he was walking through the hospital, he saw the doctor and walked up to him. “How is she?” 

“I'm afraid she's in intensive care.” Peter was stunned by the sentence he heard. “She's going to be all right, isn't she?"

"Peter, it's hard to tell you this, but the conditions at our hospital are not good enough for her. She needs to be transferred to another hospital."

“But if you transfer there... the costs...”

The doctor bowed his head sadly. "Unfortunately, it's completely out of private insurance. Because of the high technology... it's quite expensive."

“But, she needs to go there.”

"I'm sure you can find a way, Peter. But you'd better hurry. I’m afraid I can't give you good news for more than a week here."

Peter slowly slumped into the seats as the doctor moved forward. A week... That was too short. He was just a college student and an intern. He wasn't even doing anything outstanding to get some extra money. Even if he did forty different jobs in a week, he wouldn't be able to collect this money. And the bank would never give him such a large amount. Because there was no way he would be able to collect and pay it back anytime soon.

“Peter.” He looked up at the familiar voice. Happy was standing a few feet away. Was he in trouble for leaving unannounced?

Slowly getting up from his seat, he made his way to the man. "I'm not fired, am I? I can explain."

"That's not for me to know. Mr. Stark is waiting for you in the car in the garden."

Mr. Stark? In the garden? In the car? Waiting for him? It had been over a week since their night shift conversation. Was he angry that he'd disappointed him so quickly?

By the time he got to the exit of the hospital, it was pouring rain. Happy didn't even have to point it out. Stark's car already stood out among all the other cars.

Peter quickly made his way to the car. He got in quickly and closed the door so the rain wouldn't get in. He was ashamed, it was unprofessional to leave unannounced.

“I’m so sorry.” After a few moments of silence, Peter was the first to speak.

Tony was looking out the window. The rain fell in a quiet rhythm on the car window, making the silence inside even more suffocating.

Peter put his hands together in his lap. “I'm so sorry,” he repeated in a lower voice.“I know I should’ve let someone know I was leaving but—”

“Peter.”

The voice was not sudden, but it was decisive enough. Peter stopped.

Tony pulled an elegant folder from his pocket and handed it to Peter.

Peter opened it. The documents inside looked ordinary at first - medical support protocol, transfer authorization forms... but then, tucked away, one document stood out. The title was bold and formal,

“Civil Partnership Agreement”

Peter froze for a moment. He ran his eyes over the lines, his heart began to beat faster. There was his name in the subtitle. And Tony Stark's name.

“Wait— What…?”

"You need money. And I need a partner to show to the media urgently. A simple signature and everything is done. Just read the conditions and let's talk about what you want to add and what doesn't suit you."

Chapter Text

Peter couldn't believe what he was hearing. His boss, Tony Stark, literally wanted him to marry him. And it wasn't a joke; it was official and binding. And he wasn't even gay. In fact, he didn't even know he was until just now.

He didn't know how to say it in a way that wasn't offensive, but he had to. "Well, um, I'm not gay, Mr. Stark. I mean..." 

Weird. Did he seem that way? Was he ruining things right now?

The man's gaze lingered on him for a moment and then he spoke, "I didn't say you are. Take it as an act. At least if you don't mind a little intimacy."

He gestured with his eyes to the contract he still held in his hand. He wanted him to read the clauses.

Peter skimmed through them briefly. Most of them were about money. In the event of a divorce with this contract, Peter would have no claim to anything other than the money he had been offered.

Others were about privacy. No dating during this period, appearing at media events every month, living in the same house, and a long list of detailed rules. 

The biggest problem was that the expiry date of this contract was uncertain. Even if May survived, recovered, or worse, if something went wrong and the treatment failed, the marriage had to last. 

“What is the end of this?” He had many questions, but that was the first one to be discussed. 

"Let's say until Howard Stark dies. That's a long story."

Until Howard Stark dies. He must have been about 70 years old, but he looked pretty upright and strong. 

"If you're not in a position to fully understand what you're signing in front of me right now, that's understandable. But remember, sometimes life gives you time to decide, not to think. Now is that time."

The clock was ticking. Peter looked toward the hospital through the rain pounding against the glass. The longer May stayed in this hospital, the more she would fade with each passing hour, slowly fading away before Peter's eyes.

Peter still held the contract in his hand. The papers between his fingers trembled, but they both knew it wasn't just the chill from the rain.

He ran his gaze over the lines once more. The clauses were cold and precise. There was no romantic softness, no "understanding". It was like a labor contract. But this time, he was about to enter a life, not a job.

“As it is...” he began, but the words caught in his throat. He raised his eyes to Tony. “Is there really no going back?”

Tony nodded his head slightly. "If you want to move back, I'd have to make a statement to the press. That would ruin us both. Your reputation would be ruined and I'd be humiliated. So... no. There's no going back."

Peter turned his eyes back to the contract. It was as if he was looking for something else - a more humane, fairer clause... but there was none.

“And this...” His voice was almost a whisper. “It's just a media move for you, isn't it?”

Tony shrugged his shoulders slightly. "It's what it is to you, Peter. For me it's a need. For you it could be a rescue."

That sentence was like a knife in Peter's chest.

As his fingers reached for the pen, he could hear how fast his heart was beating. It was as if the whole car echoed his heartbeat. Tony was silent as his wet hands gripped the metal of the pen. Outside the car the rain was still falling in the same rhythm. But inside, time seemed to stop.

He put pen to paper. And then, with one last breath, he wrote his name,

Peter Benjamin Parker.

He filled in the date. As he put the pen down, his fingers trembled, almost as if they had fallen into a void.

Tony took the file, didn't check it. He just put it aside. Then he really looked at Peter for the first time. For that moment, just for a moment, there was something in his eyes. 

Gratitude? Sadness? It wasn't clear.

⋆────꩜────⋆

When he returned home late at night, his clothes still smelled of the hospital. He kicked off his shoes, leaned his back against the door and stood there for a few seconds. May was a little more stable. The transfer had taken place. The documents with Tony Stark's name on them had almost automated the process.

But not everything inside Peter was automatic. It was slowly unraveling.

He went into his small room and pulled his phone out of his pants pocket. When he opened it, there was an unread email in his inbox:

Subject: Civil Partnership Agreement - Full Text (Signed Copy and Attachments)

From: [email protected]

He touched the screen with his fingers. The mail opened. Attached were several PDF files. One was a signed copy. The other,

“Agreement Details - Annotated Clause List”

Peter opened the file.

The lines were in black and white, but to Peter they looked redder than blood and sharper than paper.

• Clause 3.1: The parties agree to present emotional intimacy and the marital relationship in a genuine manner in the press and in public places.
• Clause 5.2: Neither party may have any physical or romantic interactions with third parties.
• Clause 6.5: The marriage union is valid until the death of Howard Stark. The personal relational satisfaction of the parties does not affect this duration.
• Clause 9.3: The use of the shared residence is arranged so that a minimum of 5 nights/week are spent together.
• Clause 10.1: In the event of separation, Peter B. Parker receives a payment of USD 2 million. However, he waives any claim to any other ownership, shareholding or royalties.

Peter quickly scrolled through the pages, but his eyes were stuck somewhere:

• Clause 11.4: The parties will appear together in projects that will be made available to the public; the scheduling of these appearances is handled solely by Tony Stark.

Suddenly he felt very small. In this contract he had signed in his own name, he had almost no decision space. At that moment he felt a pain in his stomach. He wasn't full, but he wasn't hungry either. He was just... choking.

He leaned his head back. He closed his eyes. This was not a marriage. This was a purchase. It was a deal with a sticker on it. But he'd agreed to it.

For May.

He closed the file. But the phone screen was still lit up. There was a small note at the bottom of the email:

"We can talk tomorrow at our first meeting at 6.00 p.m. to review or change any clauses you want. - T"

Peter just stared at the screen.

The first meeting. The first “marital meeting”.

⋆────꩜────⋆

Tony's office was bright enough to see out the window, but the sky was gray. Peter was standing in the corner of the room. He was wearing a shirt that was a little too formal; Happy had specifically told him to "dress properly today" on his way in today.

Peter studied the files and screens on Tony's desk, but without looking away. Everything was very organized, but at the same time uncomfortably quiet.

Tony took a sip of his coffee and spoke without looking up.

“Sit down.”

Peter took a slow step, then another. He tried not to make a sound as he sat down on the leather seat. He put his hands on his knees, then clasped them together again, not knowing what to do. He was about to say something when Tony pulled an envelope out of his desk drawer.

"Here's a revised version of the contract."

He handed the envelope to Peter. Peter involuntarily averted his eyes but took the envelope. He just held it in his hand for a moment, then began to open it as if it held a weight that wasn't there.

Tony leaned back in his chair, crossed his knee over his other leg and picked up his coffee again. His voice was neither soft nor harsh. The CEO tone he was used to: measured, short, clear.

"Look it over. If there's anything you don't understand or want to talk about, ask now."

Peter nodded. He opened the file. His throat went dry as his eyes traveled between the lines. “Media appearances...”, “shared housing arrangement...”, “mutual fidelity...”, “neither party to engage in romantic or sexual relationships with third parties...”

His eyes lingered on a line. He did not pretend to read it; he double-checked the sentence to make sure he had actually read it.

Then his voice came out almost hoarse, but in a steady tone, “What is the level of physical contact...”

He raised his eyes to Tony. It wasn't like a flirting question, but a boundary-setting question. “...I mean, how real does it have to be?”

Tony's expression didn't change, but he put his cup down on the table. He spoke without taking his eyes off Peter, "It has to be convincing. Especially in public spaces."

Then he paused for a moment.

"But your comfort level will determine that. Without overstepping your boundaries, but without making the other side suspicious."

Peter nodded his head slowly. He couldn't get the sentence together. “I mean... holding hands... kissing...”

Tony didn't budge.

"When the time comes, yes. But nothing will happen without your approval. Certain boundaries can be drawn in front of the media. In private... unless the stage calls for it, it won't be needed."

Peter looked at the file again for a moment. His name, Tony Stark's name, dates, signatures. It was like a play contract. But it was his own life he had to play with.

Peter went back to the file. This time he turned the pages a little faster, but paused at one item. His eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“Prohibition of... romantic or sexual relationships... with third parties...”

He raised his eyes, a little uneasy. “Isn't that a bit much? It's not a real marriage.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, straightened a little in his chair. There was a slight inflection in his voice. “Or... do you have a secret lover or something, Peter?”

Peter's eyes widened. "What? No! No, it's just..."

He stopped before he could finish the sentence. He felt like he was in denial for nothing. "...I mean, you just said it was a long-term thing. If one day I want to be with someone? Or if someone approaches me?"

Tony gave him a look. It was the same look he had when he was evaluating projects in the office, but this time it was more personal. “If you're in this contract, no one can approach you.”

He waited a second. "And you can't approach anyone. Because publicly, you are my partner."

Peter averted his eyes. That was very strict. But also very clear. “So there's an expectation of loyalty... even if it's a fake one.”

“Exactly,” Tony said.

"We have to pretend it's not for show. Because if someone makes a mistake, the whole picture collapses. And it's going to cost me millions to build it. And May's life."

Peter nodded silently. "Okay."

Peter was silent for a few seconds. He looked at the file once more. His eyes fell on the small clause under the heading “Breach of obligations”.

He looked up as he twirled the pen in his hand. "So... well... what happens if one of these clauses is breached?"

Tony looked up from the computer screen. "Which clause?"

"I mean any of them. Like... meeting someone, leaking something false to the press, or..."

"...or walking away from the deal without telling me?"

Peter bit his lip, nodded slightly.

Tony leaned forward slightly in his chair, his voice clear.

"Then the contract is unilaterally terminated. And you would have no rights. The treatment would be incomplete, May wouldn't be able to continue her treatment. Maybe the next day there'll be a headline in the press, ‘Betrayal by Stark's husband’. And on top of that, you'll have to pay compensation for breaching protocol."

Peter's eyes widened. "So... you'd sue me?"

Tony cocked his head, raising an eyebrow, "If you did it just for the money and then backed out... why wouldn't I?"

Silence. Peter put the pen down on the table. He took a deep breath.

"You've really thought... about... so many... things."

"Peter, this isn't just a simple favor. This is part of Stark Industries's media control plan. Emotional or not, I'm investing in a risk, and you are that risk."

Peter didn't dare look Tony in the eye, but he asked without looking up:

"What about you? What happens if you breach?"

Tony paused for a moment. The question had obviously caught him off guard. He closed the file on his desk before answering.

"I... it's not like you lose all the rights that are offered to you. But if I breach the seriousness of this, the contract will still be terminated."

"But you don't seem to have anything to lose."

This time Tony turned his gaze to Peter.

"You're wrong."

His voice was not harsh. On the contrary, it was almost soft.

"My reputation, my media power, my investor relations are all part of this. I'm not offering you a life, Peter. I'm offering you a role, and if I break that role, if I make a mistake that leaves you out in the cold, then I'm the one who will be humiliated. And yes, the stock of this company will suffer."

Peter bit his lip.

"So... you lose something in the same way?"

"Exactly. It's not just money. Power, control... and maybe the faith of a few."

He paused for a moment.

"And you."

That last sentence left Peter frozen. He didn't know what to say. His eyes flicked to Tony's for a moment.

"I just... I thought we weren't on equal terms."

Tony smiled slightly, but it was tired.

"You will never be on a completely equal footing with me, Peter. But that doesn't mean you'll always be beneath me."

Peter scratched his head, averting his eyes. It must make him feel guilty to even ask the question.

"And lastly. I can't tell anyone the truth. So… no one? Not even my friends? My aunt?"

"Especially not your aunt. It has to look like it’s been real for a long time. If you tell them now, no one has any responsibility to me. I cannot control who leaks this to the press and at what moment."

Peter cleared his throat, spoke without raising his eyes to Tony. "They’ll think I didn’t trust them. That I was embarrassed. I mean… I’ll have to pretend like we’ve been—together. For a long time."

"It’s called a backstory. You’re an intern turned lover. An ambitious romantic. It sells."

Tony left a folder on the table with interview templates and images, "There’s already a timeline. You met me three years ago. You were a mystery we kept from the press. Your friends thought you had a secret boyfriend. You just never confirmed it."

"That’s not how it happened," said quietly Peter.

"Doesn’t matter. That’s how it’s going to be remembered."

After a few moments of silence, Tony pushed the pen in front of Peter. "As I promised you, if there's anything you want to add or change, we can still talk. But otherwise... it's time to make it official."

Peter nodded without taking his eyes off the documents. He picked up the pen. His hands were shaking slightly, but it was no longer just fear. Maybe a little excitement. Maybe... acceptance.

He signed his name. First on his copy, then on the one in front of Tony. With the pen in Tony's hand, the silence grew deeper. Peter watched him sign his name too.

When he had finished, Tony closed the file and opened a drawer. He took out a small, dark navy blue box. He handed it to Peter with a serious but unhurried gesture.

"This is... the media-friendly version."

Peter blinked and took the box, but did not immediately open it.

"Is this... a ring?"

"The press scrutinize everything. They 'll even discuss the logo on the inside. So when you wear it, it's on the left ring finger, not the right hand."

Peter opened the box. It was plainer than he expected, but surprisingly meaningful with the small, almost unnoticeable Stark logo on it. "Should I wear this now?"

Tony shook his head from side to side. "No. Happy will pick you up tomorrow morning, right before the press conference. You can wear it in the car. For now... keep it private. Don't show it to anyone. Don't tell anyone."

Peter closed the box again. "I won't tell anyone."

His own voice sounded foreign to him. It was as if he had signed his fate, not an agreement. But as he looked down at the box in his hand, maybe that foreignness wasn't such a bad thing.

“Are we considered married now?” he asked, half joking, half serious.

Tony answered without averting his eyes.

"Not yet. But for the media, tomorrow morning it all starts. For us..." A short pause. "I guess from today nothing is the same anymore."

Chapter Text

The press room is flooded with lights, the crowd is whispering. The camera flashes have not yet started, but the stage is remarkably set. In the center, in front of the large 'STARK INDUSTRIES' logo, Tony Stark appeared. His smile is wide, but there is a serious shadow in his gaze.

"Hello, everyone. As you know, at these meetings I usually talk about energy solutions, new technologies, and sometimes, if you ask me, things that are a little too boring.” A laughter filled the room.

“But today is different. Today I am going to make a personal statement, in my opinion - maybe the most personal statement of my life."

Some in the crowd lean forward. The cameras begin to focus. Howard Stark, sitting in the front row, squints his eyes and stares intently at his son. Next to him is Pepper Potts, elegantly seated, ready and poised as always. But this time there is a difference, a tiny expectation.

Tony continued. “I've been in the public eye for years because of my work. But there are some things, no matter how smart or rich you are, you can't achieve them on your own. It's the human condition. You need help. Or... a partner.”

He gave a brief pause, then a meaningful look.

“So, today I would like to introduce you to the person with whom I will soon share my life.”

The atmosphere in the hall suddenly changed. Journalists reach for their cameras, Pepper's face go blank for a moment. For the briefest of moments, her eyes drift not to Tony, but to the dark stage curtain behind him.

A narrow corridor backstage. In the dim light, Peter has his hand on the wall, twisting the ring between his fingers. He looks too formal, too expensive in his black suit. Looking at himself in the mirror, he tries to remember how to breathe.

“It's just a game. A contract. For May. For May. For May.” These were the words he had been mumbling to himself since last night.

He took a deep breath, pressed his hand to his chest.

A voice came through his earpiece. Someone from the security team, "Mr. Stark is calling now. Get ready."

Peter's eyes widened, he looked at the ring one last time. "You don't have to love me. Just don't be angry with me."

The stagehand parted the curtain.

"Go on. Now."

Peter lifted his head, screwed up his face and stepped forward.

Tony was standing center stage, one hand in his pocket, the other looking out at the audience. His smile was softer now, as if he was carrying the weight of something but didn't want to show it.

“And now... let me introduce you to the person I have chosen to share my life with... Peter Parker.”

The hall was silent for a moment. Then the flashbulbs started to go off. Some journalists couldn't recognize the name and leaned over their notebooks, others turned to Google. Pepper, sitting in the front row, continued to stare at the stage without blinking. Only a brief glimpse in her eyes passed like a faint but noticeable shadow as Peter stepped onto the stage.

Peter slowly stepped onto the stage. He felt the eyes of the crowd piercing him. Even though his suit fit him, he felt as if he had shrunk inside. His eyes shifted briefly to the audience.

Flashes... flashes...

And there.

Two faces. Maybe a couple of business people, maybe journalists. Or just two strangers who were having trouble being happy.

But there is a clear dissatisfaction on their faces, a squint of suspicion in their eyebrows, a strangeness scrutinizing Peter. He couldn't understand what it was. But he realized it. His eyes turned to Tony for a moment.

Tony held out his hand and looked at Peter. Clear, confident. Like he was running this show.

“Are you ready?” He said it softly, so only he could hear...

Peter held out his hand. He felt a warmth in his palm as it met his. He couldn't tell if it was confidence or desperation passing through his fingers. But he held it. Tightly.

"We've known we were together for a long time, but today we have nothing to hide anymore. In front of the press, we are engaged."

The applause started. It got louder and louder. At that moment Tony slightly raised his bound hands with the rings.

The stage lights are brilliant. But still, Peter sees those two faces in the audience once more. The same look. The same interrogation. The same coldness.

And then another face. Howard Stark. He sits with his face like stone, his jaw clenched. Hands on his knees, his gaze fixed on Tony. He doesn't clap, he doesn't gesture. Just... watching.

With the crowd still applauding, Peter walked off the stage next to Tony. Darkness and silence greeted them as they passed through the backstage curtain while the lights remained behind them. Immediately several press officers and company employees were busy checking things out. But one person stands still.

Howard Stark.

Like a shadow. Hands clasped behind his back, straight, calm.

As Tony continued walking with Peter, he slowed his pace when he saw his father. Peter felt the change too. Posture, breath, eyes.

“Is that the boy?” The sentence is not sharp but icy. Peter stopped involuntarily. In that moment he felt as if he was not engaged, but as if he had come to apply for a job.

"Yes. Peter." Tony's voice was clearer than anything else. 

"You may have thought to let me know before you made the press release. You shouldn't tell a father hours before you tell him his son is getting married."

"You would have been late. You would have been indecisive. Especially in this case..."

Silence. For a few seconds, the three of them just looked at each other. Peter felt the pressure of being caught between them in his bones. He wanted to run away but he couldn't move.

“Do you have any plans to have children?”

Peter's brow furrowed. He didn't quite understand what he was saying.

"Enough. This is a point of no interest to you, because this is not a business deal." Tony's words were sharp but it didn't break the old man.

"Is it? Then why doesn't it bother you so much that the guy you're going to inherit 40% of the company from can't give you a biological heir?"

"I-I didn't ask for that. Tony... Mr. Stark was just.. I-"

Half of Tony's body quickly moved in front of Peter's. "Peter. No need."

They didn't make eye contact, but one could tell Tony's shoulders were tensing, his voice becoming more hoarse. He took a step closer to Howard.

"You don't have to know the inside story. But there's no turning back now. The press release is done. The photos have been distributed. If you make a scene, your reputation goes with it. Along with all of ours."

“I hope you know what you're doing.”

Then he turned and walked away. Then the air cleared a little, but Peter was still motionless. His face was flushed, his throat felt dry. Tony turned to him, his expression soft but tired.

"I shouldn't have involved you. This is... my war."

“Well, it's mine now, too.” There was a forced swallow.

⋆────꩜────⋆

The house was quiet, only the gentle howling of the wind outside could be heard. May was in the hospital, no doctor's voice or May's breathing could be heard coming into the room. Peter is in his old room, sitting on one of the cushions on the floor, the cold ring box in his hand.

He opened the box. The ring inside sparkled slightly. He hasn't put it on his finger yet. His eyes are on the little plays of light dancing on the ring's band.

Is this ring... just a piece of metal? Or the biggest chain of my life? May, Ned, MJ... Keeping what I can't tell any of them... What does it mean to carry such a secret?

He took a deep breath.

This house... May's warmth is still here. But I'm alone now. It's like I'm trapped in a room. And even this house isn't mine anymore.

Everything is changing and I'm not ready for it. But maybe I will never be ready.

He pretended for a moment to put the ring on his finger, then stopped.

Either this contract... or me... I don't know which will last longer.

Peter closed his eyes. For a moment the loneliness grew heavier, then lighter. In the silence of the night, with a deep sigh, he rose to his bed.

⋆────꩜────⋆

It was not yet fully light when a luxury transport vehicle quietly pulled into Peter's neighborhood. The driver honked a short horn, but the sleepy silence of the street remained unbroken.

Peter opened the window. For a few moments he just looked down. The porters were out of the car, walking towards the door. Peter's eyes were on the ground. This street, this building, this door... Maybe he would never look at them like that again.

When he opened the door, the sounds in the house had changed. Every corner he and May had built together over the years was now a piece of furniture to be moved. He was just standing on the corner, not even in a state to decide what to take and what to leave.

An employee approached. "Everything is on the list. It will be done in two hours. You can put your personal belongings in that box yourself, we won't touch it."

Peter nodded. He glanced at the small bag in his hand. A few books, a framed photo of May, an old plush toy, and the ring box. That was it. The only things that were “his” now.

Another silence fell as the house emptied quickly. Peter went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He had dark circles under his eyes, but for the first time this morning he tried to fix his hair. He put on a plain black sweater. Simple, but like someone who was going to be in the media.

When he came out, his car was ready. Happy opened the door. There was only a bottle of water and a folded shirt on the back seat.

"The house has been prepared this morning. Security is waiting for you at the entrance. And... Tony won't be waiting for you inside. He's leaving the company before the meeting."

“Right.”

As Peter got into the car, he took one last look at his old building out of the corner of his eye. One of the windows was open. The wind was blowing the curtain slightly.

Once in the car, the silence filled him again. But this time with a different weight. Everything has started.

⋆────꩜────⋆

Peter stepped carefully through the big, quiet house. The ceilings were very high. Everything looked either too expensive or too sterile.

Happy was in the kitchen working on a coffee machine. Peter sat in a chair and put his hands on the table.

“You moved pretty fast, huh?”

“Yeah... a little too fast.”

"That's how Tony works. First he makes rules, then he leaves you in the middle of them."

He put the coffee cups down in front of him. Peter still hadn't untied his hands.

“Be honest with me, Happy. Is what he's doing... normal?”

“For Tony? 100%.”

Silence.

“Look, I don't know exactly what's going on, and I don't need to know. But I can tell you this; if you've made a deal, your biggest advantage is being yourself. The press conference is over, and now it's time for the evening event where you'll be seen as the first couple.”

“Evening?”

“Yes. The fundraising gala. There will be media, old acquaintances… Tony will want you by his side. Dress nicely, don’t talk too much, and… learn to decline drink offers if necessary.”

Peter looked away for a moment.

He hadn't put on his ring yet. He was carrying it in his pocket.

When Peter entered his new room, there was a suit lying on the bed. It resembled a tuxedo, but was more elegant than the classic version. There was a small note on it:

“We're starting tonight. Eye contact, a smile, a few touches. I'll take care of the rest. -T”

Peter took the note in his hand, took the ring out of his pocket. He looked at it for a while. As he looked at the ring in the mirror, he felt uncomfortable with his own reflection. He looked like a stranger. 

But there was no turning back. 

Chapter Text

The hall was crowded. Crystal chandeliers danced with light, and elegant music was lost amid the buzz. Cameras were already lined up at the door. 

Tony got out of the car first. He opened the door for Peter. 

Tony glanced at Peter, “Are you ready, my spouse?"

Peter cleared his throat, “No. But I will do it.”

Tony nodded slightly and extended his arm to Peter. Peter hesitated at first, then had to take it. Just before the lights greeted them, he whispered, “Eye contact. Smile. And don’t let go of my hand.”

The flashes went off. The press bombarded them with questions like, “Mr. Stark, who is your partner?” and “What is the history of this relationship?”

Peter lowered his head, but Tony pulled him slightly toward himself and stepped forward.

Tony spoke in a loud, clear voice that everyone could hear. “After a long and formal process, I have someone by my side. And I will no longer answer questions like this. Just get to know him.”

As Peter entered, he tried to pick out faces in the crowd. His eyes fell on two faces,

One was Pepper. She was smiling professionally, but her eyes said something so clear that Peter would look away from her in a few seconds. 

The other was Howard Stark. He was motionless. His brows were furrowed. He was sizing Peter up from head to toe, and the familiar lines of disappointment toward Tony were appearing on his face.

The red carpet went on forever. Cameras flashed with every step they took.

Peter held Tony's outstretched arm, but he wasn't sure how tightly he should grip it.

Tony leaned in and whispered as they entered, “You see, don't you? They're just watching. They'll take whatever we give them.”

Peter nodded slightly, but his eyes remained fixed on the crowd. This wasn't his world.

Then Tony stopped. A woman's voice came from behind them, 

“Tony! Tony, just a second—!”

The woman had been associated with Tony before. Her dress was flawless, her gaze confident. She smiled after looking at Peter. “Is this... someone new?”

Tony paused for a moment, then gently touched Peter’s waist.

“No. This is my husband." His smile carried a hint of pride. 

The woman’s smile froze. Peter felt Tony’s brief but possessive touch on the back of his hand. A part of him felt both startled and oddly warmed.

Under the golden lights of the hall, Peter felt as if he were inside a glass bubble. Sounds echoed around him as everyone watched the couple making their first public appearance together.

Tony leaned toward a guest, his hand still on Peter's waist. It was as if he were saying, 'This is where you belong.' Peter had begun to search for meaning in every touch.

⋆────꩜────⋆

When Tony left Peter to talk to someone else for a moment, a young man approached Peter.

“I don't think I've seen you before. Are you new in this hell?"

Peter smiled slightly. He liked the relaxed tone, but Tony's words in the contract came to mind.

“I guess... I'm kind of new. I'm just a guest.”

“I hope you stay long. Let’s not spoil Stark’s fun, but… everything with him is short-lived.” As he said this, the man took another step closer.

Before Peter could respond, Tony intervened. Pretending to adjust his glasses, he gently touched the man.

“Peter isn’t just a guest. From now on, he’s the host.” He said this with a smile, but firmly. 

When the man walked away, Tony leaned over to Peter's ear and whispered, “You look very attractive tonight. But if too many people stare at you, I may have to lock you up at home.”

Peter's heart skipped a beat. Was he joking? Or... no, he seemed serious.

⋆────꩜────⋆

The night-long event had now given way to a crowd softened by alcohol and conversation under dim lights. The music was still playing, but people had dispersed; some were at the tables, others were swaying slowly on the dance floor. Peter had moved slightly away from the crowd and come to the terrace overlooking the sea.

His jacket was still on his back, but he had loosened his tie and was fingering his ring with his right hand. He had no drink in his hand; he was just standing there. He was watching the yachts glimmering in the distance. A few of them had small red lights on their decks.

He didn't turn around when he heard footsteps approaching behind him. The voice was familiar anyway.

Tony came up beside him silently. He wasn't wearing a jacket, the top button of his shirt was undone, and he had a glass in his hand. After glancing at Peter, he turned his gaze to the same view. 

“It's ironic, though, I don't really like these kinds of events either,” he said quietly. 

Peter looked back at him. Tony's face was calm but tired. There were traces of fake smiles, poses, and handshakes on it.

Peter bowed his head. “Then why are we here?”

Tony shrugged slightly. “Because the media needs a story. Ours, I must admit, is quite a compelling one.”

Then he pointed ahead with his head.

“See those yachts? The biggest one... probably TMZ. The one next to it, Vogue. The other one is small but stubborn, definitely a French magazine.”

Peter squinted. The lenses were indeed pointed at them. They looked still and dark, but both knew they were on standby, ready to flash at the slightest movement. 

Tony sighed quietly, set his glass down on a nearby table, then turned to Peter. 

“Are you ready?” he asked quietly.

Peter raised his eyebrows slightly. “For what?”

Tony gently touched Peter's cheek. “To our first ‘passionate’ moment.”

Peter smiled involuntarily, partly to suppress the anger inside him.

“I'm very excited to share a fake kiss with you here, Sir Stark.”

Tony bowed his head slightly. “Oh, this won't be fake.”

And then he leaned forward and kissed him. This wasn't just a pose for the cameras. The kiss started calmly and cautiously, but then Tony's hand slid down to Peter's waist, making it more possessive, more real. Peter's eyes closed involuntarily, and for a few seconds, all that remained in his world was the wind, the salt, and Tony's touch.

The flashes popped. When Peter opened his eyes, there was a brief but lasting glimmer on the surface of the sea.

Tony stepped back, a slight smile on his lips. “We'll be on the front page tomorrow morning.”

Peter didn't look away this time. He just whispered, “That... was quite real.”

Tony's response was immediate.

“It was as real as it needed to be.”

⋆────꩜────⋆

The car was quiet. Outside, the city lights reflected off the window, each one briefly hitting Peter's ring. Peter pulled his hand gently onto his lap and looked at the ring.

Happy coughed softly at the wheel, then glanced briefly at Peter in the mirror.

“Your first night... was quite eventful, huh.”

Peter tilted his head slightly. He tried to smile, but only the corner of his lip twitched. He slowly ran his hand over the ring. 

The ring was glowing. As if it were the real proof of something unreal. Like glass, a silent, screaming symbol.

A few seconds later, Tony spoke, his head resting against the window. His voice was soft but clear. 

“The media will analyze even your walk. Did you smile? Did you catch your breath? It will pass after tomorrow.”

“What about the people inside? Your father...”

Tony didn't turn his head.

“They won't pass. But their not passing doesn't mean you have to stop.”

Peter remained silent. He looked at the ring in his hand again. It seemed heavier now.

For a young man torn from his family, his home, his life in a single night, this was the only certainty on his finger.

‘This… isn’t marriage,’ Peter thought. ‘This is a chain of decisions made on my behalf.’

But he still didn’t take it off his finger.

Because perhaps he had realized too late that he was the one who wanted things to change.

⋆────꩜────⋆

When Peter opened his eyes, the first thing he felt was... silence. Not the kind of silence he was used to; empty, vast, and somewhat ominous. There were no more of May's morning footsteps, no more coffee clinking from the kitchen of the old apartment, no more chirping of birds outside the window.

His new room—and his new bed—were too big. Even the silky texture of the blanket on top of him felt strange. For a few seconds, he stared at the ceiling, trying to remember where he was. Then he raised his left hand. The ring was still on his finger. The kiss from last night was still fresh in his mind.

He sighed and got out of bed. The suitcase in the corner of the room was still unopened.

He put on a T-shirt and quietly walked out into the hallway. Tony's room was on the floor above.. Was he at home or at work? He had no idea. He probably had no right to ask anyway.

He went down the stairs. The house was big, but it was organized in a claustrophobic way. He remembered where the kitchen was. When he walked into the kitchen, the first thing he saw... wasn't breakfast, but newspapers.

The dining table had turned into a kind of media gallery. There was a newspaper in front of each chair; some were open, some were neatly stacked on top of each other. They all had the same image.

TONY STARK'S SURPRISE ENGAGEMENT – A KISS FULL OF SECRETS

Couple of the Year Takes the Stage: Stark and His Mysterious Young Partner!

Billionaire Wins in Love Too: Who Is His New Partner?

First Kiss, First Scandal?

Peter paused for a moment before approaching the table. The photos... His face washed out by the flash, that genuine moment leaning against Tony... But what was even stranger was Tony's gaze toward Peter. He seemed unaware of the camera. He was smiling. But not just for the media.

Peter sat down on a chair. He picked up the newspaper in front of him. He struggled to turn the page with his ring. Comments, analyses, speculations... Some had even dug into his past. There were subheadings such as “Who is this young man?” and “Is this the relationship Stark has been hiding for years?”

This fake life would now be talked about more than his own story.

And in this house, everything would be shaped by this story.

Suddenly, the silence was broken—footsteps coming from the kitchen door.

Tony entered through the door. His shirt was rumpled; he seemed to have woken up early enough to make his own coffee. He glanced briefly at Peter, then at the newspapers.

“Good morning,” he said. His voice was in his usual Tony tone. “Would you like breakfast, or are you one of those who only feed on scandalous news?” 

Peter replied without looking up from the newspaper, “I think I’ve earned my coffee as the media’s new darling.” 

Tony chuckled softly and headed toward the cupboard. “Then welcome… to the media marriage.” 

Chapter Text

As Tony took a sip of his coffee, Peter was still sitting with his head down on the newspaper in front of him. Although his eyes were on the news, his thoughts were elsewhere. He noticed how comfortable Tony was in the kitchen. It was his natural environment. For Peter, however, it was still a strange house. And when the kitchen door opened again, the room took on an even stranger atmosphere.

Happy was the first to enter.

“Here we are! The married couple's first morning!” he shouted. He had a large basket of flowers in one hand and a box of waffle mix in the other.

Peter flinched. Tony rolled his eyes.

“Happy... This isn't a welcome tour,” said Tony, without getting up from his chair. 

Happy smiled and approached Peter. “But this is an important moment! That's why I came to help with breakfast. There are no pancakes in the house, which is unacceptable.” 

Peter couldn't say anything. Happy patted him on the shoulder affectionately and began to wander around the kitchen.

The footsteps behind him were lighter. Pepper. She was wearing a elegant yet simple morning outfit. She had a briefcase in her hand, in businesswoman mode, but there was another calculation in her eyes.

“Good morning,” she said simply. She glanced at the scene on the table: newspapers, Tony, Peter, and the smell of coffee. Her eyes lingered on Peter for a second. A slight smile, but measured.

Peter nodded slightly to her. “Good morning.”

She said nothing, but her gaze conveyed, ‘I know, but I won’t say anything.’

This caused a slight twinge in Peter’s stomach. It was as if Pepper’s eyes were piercing through that fake kiss, that fake ring.

Tony folded a newspaper from where he was sitting.

“If you like, we can do a rehearsal with our media consultant after breakfast.  Conversations will be under control, but the expressions on your faces are up to you.” 

Happy was still fiddling with the waffle box. “A rehearsal? No, no. These will happen naturally, Tony. Look at the kid, he’s so cute. You looked fantastic last night. The way you held his hand... oh, a full page! It’s like a dream!”

Peter smiled, but it was forced. He glanced at Pepper out of the corner of his eye. She sat silently and took a few files out of her bag.

Peter started playing with his ring.

Happy turned around as he walked toward the kitchen with a plate.

“Am I overexcited, or are you just being calm, Peter?”

After a brief pause, Peter simply said, “Maybe I’m like a freshly married man.”

Happy laughed. Tony raised an eyebrow but smiled. Pepper’s eyes returned to the files. There was a crack in her silence, but only Peter noticed it.

After Tony, Pepper and Happy left, he got ready for class and left. As he did every morning, he went to the garden seating area to meet Mj and Ned just before their shared class.

But of course things were going just as he had thought.

Whereas just three days ago, on Friday, no one, and I mean no one, seemed to know he existed, now, before he had even set foot on the campus grounds, everyone was looking in his direction and whispering. 

He didn't care, what could he do? He knew very well that this was going to happen. He only wished that someone would actually come up to him and not say anything. 

At least he didn't have to sit at the picnic table and wait. Mj and Ned, whom he had avoided talking to face to face all weekend, were already there waiting for him.

They tried to continue their conversation, trying to ignore people's stares as if they were looking at a cage in a zoo. They were trying to be quiet because the eyes and ears of people passing by seemed to be on them all the time. 

At one point Peter even saw some people directly filming them. 

They realized that the conversation could not go any deeper here and that it was getting close to class time, so they got up from the table and headed towards the building. 

Throughout the day the stares continued to be directed at him, and also at Mj and Ned for not leaving his side. At a couple of points they even had to restrain Mj from walking towards them because they were trying to film them.

He was more offended by the looks of his professors than by the looks of the students around him, whom he knew little or nothing about. 

Tony had been here before. Because this was his old school, he had donated money and come to conferences. Now everyone apparently thought Tony was doing it for him. But that wasn't the reality.

He had joined the company at the age of 16, but it was almost a year later that he actually got to see Tony Stark, the fabulous CEO that everyone was singing the praises of. Apparently the CEO was too busy - too arrogant - to meet with the interns.

And they hadn't even spoken. In fact, he couldn't even remember having a conversation with him until last week when Peter had brought him coffee.

He had sat and watched his lecture when he came here, but he didn't think he had even noticed him. Of course, he wasn't the only Stark Industries intern at MIT. And when he said he had interns here when he was here, he knew he still didn't know him in person.

Even at the end of the conference there was nothing. Not a glance, not a conversation. Mj and Ned knew this best because they had attended conferences together and left together. But looking at it now, he thought that even they might have believed it all for a moment.

He had nothing to say. He couldn't share this secret with them. According to Tony's media reports, they had been in a relationship for three years. Which meant that they were secretly dating while he was giving all these lectures. 

What he didn't understand the most, though, were his professors. They always said he was disciplined and different from the others, and now they looked at him as if he had given them the biggest disappointment. 

He couldn't figure out exactly what the problem was. Was it the fact that he was marrying a man, or was it the fact that man was Tony Stark, or was it the fact that he was marrying so young?

As his classes ended, all he could think about was that if this was how hundreds of students who didn't know him looked at this way, how would his colleagues at the company he had worked with all this time now look at him?

They would see him as a traitor, wouldn't they, the quiet intern who had secretly seduced the CEO all this time?

But they all knew the truth. The moments in the breaks when they would bicker about how arrogant Stark had been and how little time he had given them all these years, they would now see him as Tony's secret ear in the company, the one who carried all the gossip to him. 

And that was weird. I mean, when you think about it, nobody had ever been fired. The people who had been fired all this time were now going to excuse their firing under the guise of their own mistakes, that the boy was there when I was gossiping about him.

Just thinking about it made him tired already. But the moment he entered the company, he felt a little relieved. 

Neither the security, nor the people working on the ground floor, nor any of the people on their way didn't look at him from the moment he entered. But he knew that this peace would be broken the moment he got off the elevator and entered the intern floor.

The moment the elevator opened, he moved towards his desk. The interns he always said hello to glanced at him out of the corner of their eyes and didn't look up as if they had very important work to do.

So had he suddenly become the villain? Before, everyone used to say that he was the most friendly person.

He could actually tolerate the fact that no one would talk to him. But people here seemed to have more courage than at school. 

As he sat at his desk doing his work, there were more than glances. For a moment the whispering was deliberately spoken in a normal, even louder than normal tone for him to hear directly. 

So was there a need to get nasty?

They were acting like he went behind everyone's back and tried to get them fired. 

Just ignore it Peter, yeah just ignore it. After all, at some point they'll forget about it, or worse, they won't care as much.

As the clock approached eight o'clock, a notification popped up on his phone.

Tony Stark: I'm leaving now.

So? Now they were telling each other their in and out times or something?

Tony Stark: You leave too.

Tony Stark: Parking lot. A1

It was already a few minutes before the working deadline. He knew it wouldn't be pleasant if he kept him waiting. But he knew that if he left earlier than usual, things would get wild here.

Leaving a few minutes earlier than usual, some had already left, some were getting dressed. It was not unusual here. But it would be unusual for Peter to do it.

All these years he had always been punctual so as not to get into any trouble, to keep out of sight. Now he was going to be in the spotlight until the moment he started packing and got off the elevator at -1 instead of 0.

There was nothing he could do. He was prepared to adopt a hasty but subtle action, but the moment he looked up from his phone, he was met with eyes staring at him. As if the fact that he was looking at his phone was abnormal.

But everyone was aware. That message was from Tony. They knew he was going straight to him.

He didn't care. He didn't look up. He packed up quickly and left without saying anything.

When he opened the car door, no words were spoken. It was actually better that way. He was in no mood to answer the question how was your day, it was worse to complain that they kept staring at me all day like a loser.

When they arrived home, still not a word had been spoken. He stopped caring the moment they walked in. All he wanted was a shower and a deep sleep. 

He had only said goodnight quietly as they walked before heading upstairs, and when the man called him into the kitchen, he followed him through.

As the man took a cold water out of the refrigerator, he gestured for him to sit down on the bar stool just in front of the counter. 

When he sat there, it was as if he hadn't been sitting there all day, and the tiredness of the day washed over him.

“I'll be direct, you look pretty tired.” After pouring the water into a glass he had taken from a cupboard, the man spoke again. “I don't want you to work anymore.”

For a moment Peter could not comprehend what he had just heard. Either because he was very tired or because of something else, but it sounded as if Tony had just told him to quit.

“Excuse me?”

Tony put his glass down on the counter after drinking from it. “I can stop people being difficult in my company or anywhere else and making a scene in a magazine, but I can't stop the stares, Peter.”

So what, he was losing his job because of other people?

“I can't understand. I'm fine with it. I've given four years to this company.”

"But I'm not . Besides, you don't need the money anymore."

"It's not about money. It's about experience... I have adjusted all my projects to be able to work in a company like this."

"There is no need for such CV stuffing, is there? It is written in our contract, when this contract ends, even if this contract is breached, you will be placed in the best companies as an employee with the best references."

All this now seemed more than a recommendation. Is this an order?

“Are you firing me?”

“I wouldn't say that. It's more a step to our inner peace.”

‘Our’ from here sounded more like Tony Stark. What was he more bothered by, the fact that he was employing his fiancée as an intern or the fact that his interns couldn't focus on their work?

As Tony walked out of the kitchen, he could feel another chain of life slipping away from him. Now he would have to spend more time in this overwhelming house.

Was he going to stay at home all day after school like a loser, waiting for Tony to come home? He had no right to resist. This contract truly made him feel like a real chain.

He put his head down on the counter and remembered for the thousandth time what he was doing all this for. Poor May was still sleeping in intensive care. Was she in pain or was she really in a peaceful dream?

What would she say when she woke up? Would she get stressed even more and get worse? He had to pretend to be very happy for her. Even the slightest hint of sadness in his eyes would have made her suspicious.

“Everything is for you May, everything.”

Chapter Text

It had been a terrible, empty week. Over those days, he came to realize that everything written in the contract could be changed on a whim, and that the only clause that truly mattered was: “The scheduling of these appearances is handled solely by Tony Stark.”

What he had initially been told—that there would always be public events in front of the media—had quietly been revised. Now, participation in such events depended entirely on Tony’s will.

In the meantime, he had made the mistake of assuming Tony felt sorry for him that week. He thought the silence, the absence of public appearances, and being left alone at home were all acts of mercy.

But something much bigger was being planned: a cruise.

On Friday, Tony had told him, “Get ready. It’s somewhere warm. It’s only five days, and you have to be there.”

That was all the information he had received directly. The rest came from Happy and the staff member who was packing his suitcase. From what he gathered, they would fly to Miami, and from there, board a ship hosting many businessmen and investors including Tony himself.

Stark Industries was in the final stages of a major new project. This cruise was the perfect opportunity to showcase it to other companies and potential partners.

Of course, the ship wasn’t the kind you see on social media, bursting with bright colors and flashy entertainment. It was still massive, but its interior was elegant and refined—clearly designed with high-level business guests in mind.

It wasn’t until they stepped aboard and saw their luggage in a single suite that the reality hit him. Naturally, they’d be sharing a room; they were in public, and appearances mattered.

Worse still, no one had thought to prepare a room with two beds. After all, the staff would be coming in and out daily, and Tony and his “husband-to-be” had been assigned a room personally. There was only one double bed.

Peter slowly slumped onto the sofa in the room, while Tony walked straight to the balcony door and opened it without so much as a glance back.

It wasn’t a problem. It shouldn’t be. He had accepted this, he reminded himself. When he signed the contract, he knew he’d have to share a room with Tony, at home or elsewhere.

Tony took a quick look at the ocean view, then turned to Peter.
“I’ve got meetings almost the entire time. Just enjoy yourself. This is business for me and a vacation for you.”

A vacation. He must have confused that word with torture . Did Tony really expect him to spend five days lounging by the pool, surrounded by strangers, on a massive ship in the middle of the sea? Worse still, he had to play the role of a doting, loving partner—the man the world believed was Tony Stark’s fiancé.

“Let’s go down to the dining floor. Everyone will be there by the time we depart,” Tony said casually.

Peter had no choice but to follow.

The dining floor was, quite literally, an entire floor. Enormous. It looked like something out of a ridiculously expensive lifestyle magazine—elegant tables, white linen, and crystal chandeliers that sparkled in the sunlight pouring through the windows. He didn’t even want to imagine what it would look like in the evening.

As they moved through the crowd and greeted guests, Peter couldn’t help but notice that most of them were older men—wealthy, important, and disturbingly friendly. Too friendly. He couldn't tell if they were simply being polite, or if they were just sleazy old men trying to charm Tony Stark’s young partner.

Everyone looked at him, then at the ring on his finger.

They probably expected Tony Stark to propose with some enormous diamond, the kind of ring that made headlines. But it was just a simple band. Modest. Understated. And yet, what seemed to surprise people even more than the ring’s simplicity… was that Tony was already wearing his.

As Tony suddenly slipped back into romantic mode, wrapping an arm around Peter’s waist, he said something about not being able to wait for the wedding .
In hindsight, he hadn't really realized that on press day, why was this guy really wearing a ring already?

As the clocks ticked forward and everyone finally boarded, food began to be served just as the ship departed. Sitting next to Tony, Peter had to keep his fake smile plastered on all day, especially since everyone who came to greet Tony inevitably turned their attention to him .

As if sitting at a massive circular table wasn’t attention-grabbing enough, people kept coming by to offer their congratulations.

Each time someone did, Tony responded with effortless charm—staying close to Peter, touching his arm lightly, whispering little comments that looked affectionate from the outside. It was convincing. Too convincing.

Peter, meanwhile, could only think about how endlessly long rich people's dinners were.

He had no idea how many courses had come and gone since they sat down. Honestly, he felt full before dinner even started thanks to all the fruit, tiny desserts, and fancy sandwiches being passed around.

But he realized that the main course hadn't even arrived yet. 

Then came desserts, followed by coffee, tea, and of course, alcohol. Only after all that was he finally able to lean back and give up his turn to smile.

Everything was good—really, it was. But if he had known the “starter” was just the starter, he wouldn’t have eaten so much of it.

Now he was too full to even enjoy the dessert he had been eyeing since they arrived.
He was upset that he got a simple ice cream instead of the dessert he wanted.

For some reason, it felt rude to eat just a little and leave the rest, especially surrounded by so many people. But really, in this crowd, no one would have even noticed.

As Tony continued to sip his whisky, Peter could feel himself slowly drifting off to sleep. What was there left to talk about? They’d been having conversations since they arrived, switching from one guest to another every few minutes. Tony was talking non-stop, but not to him.

All Peter wanted was for Tony to say enough , to give him the signal so he could finally leave the table. But Tony seemed to be in his own world. He didn’t even glance in Peter’s direction as if he weren’t even there.

Peter leaned back, trying to look politely engaged as the table conversation droned on around him. That’s when another man called out to Tony, pointing at Peter with a grin. Peter straightened up instinctively.

“This is what happens when you marry a young man, Stark,” the man laughed.

At that, Tony finally turned his attention back to Peter. With a well-timed smile and his usual charm, he slipped an arm around Peter’s waist and pulled him a little closer, slipping easily back into character.

“Do you want to go to sleep?” he asked softly.

Tony’s arm still rested casually around Peter’s waist as he leaned in, speaking just loud enough for only him to hear.

“You can go ahead if you want. You look tired.”

There was no shift in his tone no tenderness, no sarcasm. Just smooth, neutral ease. Still playing the part of the caring fiancé. Or maybe… maybe not? Peter couldn’t tell.

He gave a small nod, stood up quietly, and stepped away from the table, offering a polite smile to the people still deep in their conversations. No one paid him much attention. Not even Tony.

As he walked through the hallways back toward their room, the contrast between the lively, crowded dining floor and the empty corridors of the ship made the silence feel heavier than it should have. Only the soft hum of the ship, the muffled clinks of distant cutlery, and his own footsteps echoed in the air.

Turning a corner, he caught a glimpse of someone ahead, just at the edge of his vision. A man in a dark suit, standing too still by one of the hallway windows. Peter slowed for half a second, but the man didn’t move or even turn toward him. It was probably nothing. Staff, maybe. But something about the way he stood—hands clasped, staring out at the ocean in perfect stillness, sent a chill down Peter’s spine.

He looked away and picked up his pace.

When he reached the room, it felt colder than before. Or maybe that was just him.
He shut the door, slipped off his shoes, and glanced at the single double bed waiting for them.

Should he wait? Would Tony expect him to? Or had that “you can go” meant go sleep, don’t wait up ?

Peter lay down on the bed, still half-dressed, unsure whether to keep the blanket over just one side, or both, or to pretend to still be awake.

He closed his eyes anyway.

Maybe Tony wouldn’t come back for hours.

When he opened his eyes, a dim morning light was continuing to filter into the room.

For a few seconds he tried to understand what was happening. Then he realized.

Tony was gone. The bed was neatly made, the blanket pushed aside, not even a mark on the pillow.

For a moment he questioned his own memory. Maybe Tony hadn't come at all that night? Or maybe he had come so quietly that Peter hadn't woken up and had left early in the morning 

He got up, went to the bathroom, washed his face and looked in the mirror. The tiredness on his face was not sleeplessness, but an existential emptiness.

He didn't know who he was engaged to. He didn't know who he was sharing a room with.

When he returned to the room, there was no note or message on the table.

It was as if his being alone had been... planned.

Peter was coming out of the bathroom when he heard a knock. He realized that a metal tray had been placed on the table, along with footsteps under the door.

Breakfast.

At first he felt an instinctive satisfaction. He was just realizing he was hungry. But then something felt strange.

He hadn't ordered.

He examined the tray. Everything had been carefully prepared. A glass of fresh orange juice, a simple omelette, a few slices of fruit, two kinds of croissants.

The message was clear. ‘Don't go out.’

Maybe Tony hadn't said that. But the message was clear.

The food became heavy in his throat.

He was no longer focused on what he was eating, but why he was eating. Tony didn't want him to go out and talk to anyone.

As Peter put down the breakfast tray, he heard the door open again. Tony had come in. He was still wearing a smart dark suit, but his tie had been loosened.

He glanced briefly around the room, then looked at Peter.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, with his usual soft but blank expression.

Peter just nodded.

Tony looked at his watch, then straightened his jacket in front of the mirror. "I have another meeting in half an hour. But you have the whole day free."

Peter didn't answer.

"Go out on deck, go down to the pool. Get some sun. Seen to people."

Peter felt an ache. ‘Seen.’

But Tony was already engaged in something else.

Soon he left the room. The door closed. Alone again.

Half an hour later, Peter came down to the pool area. The sunlight hit the white floor of the deck, dazzling. Everything was perfect enough to share on social media with the hashtag ‘luxury vacation’.

But Peter soon noticed a strange pattern.

Most of the older businessmen around him were not alone. Each was accompanied by young, well-groomed, beautiful women.

Some were laughing and drinking, some were listening intently to the conversations, some were just sitting around like ornaments.

And even though each of them was made to look like the ‘wives’ of these men, nothing escaped Peter's eyes.

It was... entertainment.

As he put on his sunglasses, he looked at his own hands. His ring.

His clothes.

And most of all: his loneliness.

‘What am I?’ he thought. ‘Tony brought me in but he’s not with me.’

Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This seemed like just a vacation but this ship had walls thicker than reality.

He stood there for a while, looking around behind his sunglasses. He began to understand why Tony had been so insistent that he be ‘seen here.’

The presence of those young women was in a strange conflict with Peter’s presence there. Because he was not a natural part of this game. Everything had to be perfect to avoid a scandal.

Obviously he wasn’t eager to go in the pool. All these people made him nervous. He didn’t even know who they were. It was funny because they probably did. He had a little bit of a reputation in a short period of time.

He put on his sunglasses and pretended to rest as he continued to spend his time in the shade on the sun lounger. He ignored the people who gestured for him to come over a few times.

He was strangely nervous about the constantly laughing bikini girls who looked almost identical to each other. It was as if they were all doing live theater. 

He had questions, of course. For example, did they work here or had these men brought them with them? Had Tony been hanging out like these guys before he got engaged or was he still a workaholic?

But I guess he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

He didn't want to spend the whole day here, so he was up and packed before 5 pm. He was not eager to explore the ship. Especially after Tony's silent warning not to make a scandal.

Before he could go inside, he looked back as hands grabbed his arm. One of those bikini-clad girls had grabbed him. Despite her insistence to ‘don't go yet’, he managed to force her to let him go and escape to the room. But there was one thing he realized and it was hard to pretend he hadn't realized it until he got to the room.

He was being watched. And he was sure that this was a man hired by Tony.

Chapter Text

He saw the man behind his sunglasses just as he was coming back inside. He had taken a picture of what had happened with his phone. 

When Peter pretended not to see him, he was almost certain the man had already sent the photo to someone he had been texting. This was the same man he had seen returning from dinner the night before.

He wasn’t part of the crew. And there would never be paparazzi on a ship like this, under these kinds of conditions. It was clear now; Tony had hired someone to keep an eye on him while he was away.

That would be a violation of a very simple clause; no third parties. A single misunderstanding could break the entire agreement.

He wasn’t cheating on Tony. That had to mean something, right? He hadn’t even spoken to them all day. It was pointless.

The only thing he could do now was wait for Tony to show up. If he was angry, would he confront him right away, or would he just ignore him at dinner?

Or maybe... maybe he was overthinking it all. Maybe that man really was just a dumb paparazzi that no one had noticed sneaking aboard. Still, Peter knew by now, there was always someone watching.

Even if he hadn’t done anything wrong, he shouldn’t have let his actions be open to misinterpretation.

Dinner was again at the same table with a crowd of people. Tony looked the same as always. He rarely looked at him as the conversation went on. But this was something that happened all the time so he didn't take it seriously.

Naturally, the table talk shifted to Tony’s new project, which he had just started discussing earlier that day. Peter was quietly focused on his plate when, suddenly, the man Tony had been speaking to turned his question toward him.

“I read that you're an intern at Stark Industries. Even though you're still an intern, I imagine you’ve been following this project for a while—thanks to Tony.”

Peter froze. He wasn’t even an intern anymore. More importantly, he didn’t know much about this new project—just bits and pieces from overheard conversations.

“It’s just… um… I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to talk about it.”

His shoulders tensed when he noticed Tony glancing sideways at him, waiting for his response just as curiously as the man beside him. There was no warning in Tony’s eyes, no pressure but Peter knew. He had to be careful with every word he said.

After dinner, unlike yesterday, this time the drinks were taken outside. Peter had volunteered to join in this time, not feeling as tired as yesterday. Now, though, he regretted it a little.

He was the only one in the group who didn't drink because he wasn't yet 21. He could drink, of course - but he didn't want to drink among these people.

It also bothered him that the other older men found it ‘cute’ this.

As the business talk went on and on, Peter found himself leaning against the railing of the deck, watching the dark sea. Despite the lights glowing behind him, the endless blackness seemed much more peaceful.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man. He was not at the party. He was standing alone in a corner, away from everyone, watching him again. Now he was sure. He was being followed.

His eyes flickered to Tony for a moment. They locked eyes.

He knew. He was aware that he knew.

Still, Tony continued as if nothing had happened, speaking to a few men who were listening to him, and took his eyes off him.

He knew he had to do something. But what?

It wasn't right, he shouldn't have allowed himself to be spied on.

If he spoke in the room, would it turn into a fight? Or in the room, maybe Tony would have brought it up before he could and he would have outsmarted him.

He knew what he had to do. Speaking in public.

He straightened his face and posture. As he took a deep breath and started to walk back into the crowd, Tony's eyes found him directly as he continued to talk among the few people surrounding him.

His eyes didn't move until he was right next to him, and the moment he was there, the others's insincere loving gazes fell on him.

“Can I steal my fiancé for a bit, gentlemens?”

He tried his best to play the flirtatious role as his hands gripped Tony's arm holding his whiskey.

The men allowed it with smiles as if they were willing. Apparently everyone was pleased that Tony Stark now had someone by his side.

Tony took a sip of the drink in his hand, like a player who knows the rules of the game, then obeyed Peter's direction without resistance. He let Peter take his hands in his arm as they made their way through the crowd.

He pulled him to the edge where there was no one and even if they could see them, they couldn't hear them here. Tony was not reacting at all. He only had a smile on his face as he played along with Peter's adorable fiancé game and let him take him away.

He let go of his arm and grabbed onto the railing. For a moment this gazing out to sea reminded him of the night of their first event. 

He could feel the man next to him calmly sipping his whiskey without saying anything.

The look of pretense on Peter's face slowly dissolved, but he was still in control. He stood for a while, away from the crowd, by the sea, next to Tony. The wind blew the edges of his shirt slightly. Silently, he put his hands on the railing. His eyes were on the dark sea again.

They stood in the quietest corner of the deck for a few minutes without speaking. Peter's fingers rested on the railing, his head tilted slightly forward. There was so much he wanted to say, but his lips would not open. Every time he intended to, there was a gap, the sentence was stuck inside.

Finally, he was the first to break the silence. But not with the expected sentence.

“I’m tired,” he said in a simple voice, continuing to stare at the sea.

It was as if he was going to say something else but gave up. It was a short, evasive, but deliberate closure.

When the man next to him said nothing, he glanced at him and then turned towards him.

What a pathetic loser. He had signed up for a life where he had to ask permission even to go to room to sleep.

The man took his eyes off the sea and turned towards him. He did not hesitate to approach. He took a few steps in silence, and when he was close, he had a soft, possessive smile on his face, as he always did in public. He was still in his role.

“You look sleepy,” he said in a low voice.

When he came closer for a moment, he felt that they were very close. The man's nose almost touched his. 

He was wanting a show. A little show for the people who were now watching them from afar.

He closed his mouth, which had parted involuntarily the moment he felt his breath, and bowed his head. “You smell a little whiskey.”

Yeah, that's a great excuse, Parker. 

He took a step away, still averting his eyes from the man. 

What he expected was anger. An expression of displeasure that he had spoiled his game. But Tony still had that slight smile on his face. 

“Sorry.” 

Really? Tony Stark apologizing. He must have been absolutely drunk. 

Without saying anything back, he started walking and made his way back to his room, leaving everyone behind.

Day 2 was coming to an end and he was thinking about how he was going to spend the remaining three days. Happy had said 5 days and 4 nights, he was definitely going to do his best to spend the remaining two nights without incident.

On the third day, he followed his plan to take it easy. This time he did not go down to the pool. He stayed in the room as much as possible, only going around the ship a few times and coming back to the room. 

Every time Tony came back to the room he was either in bed, on the couch, or on the balcony, reading a book or looking at his phone.

Dinner was as usual at the crowded table.

Conversations swirled in the large, golden-lit dining room, accompanied by a soft piano soundtrack. Business people and investors sat around Tony, dressed elegantly—conversations were superficial, but eyes remained attentive.

Orders were still being placed when the first plates arrived. As soon as the food was served, Peter quietly withdrew his hands from the table. While others continued talking, ignoring their plates, Peter’s eyes lingered on his. He wasn’t a big fan of seafood, but it wasn’t surprising given they were dining on a ship in the middle of the sea.

One of the last dishes was set in front of him by a waitress about his age. Whether it was because he was the quiet one at the table or simply the closest to her in age, she served him with a softness the others didn’t receive.

“And this is special for you,” she said with a slight bow, placing his plate with a presentation different from the rest.

Peter looked at the plate in surprise, then up at her. He managed a whispered, “Thank you.”

Tony had just raised his glass, but his eyes cut toward the angle at which the waitress leaned over Peter. His expression didn’t change much—just a slight lift of an eyebrow—but it was sharp, unmistakable. The others around the table hadn’t noticed. Peter had.

He glanced at Tony involuntarily. But Tony had already turned his face away, taking a sip of wine with the kind of disinterest that seemed almost too deliberate.

Throughout the meal, Tony contributed to the conversation, nodding and speaking in that effortless, charming tone. But between every word, his eyes flicked toward the waitress and then to Peter. And Peter felt it. A tension under his skin, something hot and crawling.

He focused on his plate, trying not to fidget. Still, the discomfort remained. He didn’t know exactly why. Maybe it was because he kept wanting to look at Tony. Maybe he was waiting for confirmation, a quiet assurance that everything was okay.

After a not-so-peaceful dinner, they returned to their room as the deepest hours of the night settled in.
A thick, uncomfortable silence filled the air between them. Peter wasn’t expecting a conversation—Tony never offered explanations—but this silence was different. It wasn’t quiet in the usual way; it was heavy, waiting to break.

As soon as they entered, Peter avoided looking back. He walked straight to the closet, reaching for his pajamas with forced nonchalance.

Behind him, he heard the soft sound of Tony lowering himself onto the couch.

He hesitated. Then glanced back. Tony was just sitting there, watching him.

Peter turned fully, still clutching the pajamas in his hand. “What?”

Tony’s expression was tight. The calm was a mask, his voice cut through it like ice.

“You seem to be forgetting the terms of the contract.” He was lounging casually, but the sharpness in his tone made Peter flinch. They both knew what this was about—but Peter also knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. And he wasn't going to let himself be blamed like he had.

They both knew what had happened, but Peter knew he had done nothing wrong. He couldn't simply let himself be crushed.

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“Then how that waitress has the courage to flirt with you?”

Flirt? He was calling that flirting?

Tony stood up suddenly. Peter instinctively took a step back.

“I think you’re getting too comfortable,” Tony said, voice rising. “You hid your ring the moment they started serving. Or do you just walk around without it in the ship when I’m not around?”

That was laughable. Infuriating.

“Do you even hear yourself? This contract might mean reputation for you, but it carries a life for me.”

"Then act like it's carrying a life,” Tony snapped. “Look gay enough. Look married enough.”

And with that, Tony turned and walked out onto the balcony, the door sliding shut behind him.

Peter stood frozen in the room, pajamas still in hand.

He was only just realizing, this wasn’t a contract. It was a world where even speaking back wasn’t allowed.

The morning light was soft but bright in the room. Tony stepped out of the bathroom, dressed for his meeting.

Then he saw Peter.

Sitting casually on the couch, sipping coffee, phone in hand. Legs crossed. Relaxed. Too relaxed.

The shorts were shorter than usual. The shirt was tighter. Slim and clinging in ways Tony wasn’t ready to process before coffee.

He stopped mid-motion. There was a meeting he was already late for, and yet, none of that seemed pressing anymore.

Peter looked up. His eyes met Tony’s with an innocent smile. “Morning.”

Tony’s eyes lingered a second too long. First on the shirt, then the bare thighs, then finally Peter’s face.

His voice, when it came, was low. Calm. Too calm.

“Did you lose all your longer shorts overnight?”

Peter gave a lazy shrug. “Just trying to look the part.”

“Right.” Tony’s tone sharpened. “You think this is funny?”

“Not funny,” Peter replied smoothly, sipping his coffee again. “Just… efficient. You told me to look the part. Thought you’d appreciate the effort.”

Tony exhaled sharply through his nose, advancing into the room with heavy steps.

“Effort, huh. So this is you making a point.”

Peter set his cup down, unbothered. “Not really. Just learning the rules. I’m a fast learner.”

That calmness—it was infuriating. But also… dangerous.

Tony’s voice dropped lower. “Stop playing games.”

“I’m not.” Peter tilted his head. “Just doing what you asked. Looking gay enough. Looking married enough.”

Peter stood up from the couch and stepped right in front of Tony.

“Isn’t this what you asked for last night?”

The smile on his face was playful—if it was going to be a game, then it was time to show what the rules really meant.

Tony’s hand moved fast, wrapping around Peter’s waist and grabbing one of the belt loops on the back of his shorts. He yanked it up sharply.

Peter lost balance for a moment, his hands clutching Tony’s shirt to steady himself.

“You definitely look married and gay enough now. Your ass is practically out,” Tony muttered. “Maybe if I do this in public, people will finally get the message.”

Despite the sudden pull, Peter didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Instead, he rose on his toes. Gripping Tony’s shirt tighter. Bringing them face to face.

“I’d love to see you try that in public,” he said, calm as ever.

His voice was low. Challenging.

Tony looked confident. But Peter had seen him last night. Rattled by a single waitress’s smile. Shaken by the smallest shift in control.

He wasn’t the type to risk this out there. Not really. And that was exactly why Peter wasn’t afraid anymore.

He’d learned. And now, he was ready to play.

He tried to break free of the man's arm and body, but he couldn't. Retreating or pushing him away would be useless.

So he chose something unexpected. He’d either go up or down.

Since Tony had lifted him by his belt loop, going down would only hurt. So Peter pushed himself upwards, pressing against the man's shoulders with the hands still gripping his shirt.

The plan was simple: go up, then lean back and slip out.

But before he could step away, he was trapped even further, closer.

When the struggle made no sense anymore, he hissed through his teeth. “Let go of me.”

He’d meant it as a warning. Or maybe a request. But instead of a steady release, he was thrown —completely sprawled out across the floor.

The fall was clumsy, sudden. It stunned him. He blinked up.

“Very playful, huh?” Tony’s voice was calm but something in it was dangerous.

Peter tried to stay composed, but the man leaning over him… was starting to scare him a little.

Then a hand. Warm against his face. Fingers brushing over his cheek. And a thumb. It stopped—deliberately—on his lower lip.

Peter’s breath caught. He could see it in Tony’s eyes.

He liked this. Seeing him defenseless. Beneath him. Under control.

Well, that wasn’t going to happen.

If this was a game, then Peter would play.

Opening his mouth slowly, he slowly stuck out his tongue, letting it touch his finger. Obviously he wanted to play this power game too, so he kept it up by moving his thumb further and further into his mouth.

Someone had to give up and walk out of here and Peter didn't want it to be himself. The man on top of him could keep his thumb in his mouth all day, but Peter couldn't suck on it all day. 

He had to do something. Something that would distract him and then he could just slip away. 

He knew what the only solution was. In this position there seemed to be no other option.

He slid his hands from his chest to his collar and held him tightly. 

Come on Peter just do it. Just keep your mind open and don't get captivated. 

As he grabbed his collar and pulled him to himself, he hadn't considered one thing, which he couldn't have done if it weren't for Tony's permission. But he realized it too late. 

The moment he felt his lips he knew he had to pull it into something big. Something to draw him in and numb his brain.

As he pulled him to himself, he forgot the most important thing: keep his mind open.

Every second the kiss lasted he felt his brain becoming more and more numb. Tony Stark was a very different kisser. At least the girl he had kissed at a party had never made him feel like this.

It was as if every time his hands, mouth and breath came close, his whole brain became numb. He wasn't even sure what he was doing. It was as if his eyes had sworn not to open.

At some point he felt his hands move from Tony's collar to his neck and hair. Even this was not voluntary.

He was sure that at some point he felt Tony's hands on his bare waist. But it didn't stop there.

He could feel Tony's hands trying to remove his shorts before they were unbuttoned or unzipped. 

His eyes had finally opened, but they weren't doing what he wanted them to do. He couldn't even remember what he was supposed to do in their kiss, separated by Tony's feverish work. 

As Tony wrapped one arm around his waist and tried to pull his shorts off with the other, Peter remained there and let him. What a flutter of legs and no other force. What he really wanted was to get out of these shorts like he did.

The moment the shorts were removed, Tony threw it across the room. Peter had entirely forgotten his plan. The moment his focus turned to his face, he grabbed him and pulled him back to him.

He didn't know why, but he felt as if he needed it badly. Fortunately he must have been as hungry as he was, since he was kissing him hungrily, just as he was.

Peter had completely stopped thinking. He felt nothing but Tony's lips kissing him. He didn't even know where his hands were or where his hands were. Or how much time had passed.

It was a knock on the door that ended all this making out. A voice from outside telling Tony that the meeting had started.

In that moment Peter felt as if the world had stopped. As if all the numbness in his brain had disappeared and he could feel everything around him.

Standing in front of him was a man who was just as stunned as he was. There was a look of bewilderment on his face, as if he, too, had done all this unintentionally.

After a few seconds of breath-collection and confusion, he stood up. He was heading towards the door without even adjusting himself when he saw the short that had been thrown against the wall right next to the door.

He bent down and picked it up and threw it into the trash can in the other corner and left the room.

Chapter Text

It was nearing one am and Peter was still alone in the room. The lights were off, and he was lying in bed, but not asleep.

The heat pressed down on him like a second skin. The air conditioner remote sat useless on the nightstand; no matter how many times he pressed the start button, nothing happened. He'd tried every button, every angle. Still nothing.

He could've called someone from the staff. But the idea of making a fuss over a remote felt... childish. And interrupting Tony's late-night meeting for something so trivial felt worse.

So, he endured the warmth in silence.

The only relief came from the occasional breeze that drifted in through the open balcony door, barely enough to stir the air. Still, it gave him an excuse to stay uncovered, lying on top of the duvet in just his briefs instead of pajamas.

He felt a little ridiculous — like a kid waiting to get caught. But mostly, he felt hot and alone.

As time passed, the moment he heard a sound at the door, Peter shut his eyes.
It was Tony. He entered quietly, his steps unhurried. The faint rustle of papers followed, he was placing files down on the console table.

Then came the sound of clothes being peeled off. No closet doors, no drawers. He wasn’t changing into pajamas. Just undressing. A moment later, the bed dipped slightly as Tony lay down on his side.

Come on, Tony. I literally left the remote on your nightstand.

But the man just lay there.

Fine. Maybe sleep was the better option.

He didn’t know how much time had passed. But he’d had enough. It was too hot—stupidly hot. The kind that made you feel like you were slowly boiling.

They were still in the same positions. He cracked one eye open, then slowly turned his head.

He had never seen Tony asleep before. Somehow, despite all this time together, that had never happened.

Peter always went to bed early. Tony stayed up late with work, or disappeared entirely. And when Peter woke at night, he made a point not to look over. In the mornings, if he felt Tony still in the bed, he’d close his eyes and pretend to sleep.

But now..now he saw him. And for some reason, seeing him like this—at rest—felt like seeing a stranger. A softer one.

“Tony.”

No response. Tony was lying flat, just like him. Wearing only his underwear, just like him.

Peter’s fingers moved slowly across the bed. His pinky brushed against Tony’s hand. He tried again. Louder this time. “Tony.”

Tony opened his eyes—barely. He looked half-awake at best.

“Can you turn on the air conditioning?”

A pause. A slow moment of comprehension. Then Tony reached to his nightstand and picked up the remote.

This man…The remote had been there the whole time. He’d seen it. He’d chosen to ignore it.

Without a word, Tony pressed the same damn button Peter had tried a hundred times earlier. The air conditioner whirred to life instantly.

He placed the remote back on the nightstand and closed his eyes again.

Finally a coolness was coming. A relief. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

It wasn't clear what he was apologizing for, but he knew. Tony didn't hear it anyway because he was sleeping.

He continued to lie quietly. When he felt something in his hand, he slowly opened his eyes again.

Tony was holding his hand. He slowly lifted it and kissed the top of it. Before he realized what was happening, Tony kept going. When he kissed his wrist and arm, Peter finally turned his head towards him. 

Tony still hadn't opened his eyes, but he was clearly no longer asleep. His breathing was deep, but not regular.

Peter didn't move. Tony's fingers glided slowly but steadily over his bare skin. Peter's breathing changed slightly, but he said nothing.

When the man's whole body moved towards him, he finally opened his eyes. The few inches of space between them no longer felt like a real border.

“What for?” whispered Tony.

Peter didn't answer. He already knew why. 

Earlier he had complained that it was hot, but now Tony's warm breath on him felt heavenly. 

He had nothing to say. Tony knew that. But apparently pushing the limits was his favorite. He closed his eyes slowly, for a moment he wanted to take a breath. But the moment he felt his lips on his, Peter opened his mouth. 

One of Tony's hands was pressed against his bare waist, making sure he couldn't escape. But Peter had no intention of escaping anyway.

Peter's one hand wrapped around the man's arm holding him while the other went to the back of his neck. It wasn't enough, he was wanting more.

Tony's tongue was in his mouth as if he was trying to memorize the inside of his entire mouth. A shiver ran through Peter. As if to get closer, he wrapped his leg around his hips.

They were skin to skin now. Tony's body was still as hot as a summer night, but for the first time Peter felt protected instead of burned.

The hand that had been pressing on his waist now slid lower. Peter was stunned by the intensity of his fingers as they gripped his hips.

Peter said nothing.

He only moaned slightly.

Instead of pulling himself back, he crawled on to Tony. When their chests touched, Tony's breath felt like a tremor in his chest.

Tony slid his lips to his neck, standing there and smelling him for a moment.

Peter's heart was beating fast. His fingers slipped into Tony's hair, pressing him as if he wanted to pull him closer.

Tony moved his lips slowly to his shoulder, then his collarbone, then his chest.

Peter lowered his hands and pressed them against the man's back. He felt a spasm under his fingers.

This was no longer just kissing. It wasn't trying to get to know each other. It was about wanting each other. Exactly like this, now.

At some point in Peter's body there was only need. Warmth, skin, breath - everything merged. Tony's hands roamed his body like they were exploring it. But he knew exactly where to stop. Where to bite lightly, where to press his fingers.

Peter closed his eyes for a moment. Warm lips on his chest, fingers gliding over his stomach...

Tony's voice was husky, but he was still in control. "Peter," he whispered, pressing his lips under his ribs.

Peter's only response was a heavy groan.

His hands slid down Tony's back as his hips rose instinctively. It was no longer an invitation, but a need.

Tony moved lower, his hands gripping Peter’s thighs with intent, pushing them slightly apart. There was no hesitation, no pause to ask—he already had his answer in the way Peter arched toward him, the way his breath trembled in his throat.

Peter’s head fell back against the pillow as Tony kissed down his stomach, mouth hot and open. When he reached the waistband of his briefs, he didn’t slow. His fingers curled under the elastic, tugging them down with a slow, deliberate pull.

Peter gasped, one arm thrown over his eyes. He felt exposed, raw—but not in a way that made him want to hide. The opposite.

“Look at me,” Tony murmured, voice low, steady.

Peter did.

And what he saw wasn’t lust alone—it was focus. Hunger, yes. But not chaotic. Tony wanted him, and he wanted him right .

The first touch of Tony’s mouth made Peter’s hips jerk. His hands gripped the sheets, his breath catching in his throat like he’d been punched with pleasure. Peter could only moan, hands fisting in the fabric beneath him, knees trembling.

Everything else—the ship, the heat, the contract, the fight—melted away.

There was only Tony. Only now.

He wasn't even doing anything. Just wet lips, warm tongue, breath and occasional teeth, enough to make him shiver. 

After Tony lingered for a while in his inner thighs, Peter was able to stop squeezing himself. He couldn't believe that it was a simple leg bite that made him feel so good, even though he was completely naked and Tony was so close there.

When he was able to pull himself together, he was able to draw his arm completely away from his eyes and let go of the sheet he had been squeezing with his other hand.

When he had regained his courage, he looked down instead of up at the ceiling. After a few seconds of seeing Tony's hair, the man's face slowly lifted.

Releasing the thigh he had been holding and kissing, he again traced a path along h's body. This time he tensed as the first kiss was very close to his groin. When Tony reached h's neck, he didn't go for his lips this time. When his hand went to his cheek, it traveled up to his hair and pushed it back. It was as if he was trying to see if he was okay.

For a moment Peter was too embarrassed, but he made his move. Closing his eyes, he moved towards him and gave him a kiss. He realized that Tony wouldn't do anything without an action from him, so he did it even though he was embarrassed.

The kiss was going calmly and he had to break it with a sudden sensation. He could feel his finger stroking slowly over his hole. 

He hadn't even noticed the arm that had moved between his open legs. 

It was probably nothing. He hadn't even inserted it yet. But he hesitated because it was so unexpected for him.

Although the kiss broke, Peter's eyes were still closed. Even tighter. His head was bowed, his forehead resting on Tony's head. He just wanted him to know that everything was too intense for him and that he had to take it slow. 

And Tony was really doing it. So slow. He was so light. He wasn't forcing him to do anything. 

He felt Tony slide down again when he felt a kiss on his neck. When he could open his eyes, he looked at what he was doing. 

The moment he felt his tongue between his two open legs, he threw his head back and broke his back as far as he could. It was a move he hadn't expected. He felt so vulnerable.

When Tony's hands were on either side of his waist, he knew he wanted him to turn around. He turned, following his direction. As he buried his head in the pillow, he realized why he had turned.

In this position, even if he broke his back, he couldn't hide his hole. And that's what happened. Every time he felt Tony's tongue and mouth he broke his back more and more. But that only led to exposing his hole more.

But also the pillow he buried his face in and the bed he rubbed against felt good to him.

He thought he was relaxing when he felt the kisses on his back, but two fingers inside him made him bury his head in the pillow again.

In fact Tony was doing everything he could to comfort him, but apparently not knowing the way proceeding was quite confusing. He couldn't believe he had never watched gay porn from start to finish in his life.

At least he knew what was coming next when the fingers came out.

They were face to face again when Tony's hands, still holding him, turned him around. Peter gave him a hug rather than a kiss. A hug on big shoulders. 

He felt Tony's lips on his temple. And then something else.

The hardness of the man settled between his open legs.

At that moment he thought how wise it had been to hug him instead of kissing him. Tony held him even more open as his two hands gripped him under his knees.

The man’s lips slipped into his hair from his temple as Peter buried his head into the man's neck.

For a moment Peter really thought it wouldn't end. Tony's slow entry hadn't been painful, but it had still created intense sensations.

Peter caught his breath in his neck as he clung to the man's upper arm. The working air conditioner no longer had the same effect. It felt like it was burning more than before. 

He threw his head back on the pillow. The man's weight was no longer on him as he had let go of his legs and supported his arms on the bed. 

For a moment Peter felt he really couldn't do it. There was no pain, but in this heat he felt like he was about to faint. 

He didn't even realize how much he was sweating when a hand reached for his face. His hair was wet with sweat between the man's fingers as he brushed it out of his face. 

As the man stared at it and smoothed it back, as if it was very important, Peter's eyes were drawn to the details of the man's face. He was so close. Never before had he gotten a clear look, even though they were so close. 

He could see that he was sweating as much as he was. The moonlight filling the room gave just enough light to see every detail clearly. The wrinkle marks from smiles he assumed were mostly fake, every hair strand that made up his beard and mustache...

When the man's gaze returned to his face, he pulled her gaze away. He no longer felt like he was on fire. 

First turned his head to the side, and when he wanted to turn his whole body, Tony gave him space. 

He didn't want to deal with matters himself. All he wanted at this point was pleasure. For a moment he thought Tony would take it as a rejection, but the man entered him again. This time it was easier. 

He could feel Tony's hair against the back of his neck as he pressed his head into the pillow. When the man reached for his hands under the pillow, he moved over them and interlaced his fingers with his own. 

His first thrust was slow but deep. Peter knew he was making a purring sound as he moved his head on his pillow.

And then it just went by. It was quite easy to get used to. Peter's occasional arching of his back and movement of his hips guided the man well. 

He didn't even know what he was doing. He was just doing what his body wanted. 

In all this time he had never turned around. Tony had never forced him. His hands guided his waist and hips from time to time, but he never tried to turn him. 

He was grateful for that because he was quite happy with the pillow he was buried in. He had closed his eyes and buried his mouth there. He didn't even know how much he was moaning.

⋆────꩜────⋆

Peter was looking at himself in the bathroom mirror after his morning shower. There were hickeys all over him, even though it hadn't felt like this yesterday. 

The kisses he had felt all over his neck last night were apparently more than that. And even more than that, the entire path Tony had traced on his body had left its mark quite clearly. His collarbone, his chest, his stomach, but the only place worse than his neck was between his thighs.

Fortunately, since they were going back today, he didn't need to wear shorts and expose himself, but there was no way to hide his neck. 

A more unexpected sight awaited him when he came out of the bathroom. Tony, who had changed his shirt, had his back turned just before he put on his T-shirt. This was not the sight Peter had expected. 

Tony's back was completely covered in red scratches. Worse than that, red marks ran from the back of his neck to his hair.

Tony turned around as he put on his T-shirt and was greeted by Peter's puzzled expression. Peter, not wanting to be obvious, averted his eyes and walked over to his suitcase. They had to get off the ship before lunch. Now he had to pack the suitcase properly. 

It was also a good excuse to ignore Tony.

At the edge of the airfield, as the jet engines slowly cooled, Tony and Peter boarded the plane in silence.

Their bodies were very close together, but there was a distance between them as cold as words.

Peter's backpack hit his knee as he entered the cabin, Tony was coming up behind him, but he didn't touch it not even for a moment. There was no one else on the plane. Just them and a crew of two.

Peter sat down in the window seat. It was still hot, but the coolness inside the plane was chilling. Tony moved to the seat in the opposite row without saying anything. They didn't make eye contact.

The only sounds during the flight were the deep growl of the engine and the quiet footsteps of the attendant serving drinks. Tony asked for a coffee. Peter didn't want anything. He turned his eyes outward and watched the space between the clouds as they moved.

Time passed. Even Peter couldn't remember exactly how long it took. He leaned his head against the glass, the line between the grogginess of sleeplessness and reality blurring. He closed his eyes occasionally, but he couldn't fall asleep completely.

Tony glanced at the clock every now and then. Then he looked back in front of him. He was holding a tablet, but he was just looking at the screen. He wasn't reading. He wasn't working. He was thinking.

When the plane landed, Peter didn't get up immediately. When the cabin door opened, the warm spring air rushed in. Peter threw his bag over his shoulder and Tony walked ahead. Neither of them had said a word yet.

As they descended the stairs, Happy appeared at the bottom of the stairs, at the head of the car with the black windshield. He took a step to open the car door, then stood when he saw them.

“Chief,” he said, bowing his head slightly to Tony. Then he looked at Peter, taking in the tired look on his face with a brief glance. “Welcome.”

Peter nodded. Tony put on his glasses. The car doors opened. The silence continued.

Occasionally he caught Happy's eye in the mirror, but he continued to avert his gaze. He knew what Happy was seeing. His neck. The bruises.

Just as clearly, he had seen the back of Tony’s neck when he climbed into the car—he hadn’t missed the red marks trailing into his hair either.

It was obvious that he wanted to say something, but the fact that Tony was looking at work on his tablet and Peter kept averting his eyes didn't seem to encourage him.

“Where are we going?” At his question Tony looked up from his tablet for the first time. “To company.”

Happy blinked, confused. “Why?

Tony didn’t even bother looking this time. “Last meeting, Happy.”

“I thought that was this morning.”

Ah, morning. The word hit him harder than expected. 

For a moment all that had happened in the morning flashed before Peter's eyes.

The alarm. Loud, relentless.

He woke up to the sound of an alarm. An alarm that never stopped. When he first opened his eyes, he saw an empty bed. Tony’s phone buzzing right beside him, but he wasn't there. For a moment Peter had felt too heavy to move, too raw. 

His body had hurt—not in a bad way—but in a way that made him acutely aware of every inch Tony had touched.

Then Tony came out of the bathroom. It was obvious that he had woken up later than his usual time, but that wasn't really the problem here. 

Since they had shared a room during the vacation, they had taken their clothes before going to the bathroom and dressed there. But this morning Tony had walked out of the bathroom;

Still damp. Still naked.

Peter’s eyes had barely been open, but open enough. He doubted Tony knew he’d seen.
It was awkward. Not the nudity—what they had done last night rendered that irrelevant—but the shift. The morning didn’t feel like the night.

Peter broke the silence again. “I’m going to the hospital.”

Happy’s eyes flicked to the mirror again.

“To visit May,” Peter added quickly. 

True.

Also true: He has an appointment had been booked long before the vacation.
But it felt ridiculous now, absurd even.

An urologist. After that.

He bit his tongue.

Happy shifted in his seat. Then, with the kind of falsely casual tone he reserved for minefields, he said, “Did you have a nice vacation? Peter?”

Ah. There it was.

Peter didn’t bite. “Yeah, fine.” He turned back to the window.

And that was it. The conversation slipped into the same silence they’d carried from the plane. Tony didn’t look up. Peter didn’t look back. And Happy, wisely, didn’t ask again.

Chapter Text

Peter was sitting quietly in the hallway, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the floor. When the door opened and his name was called, he stood up a bit too quickly and walked in with a stiff nod.

The doctor smiled at him from behind the desk. “Good to see you again, Peter. Let’s see… second visit, right?”

Peter sat down on the chair across from him. “Yeah. Just a follow-up.”

The doctor flipped through his file. “Any changes in the symptoms?”

“Not really, I mean... I’m not quite sure,” Peter replied, fingers tapping anxiously against his thigh.

The doctor nodded like he understood exactly what Peter meant. “Well, it’s only been two weeks. That’s not unusual. You’re still maintaining an active sex life?”

Peter froze for a fraction of a second. Shit. Right. The fake relationship in the contract. Even here. “Yeah,” he said quickly, forcing a nod.

The doctor made a note, then looked at the results in his hand. Peter had been examined again before this — blood, urine, pressure, the works. He wondered if any of it gave away the truth. Could he tell it had been his first time ? Or worse—could he tell that until now, it had never happened?

The doctor glanced up. “Just recently, I assume?”

Peter tried not to wince. Guess it showed. “Yeah. Sorry.”

The doctor shook his head with a small smile. “No need to apologize. But... are you using protection?”

No. No, they weren’t. Should they have? It hadn’t even crossed his mind at the moment. He hadn’t known how to do any of this, let alone think about condoms.

Peter stayed silent too long.

“I’m just saying,” the doctor added gently, “sometimes things happen quickly. It’s always a good idea to use protection, especially when you’re not sure, or when there isn’t enough time to prepare.”

“I’m sorry, is there something wrong?” Peter asked with a worried and questioning expression. He didn't know what he had done, but he didn't know if Tony knew. Could they have done something wrong?

“No, no. Of course not. It's just my duty. To remind you to use protection at all costs. I assume you have a cream at home. Just apply it when you return."

Cream? What cream? Did everything have to be so complicated?

Peter tried not to show anything, but as if the thoughts behind his eyes were clear, the doctor turned his question back to him. “You have cream at home, don't you?”

“Sure. That.. cream. Right?” He was trying to be subtle, just making a face as if he couldn't remember the name of the cream.

“Yes. That cream. Maybe we should put that on your prescription. Just to have a spare at home.”

Shit. He understood, didn't he? You can fool anyone, Parker, but not the doctor.

After spending the morning alone at home, Peter found himself pacing from one room to another with nothing to do but wait for Tony. In normal circumstances it wouldn't have taken this long to meet the family, but with Tony Stark it wasn't possible under normal circumstances.

It had been almost a week since the cruise, which had been a vacation for him and a business trip for Tony.

Nothing was happening. Not a single word about that night, no comment, not even a throwaway joke. It was a different kind of silence this time. Not the comfortable, unspoken bond they’d once shared. This one sat in the air like thick fog. Tense. Hesitant. Full of things that should’ve been said, and one particular thing that absolutely shouldn’t.

Today would be the first time they would interact properly after that incident. After the drama with Howard, he didn't think it was going to be a very peaceful day. He was curious about Tony's mother. He was never one to talk about his family. They had almost no honest interaction in the media. But he had already learned that he shouldn't judge people by their media images anyway.

A message from Happy told him it was time to go. They had come home to him after having picked Tony up from the company. Although they had a dinner plan, he had been informed that they were going to head out a couple of hours before that. He was just planning to get through the day without any accidents.

The car ride was quiet — not just in words, but in energy. It was hard to tell if the tension came from whatever was going on at the company, or from the unspoken history between them. Probably both.

Once they arrived, Tony got out of the car without a word. Peter followed suit, giving Happy a soft goodbye before joining Tony on the gravel path leading to the front door.

They walked in silence until Tony suddenly stopped. Peter paused too, watching as something shifted behind the man's expression — something tight and unreadable.

When he turned towards the man, he saw a look of hesitation on his face. This conversation wasn't going to take place here and now, is it?

Tony turned to him, eyes sharp but voice strangely soft. "I'm sorry to bring this up now,” he said. “But I need to ask you to keep up the act. Especially in front of my mother."

Peter didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at him, watched the way Tony avoided his eyes at the last second. It was the first time Peter had seen that kind of vulnerability — the kind that came not from guilt or anger, but from care. Real care.

It was clear this meant something to him. Maybe it was love. Maybe fear. Maybe both.

But whatever it was, Peter knew he’d go through with it. He had to.

He gave a small nod, steady but silent. Tony didn’t say anything else.

They continued walking. The gravel crunched beneath their feet. The silence followed them.

The moment they stepped inside, Peter was greeted by exactly what he expected from a Stark household — sleek lines, curated spaces, the kind of silence that didn’t quite feel empty, but intentional.

He realized quickly that there would be no one waiting in the hallway. No warm greetings or casual chatter echoing through the halls. Communication, it seemed, wasn’t built for echoing in a house this big.

They made their way straight to the backyard.

There, seated in the shade at the edge of the garden, were Maria and Howard Stark.

Howard had that same expression Peter remembered from the gala. Unflinching. Cold. Like the kind of man who’d shake your hand while already ordering a background check on you. He didn’t need to speak to make Peter feel examined. Dissected. Like a lab sample.

Maria, on the other hand, stood up the moment she saw them. A smile bloomed on her face — not polite, not forced, but real. And Peter felt it.

She crossed the distance quickly, first throwing her arms around Tony in a hug that lasted just a second longer than expected. Then she turned to Peter.

For a fleeting moment, he braced himself for something colder. A handshake, maybe. A once-over glance. Something that would echo Howard’s distance. But instead, she pulled him into a warm, easy hug. Familiar, even though it wasn’t.

Peter froze for just a beat before allowing himself to return it. He didn’t usually get this kind of softness from anyone but May, and certainly not from Tony’s side of the world.

It was the opposite of what Howard had offered. And maybe that’s why it meant more than he could admit out loud.

“Peter, it’s so lovely to finally meet you,” Maria said as she pulled back from the hug, her hands still gently on his arms. Her voice was soft in a way that reminded him of warm kitchens and safer homes.

Peter offered a small smile, unsure if he should say something formal or casual. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Stark.”

“Oh, please. Maria.”

He nodded, feeling his cheeks flush just slightly.

Howard had remained seated the entire time, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of something dark and expensive resting in his hand. His eyes didn’t leave Peter, not even when his wife returned to her seat beside him.

“Finally,” he muttered, not looking at anyone in particular.

Peter wasn’t sure if that was directed at Tony, at him, or at the entire situation. The word hung heavy in the air, like dust in sunlight. Easy to ignore if you didn’t breathe it in too deeply.

Maria either didn’t hear it or chose to ignore it with practiced elegance.

“Come, sit.” she said as she gestured to the seat across from her. “So, how is it going on? Have you gotten used to it?”

Peter nodded as he took his seat. “It’s been… different,” he admitted with a half-smile.

Howard took a slow sip from his glass. “Different usually means uncomfortable.”

Peter didn’t answer that. Tony didn’t either.

Maria turned to Peter and said with genuine interest, “Tony has told us a lot about you.”

It was probably a lie, but Peter needed it. “Really?” he asked, a little surprised.

"Of course! Especially..." Maria looked at Tony for a moment, smiled slightly. “How clever you are.”

Peter was about to thank her when Howard spoke calmly, “How old are you?”

The question was so direct and so irrelevant that suddenly the mood changed. Peter paused for a few seconds. “Twenty,” he said.

Howard's eyebrow didn't even move. His eyes shifted from Peter to Tony for a moment, but then he continued sipping his drink.

Maria, on the other hand, kept smiling. "Really? I thought you were older than twenty. You're so mature."

“Thank you,” Peter said, not knowing what to do.

Howard, “How often do you see your family?”

Again, it was a question that came out of the blue, but no one seemed surprised by it. Before Peter could even pretend to answer, Maria interjected. “Tony told us that your aunt is in the hospital, I hope she gets better soon.”

Howard said nothing. He just kept looking at Peter, never taking his eyes off him.

Peter didn't know where to look. Maria was both protecting him and lightening the mood by always turning to him and keeping the conversation light-hearted.

Tony was silent.

The conversation in the garden progressed, with Howard's short but uncomfortable questions and Maria interrupting and changing the subject. As the silence stretched out once more, Howard rose slightly from his chair.

“Tony,” he said. His voice was commanding. "I need to talk to you about a few things. Let's go to the office."

The word 'office' was a word that seemed to recall all the childhood traumas that had taken place in that house.

Tony nodded without saying anything, but he looked at Peter out of the corner of his eye. He didn't say, 'I'll be back soon.' He didn't need to.

Just then Maria touched Peter's arm lightly. "Come, I'll show you around the house. Would you like to see Tony's childhood bedroom?"

Peter nodded. “Sure,” he said. He wanted to get up anyway.

Maria started walking ahead. The house was large, but Maria's steps were very light, not disturbing anyone, but guiding.

“Howard is a bit rough,” she said as she climbed the stairs. “Yes,” Peter replied, briefly.

Maria chuckled. "But he's quick to question the people he loves. That's a good sign." Peter said nothing.

When they got upstairs, they slowed down a little in the hallway. “It was different when Tony was here,” Maria said. "Now I can hardly hear his footsteps in the house."

Finally she opened a room. It was not dusty inside, but it was obviously not being used. “This is it,” she said. “Tony's old room.”

Peter stepped inside. It was simpler than he had expected.

An old computer on the desk, traces of posters in one corner, but no posters. Books filled the bookshelf, a few technical magazines.

Maria continued talking without pulling the door shut behind her. “I think I know how you feel,” she said. "This house... from the outside it looks like a very strong wall. But inside it's much more complicated."

Peter turned to her. There was a tiredness on her face that Peter was not used to seeing. But a warm tiredness. “Was it hard for Tony growing up here?”

Maria tilted her head. "It was tough. But he's better now." Then her eyes met Peter's. “He has you.”

Peter looked away. He wasn't ready for this.

“Can I leave you here alone for a few minutes?” Maria asked. Her face tensed slightly as an aide quietly approached and whispered something about the kitchen.

"The food preparation seems out of control. I need to take a look in the kitchen," she said, smiling slightly. "But make yourself comfortable. If you want anything, just yell."

Peter nodded. “Sure,” he said, almost in a whisper.

As Maria walked out the door, a faint scent of lavender lingered behind her. The door didn't close, but the house was quiet. Quiet, really quiet here.

Peter took a few steps into the room. He browsed the shelves. An old model of a helicopter caught his eye. Next to it some half-worn drawings. A cracked mug on the edge of the table. Ordinary things, but they bore the marks of time.

In one corner, there was an old wooden frame. He reached out and picked it up. It was not dusty, but the glass was slightly hazy. Inside was a young Tony, his hair a little longer. He had a friend with him.

Peter put the frame back. He took a deep breath. This room was... cold. But strangely familiar too.

His eyes moved to the bed. It was flat, the pillow as if it had never been used. But Tony had slept here once. He had grown up here.

Peter took off his shoes and carefully lay down on the bed.

It was softer than he had expected. A strange calm came over him as he looked up at the ceiling. He didn't want to close his eyes, but his eyelids felt heavy.

The last thing he remembered was a photo of Tony when he was young. Then everything went black.

When he opened his eyes, at first he couldn't understand where he was. A dark room greeted him, and when the shelves just across the bed caught his eye, he realized that he had fallen asleep in Tony's room. 

He wasn’t alone in the bed. Tony was sitting right beside him, his back turned. The moment Peter shifted and lay flat, Tony turned his head toward him.

It was strange. He hadn't turned on the light, probably so as not to wake him up, but he also didn't have his phone in his hand. He was just sitting there in the dark.

Tony turned slowly to face him. Even in the dim light filtering through the window, the exhaustion on his face was clear.

 “You quickly discovered the best escape route in this house.”

His tone was laced with humor, but the weight behind the words was impossible to miss. It didn’t take much to understand, this house didn’t hold many good memories for him. Peter wondered how many times Tony had ended up in this very bed, after a fight with Howard, simply too drained to say anything more.

“Did I miss dinner?” Tony’s movements were slow. It was obvious that he hadn’t just been talking business with Howard after Peter had left. His heavy hand came to rest on his stomach, sluggish and worn out.

“No. It hasn’t started yet.”

There was something both comforting and unsettling in that answer. No, you didn’t miss it—no one will call you rude behind your back. And no, you didn’t miss it—the nightmare just hasn’t begun yet. It was somewhere in between.

But now, Peter had a bigger problem than his own nerves: Tony looked more exhausted than ever. Whatever the conversation with Howard had been, it clearly hadn’t gone well. And being in this house seemed to drain him even further.

Without thinking, Peter’s hand reached out, fingers brushing the sleeve of the arm Tony had draped over his stomach. He didn’t know exactly what he was trying to do with the gentle touch—he just wanted to be some kind of anchor.

As he slowly pushed himself upright in bed, Tony’s hand slid from his stomach to his waist, steadying him. He used his other arm for support. Now they were sitting very close. Too close for Peter to ignore the weight of the moment.

He didn’t know what he should do—or what he wanted to do. He only knew he wanted to be there for him. Still, Howard and Tony’s relationship felt like something too tangled, too loaded, for him to step into.

He lowered his head slightly. He knew he shouldn’t say anything. All he could do was wait for the moment Tony would pull himself back together. For when they’d both have to get up.

When he felt Tony's breath closer, he looked up at him without lifting his head. For a moment he realized that this was their first intimacy in a long week. The hand that had wrapped around his waist as he helped him up was still there. Though his marks were gone, Peter's were still faint. In just a week he had gone to great efforts to hide them from everyone. 

As Tony's head tilted more and more, his nose fell so that it landed right on his neck. He had been worried for a moment. They hadn't even talked about what had happened on the cruise ship and he didn't want to be embarrassed in front of Maria and Howard if he started kissing him here and removed the foundation he'd been forced to cover himself with. 

But Tony was just there. He was taking deep breaths into his neck.

He let him. It wasn't the same, but he felt exhausted before he left the house with May. He shouldn't have minded getting some rest. 

So Tony did. After resting his head on Peter's neck for an unmeasurable amount of time in the dark, he slowly lifted it. 

Instead of pulling back, his nose touched the boy's nose. As if by reflex, Peter's mouth opened slightly.

He knew he shouldn't do it, should pull back, but he didn't. He rubbed again, faster and harder this time. He didn't know if he was trying to get it out of his head or giving Peter time to pull back. 

Peter's head was still slightly tilted. Tony's rubbing with his nose had caused him to raise his head each time, as if it were a very forceful move. 

Slowly, with his weight, he laid Peter back down on the bed and lay on top of him as far as his hanging legs would allow. 

Now Peter's head was lying flat as he was looking up at him. The look in his eyes was undecipherable. It wasn't sadness, but it was at least as sparkling.

As soon as his head came closer, his mouth opened slightly again and that was the last straw for Tony.

Without thinking, he slid his tongue inside his mouth. It was long but ended sharply. When Peter pulled back, Tony thought something had happened. A wrong move, a wrong moment. 

But when Peter's hand and eyes slid down, he couldn't help looking where he was looking. 

The boy was pressing down on his pants. When he looked back up into his face, he realized what had happened. It wasn't that he was embarrassed because he was being pleasured, it must have hurt like hell for a moment. 

At that moment Tony remembered how young Peter was. He was experiencing many things for the first time. It occurred to him now how inexperienced and frightened he must have been about things like this. 

Something like being hurt by pleasure must have been completely unexpected for him. He should probably have known what to do, but he didn't do it.

His hand involuntarily went to Peter's and pressed harder. With Peter's head going backwards came a tiny moan that he tried to suppress. But at least Tony knew the pain was gone now.

And that he should pull his hand away. 

When Peter's head fell back onto the pillow, he looked up at his face for a moment. A stray tear. Really? Was just a little pressure enough to do that much? 

For a moment he hesitated whether to pull his hand away. But something surprised him. 

With both Peter's hands grasping at his wrist, his legs were hesitant between squeezing and spreading fully. 

It was unclear whether he wanted her to caress him or to pull back. 

When Tony's hand slowly slid further back, he closed both his legs tightly, trapping him there. The look on his face now was surprising. Nothing was happening but he seemed to be on the verge of crying with pleasure.

Tony didn't think at all. His hand continued between Peter's tightly pressed legs. Peter's hands went straight to his mouth. Now his hands and legs were completely out of his control. 

Tony's other hand wrapped around his wrist, but Peter didn't let him pull it away. He realized where they were. He wished they were home at that moment. He would have let Peter's screams fill the house.

It was hard to move between tightly closed legs, but the harder he thrust, the more intense it seemed to get. He wanted this. Both of them. So Tony was willing to give. 

He didn't have to say or do anything when he moved his head closer again. 

Peter's hands pulled back to cling to his neck. The moans he let out between kisses were just enough to let him know what was good for him until a knock on the door brought everything to an abrupt halt. 

“Tony, time for dinner.” 

His mother's voice seemed to bring them both, but especially Peter, back to their place in the world. 

Peter was already up and running to his bathroom when Tony told her they were coming down. He wanted to tell him it was okay. That they still had time. But Peter was probably too ashamed of himself for having done all this. And it didn't help that someone was at the door when he was trying not to be heard.

Chapter Text

The table was as large as Peter had expected, maybe even more. Sitting around it didn’t feel like an intimate family dinner—it felt like a negotiation. A show.

He wasn’t sure what was worse: the silence or the forced pleasantries.

Maria had insisted Peter sit next to her, and Tony had taken the seat directly opposite, flanked by Howard. The placements didn’t feel random.

The clinking of silverware on porcelain echoed a little too clearly in the room. The food was exquisite, no surprise there, but Peter barely tasted anything. His mouth was dry. His throat was tight.

Maria was talking. Soft, warm conversation, carrying the evening with the same grace she’d carried Peter through the afternoon. “So Peter, remind me—what was your major again?”

He blinked, swallowed hard, and forced a polite smile. “Biochemistry. Third year.”

Maria’s eyes lit up like he’d said something personally pleasing. “That’s a lovely field. Difficult, but rewarding. You must be very bright.”

Peter flushed, but nodded. “Trying to keep up.”

Tony let out a small huff of breath, something between amusement and approval. Peter glanced at him only briefly—he was composed now. Completely unreadable. The kind of man who could be in two different realities at once. One that happened upstairs, and one that was happening now.

Howard finally spoke, and the temperature dropped five degrees.

“Bright’s good. Stark Industries could use more bright minds… assuming they know when to speak, and when to listen.”

Peter didn’t look at him, but he felt the comment. It wasn’t just about work. It wasn’t even about him. It was a flex. A line in the sand.

Maria gently steered the conversation away again, as if Howard hadn’t said a thing. “I’m sure Peter is very capable. I was just telling Tony earlier—he seems like someone who knows how to handle himself.”

Tony didn’t confirm or deny.

Peter felt the weight of everything in that pause.

Maria turned to Peter again, softly. “How’s your aunt? Was it May?”

He nodded, grateful. “Yeah. She's still in intensive care, but she's stable.”

Howard made a noise low in his throat, dismissive. Peter wondered if he even realized he did it, or if it was automatic.

“I’m sure she is,” Maria replied, shooting her husband the mildest glance, then smiling again.

A server entered quietly, refilling glasses. The interruption gave everyone a moment to breathe. Peter took a sip, trying to calm the heat still lingering under his skin. Every time his thigh brushed the underside of the table, it brought back more than just the memory of Tony’s hand.

He shouldn’t be thinking about that now.

But he couldn’t stop.

And Tony hadn’t looked at him once since they sat down.

For a while the meal went on in silence. The clatter of cutlery was occasionally interrupted by Maria's light topics, but the only thing that made any real noise around the table was what was left unsaid.

Then Howard suddenly spoke. “How old did you say you were, Peter?”

There was a softness in the tone of the question, but the words were like stone underneath. The air at the table instantly became heavy.

At first Peter didn't understand what he meant, or didn't want to understand. He swallowed the mouthful with some difficulty.

"Well... twenty. Almost twenty-one."

Howard laughed. It was a hard, dry laugh.

"I don't know, it sounds pretty interesting to me. The two of you."

Tony put down his fork. He looked at his father out of the corner of his eye but said nothing. He didn't defend, didn't warn.

Peter was frozen. He didn't know what to say. It was as if something like a stone had settled in his chest. He didn't lift his eyes from his plate. It felt safer to say nothing than to say the wrong thing.

Maria's voice came through once more. Her sweet, smooth tone was almost mechanical this time.

“Howard,” she said softly but clearly. "What age matters in love? People are judged by their hearts, not their birth year."

Howard just shrugged. “I'm just trying to make conversation, I want to know more about our guest, that's all.”

Peter could only lift his head a little. The man sitting opposite him wasn't even looking at him. His attention was on his wine glass.

There was another few seconds of silence at the table.

Then Maria turned to Peter again, her voice more cheerful this time.

"Are you saving room for dessert, Peter? Our helper has prepared something special for tonight. It's Italian - a very light dessert."

Peter barely smiled. "Yes, of course. I'll try."

But only Tony noticed the subtlety in his voice.

Peter's cheeks were slightly flushed. He was clenching his hands on his knees. He was suffocating silently, as if no one noticed.

And Tony still hadn't said a word to his father.

Three days had passed since that dinner. They hadn't spoken since then, but Peter could see that Tony had become even more low.

At first, he was secretly angry with him. The fact that he hadn't said anything made them both feel humiliated. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he wasn't well aware of Tony's traumas.

He didn't know what he was going through. Maybe it was hard for him to stand up to his father. 

As the days passed, he felt worse and worse about it. Maybe with all Tony's problems, he shouldn't be having more problems. Maybe he really needed someone by his side.

Peter was sitting in the living room on a Wednesday evening when he came home from work. Tony, as usual, said nothing and went into his own room.

Peter sat still for a moment longer, watching the space Tony had just walked through. Then he drew in a breath, steadying the restlessness in his chest. He knew this wouldn’t fix itself unless he did something. Before his courage could waver, he stood up abruptly and made his way down the hall to Tony’s room.

Peter walked silently along the corridor, his heart beating a little faster every time his foot touched the carpet. When he stopped in front of the door, his hand remained in the air. Should he knock?

No.

He shouldn't have kept such a distance from him now.

Slowly he opened the door.

It was his first time in this room.

Tony's room was a simpler but more personal space than the rest of the house. The edge of the wide bed was directly opposite; neatly made quilts, a watch left haphazardly on the edge of the bed, a book left open. On the right wall was a huge window, the curtain half drawn. The dim evening light illuminated the interior slightly.

And Tony... 

He took a few steps into his bathroom to look at his door opening and the intruder.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Peter.

They locked eyes.

“Peter?” he said, surprised.

But Peter didn't answer. He just closed the door behind him. The room suddenly became quieter, more isolated.

He walked slowly towards Tony, this time not thinking about what to say. Not how Tony would react, not whether it was a mistake or not.

He just stood in front of him.

And he noticed the way Tony's breathing rose and fell in his chest, the way his hair fell over his forehead, his tired but watchful gaze.

And he kissed him.

It was soft at first, like a question. Peter’s lips barely pressed against Tony’s, hesitant but unflinching. He didn’t pull back.

Tony didn’t move for a second.

Then, like something finally giving in, his hand rose; first just brushing Peter’s arm, then pulling him closer by the waist. Peter’s body pressed gently into him, warm and tense.

The kiss deepened without a word.

Tony’s fingers slid under the hem of Peter’s tshirt, palms flat, as if confirming he was real. Peter opened his mouth slightly, and Tony took it as permission. Their tongues met; tentative, then firmer.

Peter’s hand curled around the open front of Tony’s shirt, grasping the soft, loose fabric between his fingers. His heart was pounding.

He felt Tony exhale against his cheek as his back hit the nearest wall.

It wasn’t hurried, but it wasn’t slow either. It was… full. Like the air was thick with all the words they hadn’t said, all the questions they hadn’t asked.

Tony’s hand traveled up to Peter’s jaw, thumb grazing the side of his face as he pulled him in again—deeper this time.

Peter moaned softly into his mouth. He didn’t care anymore if Tony heard it. He wanted him to.

Tony’s other hand slid around his back, and for the first time in days, Peter didn’t feel like a problem to be solved. He just felt wanted.

And he kissed back with everything he had.

They were breathing into each other now. Their foreheads touching, Peter’s hands still curled around Tony’s half-open shirt, Tony’s arms tight around his waist.

Tony was the first to pull back, just slightly. Enough to catch his breath.

Peter’s gaze was soft. Almost fragile. But he didn’t let go. His thumb was still stroking the side of Tony’s neck, grounding them both.

Then Peter whispered, barely audible between breaths, “Would you… like to stay with me tonight?”

Tony blinked, uncertain. For a split second, Peter thought he might have misunderstood him. So he added, voice a little steadier this time:

“Not like that. Just…” He swallowed. “Just sleep. Here. With me.”

Tony didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed him again. Slower this time, but no less intense. His lips moved with something deeper than desire; relief, maybe. Or longing.

Peter felt it too. He kissed back just as fiercely, but when Tony’s hands wandered a little lower. Peter felt his sweatpants being pulled down. Now only his baggy t-shirt covered his underwear. 

When Tony broke the kiss and kissed his cheek, it was as if he was reminding him that everything was fine. When his hands went to the man's shoulders, he pushed his shirt, which was completely open at the front, off him. 

When Tony buried his head in his neck, he knew there was only one step left before they got into bed: taking off the man's pants. 

His hand trembled slightly as it moved downward. He wasn't used to experiencing such intense things. After barely managing to undo the button and zipper, the man didn't force him any further. 

As he pulled him by the neck, he grabbed him by the hand and moved toward the bed. Peter sat down slowly while the man walked to the other side. After taking off his pants, he settled on the other side of the bed. 

As he got under the blanket, Peter got in too. 

Now it was a little strange. The bed was huge, and they were both lying face to face on one side. 

The lights were completely off, and the curtains were closed. Tony’s room must have been the most technologically advanced room in the house after the lab. 

No matter how dark it was, Peter could feel Tony’s glowing eyes and his entire presence. He knew Tony could feel his too. 

Once again, he took the first move. His hand reached out from under the blanket toward him. Just like that night, Tony kissed him when he held him, but this time on the inside of his palm.

What followed didn't take seconds. Tony's arms reached out to him, grabbed him by the waist, and pulled him onto his side of the bed. 

Now Peter's head was completely buried in the man's neck. 

They both lay still for a long time, their breathing syncing with the quiet.

No words. No sex. Just proximity.

And for now, it was enough.

When he woke up in the morning, he was alone in the big bed. When he opened his eyes, he encountered only parted curtains. The sunlight coming in was brightening the room enough.

He didn't know what to expect, but he didn't expect this. Maybe Tony found it ridiculous when he woke up in the morning. He left without even saying anything.

Chapter Text

Peter hadn’t expected to see Happy waiting in a car outside the campus gates when he was leaving college. After saying goodbye to MJ and Ned, he made his way over. “Hey.”

He didn’t question anything when Happy told him they had to go somewhere. Not until they were already on the road. He was sure there wasn’t an event today. Had he forgotten something?

After they’d driven for a while in silence, Happy handed him a small card, likely sensing Peter’s growing confusion. But the card only made it worse.

What’s your dream car, Parker?

Peter stared at the card, then looked over at Happy. It was obviously from Tony. But… why?

Happy didn’t offer any answers. The drive continued in silence.

When they finally arrived, Peter stayed in the car for a moment, taking in the place. Then he looked over at Happy, who just gave him a look and got out.
There was something different about him today—more serious than usual.

Peter actually knew this side of Happy. During his internship, Happy had always kept a professional distance. He only ever softened when someone offered him sweets.
This felt a lot like that version of him.

Peter followed him inside.

A man in a suit greeted them at the door and led them in. Everything about him—from his voice to the way he looked at them—reeked of sycophancy.

Peter tried to ignore it, but Happy was already scanning the place like a bodyguard on duty.

When the man realized Peter was the one he should be charming, he turned to him with an eager smile. “Do you have something in mind?”

Peter blinked. “Sorry… what?”

He looked at Happy for help. “Why are we here?”

Happy shrugged slightly, feigning casualness. “Well, it’s a gallery, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but... why?”

Peter’s confusion was clear. Happy gave the man next to them a subtle look that said, just go with it. “You read the card, right? Right. Come on, those over there look like a good starting point.”

Peter followed, still dazed, as the man led him deeper into the showroom.

Why were they here? Why was Tony doing this?

As they moved from one car to the next, Happy kept throwing in comments like, “Too classic,” “Tony already has three of those,” “Too simple,” or even “Come on, Peter, you can dream bigger than that.”

After what felt like hours of indecision, comments, and rejecting models that looked just fine to him, they somehow landed on an Aston Martin.

Peter didn’t even know how they got there.

He was already confused—but the whole experience, topped with Happy’s strangely pointed critiques, made his mind spin even faster.

Happy dropped him off at home again. As Peter parked his new car in Tony’s garage, he realized he was standing in a part of the house he had never seen before.

Only now did he fully understand what Happy had been trying to show him all day.

There were dozens of cars in the garage—lined up like works of art. And Peter was sure some of them were worth more than he could ever imagine.

After saying goodbye, he used the instructions Happy had given him to take the elevator up to the main floor of the house.

He was heading to his room when he caught sight of Tony in the living room—and changed his mind.

He stopped at the doorway, not stepping fully inside. “Nice choice.” He knew. Of course he knew. What didn’t he know?

“Thanks to Happy,” Peter replied, unsure whether he should ask why Tony had done all this. The more they avoided talking about it, the heavier it felt between them.

“Thanks, by the way.”

Tony stood up, walking toward him. Or maybe he was just heading to his room. Maybe he didn’t want to have this conversation either.

When he stopped in front of Peter, he ran a hand through his hair, pushing back the strands that had fallen into his eyes from the long day. “We have plans for Saturday,” he said.

Should he ask what those plans were? Or just go along with it?

“Okay,” Peter said, keeping his tone neutral, accepting. There was no possibility that his answer would be negative anyway.

Tony’s eyes lingered on him a little longer. Was he waiting for Peter to ask something? Or for something else entirely?

For some reason, Peter didn’t want to be the one to say goodbye first. So he stayed. And in the silence, they just stood there—watching each other.

Then Tony reached out and touched his chin. His thumb brushed gently across Peter’s lips.
In that moment, Peter realized—he didn’t want him to say something. He wanted him to ask something. “Will you accompany me again?”

He paused for a moment. He hadn't expected that. He didn't seem to regret last night at all. After pausing for a few seconds, he said slowly, “If you wish it.”

Tony nodded slightly, a faint twitch at the corner of his lips. “Nice,” he said, in a calm tone. Nothing more, nothing less.

Then, without adding anything else, he began walking toward the stairs.

Peter remained there, standing at the doorstep, with a multitude of unanswered questions despite having received a response to his statement.

Should he follow him directly? It would be better to stop by his room, take a shower, and change his clothes. What did he mean by accompanying him? Did he just want to sleep like last night? Wasn't it a little early for that? Would it be strange if he went right now? What if he wanted something else? Last night, he seemed to be wanting more.

In any case, Peter decided that the best thing to do was to go to his room and take a shower. It was only 8:30. Way too early to go to bed. Maybe he hadn't even gone to his room yet. When he tried to kill time, he realized there was no more escape.

He had taken his shower and put on his pajamas. There was nothing else to do. If he would said it was still too early, maybe he could have said he had homework and gone back.

He took a deep breath and left his room.

The hallway felt longer than usual, quieter too. Maybe it was just him. Maybe it was the weight of uncertainty dragging at his steps.

When he reached the door, he hesitated again—just for a second—then raised his hand and knocked. Once. Softly.

There was no answer, but he opened the door anyway.

The lights were dim again, just like the night before. 

Tony was lying on the bed this time, half-sitting against the headboard with a pillow tucked behind his back. He had a tablet in his hand, scrolling through something with the usual detached focus of someone too used to multitasking. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and the top few buttons were still undone.

He looked up when Peter entered. Their eyes met briefly—Tony’s gaze unreadable but calm—and then returned to his screen.

Peter stepped inside quietly, closing the door behind him.

No words were exchanged. There didn’t seem to be a need.

Peter climbed into bed beside him—carefully, awkwardly at first—sitting against the headboard like Tony was. Not touching. Just near.

He didn’t know whether to speak or stay quiet. Whether to look at him or keep his eyes on the blanket. So he stayed still, waited.

Tony didn’t offer a smile or explanation. Just kept reading, tapping the screen occasionally, his presence a quiet but solid thing beside Peter.

It wasn’t the night Peter had expected. But it also wasn’t bad.

It just was.

They stayed like that for a while. Quiet. Still.

Peter tried not to fidget, but eventually his body gave in to comfort. He slowly slid down from the headboard, stretching his legs under the blanket. He laid on his side, facing Tony, watching the calm glow of the screen reflect across his face.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did Tony.

Minutes passed. Then, with a soft sigh, Tony finally put the tablet down on the nightstand.

His attention shifted—fully, deliberately—to Peter.

Peter’s breath hitched before he could stop it.

Tony sat still for a moment, like he was debating something internally. Then he moved.

He leaned in, his hand brushing against Peter’s waist as he hovered slightly over him, not quite touching, not until Peter tilted his face up instinctively. Their lips met—slow at first, testing the waters, and then deeper, more certain.

Peter’s hand found the open part of Tony’s shirt. Fingers skimmed the warm skin beneath, feeling the slight tension in his chest, the way he always held something back.

Tony broke the kiss only to whisper—barely audible, not really asking— “Will you?”

Peter’s hands answered before his mouth did. He began to unbutton the rest of Tony’s shirt slowly, one button at a time, his touch reverent, almost unsure.

Tony let him. Watched him. His breathing deepened, but he didn’t rush.

When Peter finally slid the shirt from his shoulders, Tony dropped it carelessly off the bed. And then, he leaned back in.

They kissed again, this time with more fire beneath the surface—but still no urgency. Just quiet need, slowly unfolding.

The kiss deepened. It wasn't playful or teasing anymore—it was steady, slow-burning, and consuming.

Tony's hand slid behind Peter's neck, pulling him closer. Their bodies shifted naturally, legs brushing, chests pressing lightly together. Peter’s heart was pounding in his ears.

He felt Tony's weight gradually settling against him. He didn’t stop. Didn’t want to.

The warmth of his skin, the scent of his cologne still lingering faintly, the way his breath came quicker now—it was all too much. Peter felt himself tipping into that heat, into the space between them where nothing else existed.

He opened his mouth more fully beneath Tony’s, arched slightly into his touch, let out a soft, involuntary sound when Tony’s hand slipped under his shirt, fingers brushing along his ribs.

He thought, this is it. He thought they were going to—

But Tony broke the kiss.

He didn’t move far—just rested his forehead against Peter’s, his hand still warm on Peter’s side. His chest rose and fell against Peter’s as if he were catching his breath.

Then he whispered, voice low and rough, “Is this okay?”

Peter barely managed a nod.

Tony pressed a softer kiss against his cheek. Then one to the edge of his jaw. He pulled Peter closer, guiding him until they were fully tucked in against each other. Peter curled slightly into his chest, Tony's arms loose but sure around him.

Nothing more happened. And yet, Peter couldn't stop thinking about everything that almost had.

It continued like this. The next day, even though he was hesitant, Tony asked again at dinner. This time he had come bed later. It was strange. He hadn't questioned him, but he had given an explanation. “Things took longer at the lab.” It was now like a habit. An intense kiss, pushing Tony's clothes aside and eventually curling up together under the sheets.

He didn't know why he wanted or did it. This time, he asked without waiting for tomorrow. “Will you be here?” It was actually unexpected that he was asking. He could’ve said be here —a subtle request. But instead, he was asking.

Understanding Tony Stark was difficult. Was he enjoying this, or was he using him? He didn’t know. But one thing he was sure of: he liked it. All of it.

On Friday, he woke up early.

Being alone in the morning—three days in a row—had quietly started to bother him. He wasn’t expecting to be kissed awake or anything. Still, the silence had stung a little.

So, this time, he had a plan. Cleverly calculated.

He set his alarm for the time he guessed Tony would be finishing his morning shower. When he came out of the bathroom, he was getting out of bed.

Waking up this early would’ve looked suspicious, so he had his excuse ready: “Spending time in the lab before the first class starts.”

He ended up getting more than he expected. Tony looked genuinely pleased to see him awake. He came closer. Asked why he was up. Kissed him. Then offered to drop him off before heading to the company.

Peter didn’t think twice. He accepted. He didn’t care who might see them.

Every second he spent with Tony made him want to know him more.

Tony wasn’t cold. Especially not lately. And sometimes, during the day, Peter caught himself thinking about all of this too much. Maybe getting too caught up. After all, they hadn’t really talked. Not about any of this .

Tony Stark was still full of secrets.

So what was this feeling?

He’d meant it when he told him he wasn’t gay. But now... was it about power? Wealth? Pleasure?

Was it that he had gone beyond the boundaries in the distance Tony had placed between himself and everyone else? 

He didn’t know.

But all of those thoughts faded again—wiped clean by the kiss Tony gave him just before Peter got out of the car.

Chapter Text

As Peter got out of the car, he scanned his surroundings. It didn't look like a hotel or a public facility. It was more like a private residence: surrounded by high walls, hidden among greenery, the kind of place where only certain people were allowed inside.

When Tony mentioned that the plan was to meet with friends, Peter had envisioned a quiet dinner in the evening. Perhaps a few polite exchanges over wine, followed by an early farewell.

But when he saw the large bags prepared by the staff in the morning, everything changed. Towels, coolers, sunscreen, small bottles in special containers… none of this had anything to do with an ordinary dinner. And at that moment, he realized that the plan was actually a pool party.

A pool party in March.

Peter looked up at the sky. The weather was warm. It was almost like summer. A few seagulls were calling among the palm trees, and the air was filled with the scent of fresh lemon mixed with sunscreen. 

Guess... he would never fully understand the riches.

He didn't understand why Tony, who had a huge pool at his own house, would come to another place with a pool.

Especially at such an early time, in March. 

Tony got out of the car and reached out his hand to him directly. Peter took his hand without thinking for a moment. The movement felt natural… perhaps too natural. But was it a gesture? A way to keep up the act in front of his friends? Or was it implying that there was no game left?

The warmth of Tony's hand seemed clearer than what he couldn't say. But still, the same question kept running through Peter's mind: Are they still acting?

The door they entered was automatic.

What kind of house had a door that opened by itself? This wasn't a house. He was sure of that now.

But the moment they stepped inside, everything became clear. The staff waiting at the entrance, their welcoming yet professional expressions, the dim but flawless lighting, the quiet luxury spread out across the marble floors...

This was not just a private property, it was like a world unto itself.

After passing through several corridors inside, they finally emerged outside through large glass doors.

To call it a garden would be an understatement. 

This was much more than just a piece of land. It was an open space surrounded by greenery, professionally landscaped, almost resort-like in feel. 

A few people were sitting by the edge of the pool, which seemed to stretch on endlessly. There weren't many of them, but each one looked quite relaxed—as if this were just another ordinary Saturday for them. 

No one was acting fancy, but nothing seemed ordinary either. Even the towels looked ironed. Lounge chairs, drinks, waiters moving quietly...

Peter paused for a moment. If this wasn't a resort, what was it?

Those who noticed them turned their gaze toward them.

Peter forced himself to stand a little straighter. At least there wasn't a world-famous pop star among them—he didn't want to feel like he was under the spotlight when he was already so nervous.

Tony walked straight toward someone in the crowd.

Peter recognized him... Or rather, he remembered where he knew him from. This man was in a framed photograph in Tony's old room—of course, he was younger there, less tired.

Tony introduced them. He said his name was Rhodey and that they had been friends since school.

That was a long time ago.

Peter looked at the man involuntarily. Rhodey probably knew almost everything about Tony. 

Did he know that this marriage was fake? 

Or had he figured it out just by looking, without Tony even needing to explain? 

The man extended his hand. A warm, sincere handshake. 

“Finally, we meet,” said Rhodey. His voice was friendly and sincere. “I've heard a lot about you.”

Peter's heart skipped a beat. What had he heard?

But Rhodey smiled. “It's all good stuff. Don't worry. I remember him saying you were ‘stubborn but cute.’”

Peter didn’t know what to say for a moment, then smiled slightly. “Well… at least he said the 'cute'."

After a brief but heartfelt conversation with Rhodey, Peter was introduced to Tony’s other friends.

First, Natasha approached. She pushed her black sunglasses up her head and sized Peter up from head to toe in a second. “Nat,” she said simply, extending her hand. Her voice was neutral, but there was a hint of interest in her eyes. 

Peter shook his hand. “Peter. Yes, I—”

“I know,” Nat said, nodding slightly. “Tony doesn't talk much, but he talks about you.”

Peter was surprised. But he didn't ask. Maybe he shouldn't have thought about it.

Then Clint approached. He had a half-finished drink in his hand and a towel over his shoulder. “I get along with everyone who doesn't shoot arrows at me,” he said with a smile. Peter smiled and shook his hand.

Steve and Sam came together. Steve gave a classic serious nod, then extended his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Sam was warmer. “Look at you,” he said, glancing briefly at Tony. “The famous ‘partner’ is finally here.” 

Peter laughed involuntarily. “I hope I haven’t disappointed you.” 

“Not yet,” Sam said, winking. 

Finally, Bruce raised his hand from a distance, sitting in a chair in the shadow. He was further away than everyone else, wearing his glasses and hat.

And then, for a while, everyone dispersed to their own corners. Drinks were being refreshed, laughter rose from the poolside, and music played softly in the distance.

Peter, however, was still standing, beside Tony. For a moment, he realized that everyone was truly minding their own business. No one was questioning them, disturbing them, or observing them.

This freedom was a bit dizzying.

As Peter drifted into his thoughts for a moment, Tony's voice brought him back to reality.

“The press conference is over, Mr Parker.”

When he looked up at him, he realized that this “reactionary” environment around him was actually just Tony's close friends who had been with him for years. There was nothing to exaggerate. They were all a natural part of Tony's life. 

Tony was still smiling slightly. Then he took his hand and led him over to their side, or rather, to their private area.

It was more than just a simple lounge chair. It was a gazebo surrounded by a veil that fluttered with the slightest breeze. 

When Tony opened part of the veil, he nodded toward the inside. Peter took a few steps and went inside. 

The structure inside resembled a bed. There was a thick foam mattress and a few pillows on top of it. 

Peter sat down on the large foam mattress and tucked his feet under him. When the curtain closed again, the interior fell silent. This space was theirs alone. Outside, there was noise and movement, but here... everything was flowing slowly.

When Tony entered, Peter could immediately sense how relaxed he was, so unlike him. There was a confidence in his movements, effortless and magnetic. He watched as the man took off his sunglasses and sank into the mattress with a sigh, the kind that only came from someone entirely in control of his surroundings.

Then Tony began unbuttoning his oversized shirt, slow and unbothered, letting it fall to the side. 

When Tony lay back against the large mattress, his gaze found Peter’s again—steady, unreadable, but not cold. He patted the space beside him without a word. Peter moved without hesitation.

The soft fabric beneath them, the breeze slipping through the veils of the gazebo, the distant sound of water and muted voices, they were wrapped in a strange kind of privacy. It wasn’t complete isolation, but it was enough.

They lay side by side for a while, not touching, not speaking. Then Tony shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow, his other hand finding Peter’s wrist. He drew it closer, fingers trailing lightly up Peter’s arm, until he reached the hem of the boy’s loose tshirt.

“May I?” he asked, voice low, close.

Peter swallowed and nodded. His shirt was pulled over his head in one smooth motion. The heat wasn’t just from the sun anymore.

Tony leaned down and pressed a kiss to his collarbone. Then another, higher, softer. Peter's breath caught.

They didn’t rush. It wasn’t about urgency. It was about letting time melt around them—Tony’s hand resting on Peter’s ribs, Peter's fingers curling lightly in the fabric of the mattress, their mouths meeting with slow intensity.

For a brief moment, Peter thought maybe this is it. Maybe it would go further. The way Tony's body hovered over his, the way his hands slid along his waist—it was easy to think that.

But then Tony kissed him once more—deep, claiming—and rested his forehead against Peter’s. Neither moved for a while.

“This okay?” he murmured.

Peter only nodded, but his arms had already wrapped around him in answer.

Later, they didn’t speak as they shifted to lie down again, facing each other, legs tangled. Tony's thumb brushed over his temple, a motion too soft for someone so sharp.

It was the kind of intimacy Peter hadn’t expected from this day. Not here, not like this.

As Tony closed his eyes and settled, Peter watched him for a moment. Then he scooted just a little closer and let his eyes flutter shut too—his skin still tingling from every place Tony had touched.

For a while, this silence and calmness felt good. The warmth, along with shadow and the softness of the mattress, and of course Tony's presence, lulled him into a light sleep. 

He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but he was sure it hadn’t been an hour. When he blinked awake, he realized he had turned onto his other side. Tony’s breath was warm against the back of his neck.

For a second, a flicker of embarrassment passed through him—he was still in his swimsuit, so exposed, so close. But then he remembered the night they had had sex.

That memory alone—its weight, its hunger—swept through him so quickly that it cleared all hesitation from his mind.

He stayed still, eyes half-open, body acutely aware of every inch of space between them—or lack thereof. Tony hadn’t moved away. In fact, his hand was loosely draped over Peter’s waist, thumb brushing unconsciously against his skin.

Peter let out a slow breath. Maybe this wasn’t just physical. Or maybe it was, and he was just too far gone to care.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t want to break the moment.

Just as Peter let out a slow, steady breath, he felt something else—warm lips pressing gently against the nape of his neck.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry like that night. It was quiet. Careful. As if Tony had been awake the whole time, just waiting for the right moment.

Peter’s breath caught. His skin tingled where Tony had kissed him, and for a second he couldn’t decide whether to stay still or turn around. But he didn’t need to move—Tony didn’t pull away.

A second kiss came, softer than the first. Then another.

His eyes fluttered shut. He didn’t know what it meant. But he knew how it felt. And right now, that was enough.

Peter didn't say anything at first. He just turned his head, slowly, until his eyes met Tony’s.

Their faces were close now. So close that Peter could see the way the light filtered through Tony’s lashes, could feel his breath more clearly against his lips. But neither of them leaned in.

They just looked at each other. Quiet. Present.

Tony’s hand, still resting at Peter’s waist, gave a gentle squeeze. “You hungry?” he asked, his voice low and steady, like he didn’t want to break the calm that had settled around them.

Peter blinked once, surprised by the softness of the question. His throat felt dry, but not from hunger.

He nodded anyway. “Maybe a little.”

Tony hummed, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. “I’ll order something.”

He didn’t move immediately. Just brushed his thumb once more over Peter’s skin—absently, like he wasn’t even aware of doing it—then finally reached for his phone at the edge of the mattress.

The food arrived fifteen minutes later—on a silver tray, no less—carried in by one of the staff who barely made a sound as they placed it down in the inside the gazebo.

Peter sat up slightly, curiosity piqued—then immediately deflated when he saw the food.

Big plate but tiny pieces. Elegant, strange little things arranged like art installations. A bite of something green balanced on a crisp shell. A streak of sauce that didn’t quite touch the edge of the plate. One dish looked like foam. Actual foam.

This… was not what he had in mind.

He blinked at it, trying not to look too confused.

Tony, of course, noticed.

Without saying a word, he picked up a fork, speared a piece of something delicate—pink and folded like a flower—and brought it toward Peter.

Peter didn’t move at first. “You’re seriously gonna feed me that?”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You’re seriously gonna pretend you’re not curious?”

Peter narrowed his eyes but leaned forward all the same, lips parting just enough. The taste hit him a second later—salty, soft, with something sweet in the middle he couldn’t place.

He swallowed, slowly. “Okay. That’s actually good.”

Tony smirked. “Told you.”

Another bite was already on its way. This one, Peter didn’t question.

He let Tony feed him. Lazy, slow bites between small smiles and even smaller words.

It wasn’t a real meal, not really. But somehow, Peter didn’t feel hungry anymore.

Tony Stark is feeding me with his own hands. Who would’ve ever thought?

He wasn’t sure if it was absurd or intimate. Maybe both. But it made his stomach flutter in a way no fancy food ever could.

As Peter chewed the last bite he had taken from Tony's hand, a laugh mixed with the sound of water could be heard in the distance. Then a familiar voice spoke in a loud but relaxed tone:

“Come on, love birds!”

Tony smiled and looked up, but did not respond. Peter also turned and looked in that direction; he could see a few people starting to enter the pool in the distance.

“Are they going to the pool?” he murmured. 

Tony nodded slowly. “Yes. That was the plan after all.” Then his eyes locked on Peter’s. “Do you want to join them?” 

Peter paused for a moment. He didn't want to break the silence of the moment, but there was nothing to hide between them. Maybe spending some time outside would even be good.

“Okay,” he said. As he sat up slightly, Tony placed his hand on his back and gently but comfortably helped him up. When Peter stood up, he could still feel Tony's touch.

Tony stood up as well. He didn't put on his shirt, just his glasses. After a few steps, he turned to Peter and put his hand on his shoulder. 

When they reached the edge of the pool, most people were still standing in the shallow end due to the pool's layered design. 

As Steve walked toward them from the deep end, having probably entered the pool before everyone else, the team couldn't help but laugh at the sight of him looking like a scene from a movie, with water dripping from his well-built body. 

As Sam continued to provoke him, Peter glanced behind him at Clint's words. “Watch out, Peter, I think someone's jealous.”

When he looked behind him, he saw Tony a few steps behind, wearing sunglasses in the water, with a poker face unlike everyone else. 

Those who heard this were now drawn to this side of the conversation. “Let's face it, Stark, we're old now. Although he appeared not to react to Rhodey's comment, he knew that a prideful man like Tony would certainly object to this. 

After walking through the water, Peter hugged Tony. “Don't call my husband old.”

No matter how jokingly he said it, Sam's provocations had turned this way this time. He wasn't really serious, but when he looked up, he saw the smile on Tony's face. “At least someone here really loves me.”

“Well, you feed me well. You are forgiven this time.”

“Thank you, your highness.”

Chapter Text

Even though he was embarrassed by what he said, he tried not to dwell on it. My husband? Really? Was he acting spoiled, or was he being spoiled? 

Did he need to remind himself that all of this was just a game in the end?

When he got out of the water, he took his towel and sat down on one of the sun loungers in the open area. Was he thinking too much or too little? The hardest part was not being able to read Tony's mind. What was he thinking? 

Does he also think that all of this is just a game? Why is he doing all this? A man like Tony wouldn’t bother doing such silly things just to kill time with a young man, no. Deep down, he knew that he also sees this as more than just a game. 

So was all of this meaningless? Was he sleeping with him just to warm his bed? Had he fed him with his hands just for fun in a place where no one could see? 

As Peter gazed at the people in the pool with deep thoughts, he smiled at Tony, who was looking at him. It was almost like a reflex. Was he smiling because he saw him, or because he knew he had to smile? 

As the man got out of the pool and sat down on the lounge next to him, they were now sitting face to face, their knees almost touching.

As the silence continued, Peter handed the man his own towel without waiting for the staff member to bring his. The man silently accepted it. After drying himself, he watched him silently for a moment before speaking. “You seem bored.”

Peter gave a smile. He had never been able to hide his thoughts from his face anyway. “Let's say tired.” For a moment, the heat overwhelmed him. He couldn't understand how it could be so hot even though it was March. There must be a special system here.

“Too bad then. I had plans for hot tub.” It was quite difficult to tell from the man's tone of voice and expression whether he was being sarcastic or serious. Figuring out Tony Stark seemed like the hardest thing in the world. 

As the man leaned forward, their faces came closer, his hands lightly grazing the back of his knees. “A little massage might feel good.”

Peter leaned forward in the same way, allowing their foreheads to touch. He couldn't understand how he could surrender to his touch so easily at the slightest movement. “I thought we came here to be with your friends.”

A smile appeared on Tony's face, but Peter still couldn't figure out what it meant. As they parted ways, Tony took his hands in his and lifted him up with him. Leaving the pool behind, they walked to a spot near the entrance and turned right. 

There was an arrangement that was clearly designed to be both natural and luxurious. As if it were part of a prearranged plan, drinks and food were already set out next to the hot tub. 

He allowed Tony to guide him. He hadn't even noticed how tense his muscles were until he got into the hot water. 

He had been so unaware of how much he needed this that he had remained with his eyes closed for a while, only realizing it when he opened them again. 

When he opened his eyes, he saw the man sitting across from him, smiling. He felt embarrassed for a moment. Being on edge for so long had worn him out, but displaying it so openly, especially in front of the man who had put him in this situation, made him feel awkward. 

The man wasn't judging him or looking like he had caught him in a weak moment. On the contrary, it seemed like this situation was genuinely amusing him. 

Peter's evasive eyes seemed to amuse him even more. 

Peter continued to avert his gaze from him and chose to look down at the bubbling water. The hot tub was larger than he had expected. He hadn't expected his feet to stretch out to the bottom of the tub as if he were sitting on a chair. However, he had never been in a hot tub before, so he didn't know what to expect either. 

As he wiggled his legs slightly, one leg moved forward and touched Tony's leg. He did it unintentionally, but now it felt awkward. Sometimes he wondered if Tony was tired of him and saw him as just a young kid. Maybe all these movements were just a source of daily entertainment for him. 

With his head still bowed, he watched his legs moving more carefully in the water below, and this time the man's foot moved further forward, going under his leg and lifting it higher. 

As his hands gripped his foot and ankle underwater, Peter's eyes turned back to him this time. The man was giving him a massage very calmly. 

To be honest, he had never thought Tony Stark would give him a massage. After what he fed him with his hands today, he wondered what other unexpected modest gestures he was capable of. 

While the man was giving him a massage, Peter couldn't help but study his face. He was doing it with an expression of seriousness, as if he really caring. Peter didn't say anything. He didn't pull his foot back. To be honest, it felt good. 

When the massage was finished, Peter extended his other foot as Tony made a simple hand gesture from under the water. After all, he couldn't refuse when Tony Stark was offering to give him a massage. 

When he finished the massage, he pulled his foot back and switched from examination mode to embarrassment mode. This time, there was a hint of silliness in it. 

Every time Tony did something, he had to remind himself that they had done it before. But none of that made what he was doing any easier. He was still feeling completely exposed and embarrassed at the slightest movement. 

Peter met his eyes again. Confronting him must have brought the greatest courage. The man was sitting comfortably. The moment he felt his eyes on him, his gaze also turned toward him. 

After looking at the man's hand slowly reaching forward under the water, he grabbed it. Realizing what he wanted to do, he gave him what he wanted. 

As he got up from where he was sitting, he slowly spread his legs and settled into the man's lap.

With his hands resting on his shoulders, the man was leaning back, his head thrown back, resting against the hot tub, staring at him with faint eyes. 

Beneath the water, he could feel the man's hands lightly touching his waist. His hands moved from his shoulders to his hair. Then to the back of his neck.

His thumb caressed the man's jawline as he leaned in slightly and placed a small kiss on his lips. He did it simply because he wanted to. Because that was what he felt inside. 

But if he has to find an excuse, it would be unfair not to kiss this man who is looking at him with such an expression on his face and who is entirely take care of him all day.

In fact, he wanted more. Could Tony see that? Looking back now, he had no regrets about that night. He could never admit that, but ever since that night, he had been secretly preparing himself for the next one.

He brought his other hand closer to the man's cheek and ran his thumb along his lower lip. Just as he was thinking that he shouldn't do anything, the light touch of hands on his waist pulled him closer.

Feeling Tony's cock pressing against him under the water, his eyes moved from the man's lips to his eyes.

He knew there was a look of amusement on his face because of what Tony had done. He shifted slightly, measuring Tony's reaction. 

Yes, he did want this. He wanted Tony Stark to be swollen because of him.

Although the man's face appeared calm, there was a mischievous smile in his eyes, just like Peter's. Peter wanted to take this as a sign of approval.

The man still had control over his body's slow movements, his hands still on his waist. Peter's eyes were still examining every inch of the man's face. His hands went up to his hair and pushed it back, then completely ruined it by tucking it inside.

Every second he felt the man's hardness pushed him further into thinking about himself. How could the idea of giving pleasure to someone else give him pleasure? 

At one point, he was on the verge of begging for help. He felt very aroused, but the man's face remained calm. It was as if all this was being done to give himself pleasure, not the man.

He didn't want that. He wanted to finish this without failing. Feeling his movements slowing down, he didn't ask her for any help. 

At a point where he couldn't control his facial expressions, his hands, which had been examining him, turned into arms wrapped around his neck. He was no longer even sure how much his movements were satisfying him. He just felt like he was rubbing against him for his own sake.

He wasn't sure what to do, but he was sure he shouldn't finish here. As he unwrapped his arms, he tried to separate himself from the man, but the man's hands were still holding his waist. 

His grip, harder than his previous touch, seemed to pin him to the spot. He tried to push himself away by pressing his hands against the man's chest, but it was no use. 

The moment he stopped fighting, the man took advantage of the opportunity and pulled him toward himself. Peter couldn't resist. He rested his head on his neck. 

For a moment, he thought everything would remain calm, but his body and numb brain were still gripped by hunger. As he lifted his head from his neck, he kissed him again.

This time it wasn't a little kiss. He continued to kiss him while rubbing himself against him. This time he felt he was really close to the end. The hand thrown into his swimsuit was the final blow.

The moment he felt Tony's hand, he stopped kissing him, threw his head back, and let out a moan for the first time. 

He felt helpless and embarrassed, but when he held his head up again, the first thing he saw was the man's face, which was clearly enjoying the moment.

For a moment, he couldn't gather his thoughts. Did he really enjoying all of this? It dawned on him exactly what was turning him on. 

Just as pleasuring Tony turned him on, seeing himself being pleasured must have turned him on too.

Or maybe he was just enjoying watching him writhing helplessly in his lap, moaning. 

Peter was experiencing such intense emotions that he couldn't weigh up these two options in his mind. So, whatever the choice, he gave him what would satisfy him. 

The moment when he got rid of all his thoughts and focused on Tony's hand didn't take long to come. As he gathered his thoughts, the look on the man's face seemed to say that the second option was actually the right one, but he chose to ignore it.

Chapter Text

When he woke up in the morning, Tony was next to him. Unlike yesterday morning, this time he was sleeping like him. 

Maybe it was the exhaustion from yesterday’s long hours at the pool, the kind of physical tiredness that seeps deep into your muscles. Or maybe it was the comfortable laziness that only Sunday mornings seemed to bring. 

Peter didn’t know the exact reason, but he didn’t feel the need to figure it out. All he knew was that he liked the view in front of him.

Tony Stark, for all his fame, brilliance, and carefully crafted public image, looked completely ordinary when he was asleep. The deep furrow that often settled between his brows when he was thinking—when his mind was racing a mile a minute—was nowhere to be seen. Those sharp, assessing eyes that could cut through a person’s defenses like glass were closed, leaving his face relaxed, peaceful.

Peter found himself studying every line, every angle, committing the details to memory. The slight stubble along his jaw. The way a strand of hair, freed from the usual perfect style, had fallen over his forehead. He didn’t realize how long he had been staring until the quilt shifted, and an arm slid underneath to pull him closer by the waist.

Tony’s eyes were still closed, but Peter’s instincts told him he wasn’t really asleep anymore. It felt… deliberate, as though Tony knew he was being watched and was silently allowing it.

Now they were sharing the same pillow, so close that Peter could feel the warmth of his breath against his skin. The hand at his waist was steady and grounding, giving Peter a small surge of courage. Almost without thinking, he reached up, letting his fingertip trace the edge of Tony’s beard, moving slowly toward his temple and over the faint creases beside his eyes.

Tony didn’t react—not in any obvious way. He simply stayed still, and Peter had the strange, dizzying thought that if someone had told him years ago that he’d one day wake up in bed with Tony Stark, he would’ve laughed. And yet here he was.

A few moments after Peter pulled his hand back, Tony’s eyes opened slowly, like he was in no hurry to break the moment.

“I suppose you’ve memorized every inch of me,” he murmured.

Peter could have blushed at being caught in the act. He could have mumbled an excuse and rolled away. But the man’s low, husky morning voice washed over him like warm coffee, and instead Peter found himself matching the mood.

“I thought there was a statue sleeping next to me,” he said with a crooked smile. “Are you sure you weren’t handcrafted?”

The line had sounded confident in his head, but as soon as their eyes locked in a silent exchange, a faint heat crept up his neck. For a fleeting second, he considered escaping to the bathroom just to wash the nervousness off his face.

But Tony, reading him as easily as ever, tugged him closer instead. “What’s the rush? I thought today was Sunday.”

Peter blinked at him. Did Tony really want to spend the morning tangled in blankets, doing nothing except maybe stealing glances and making the kind of quiet jokes that weren’t meant for anyone else? He could absolutely do that.

“So, what’s the plan, Mr. Stark?”

He didn’t entirely believe Tony didn’t have a plan. This was Stark—the man who could be in three different places in the same afternoon if he wanted to be. Back when Peter was “just an intern,” finding him had been a feat in itself. He was always somewhere important, somewhere crowded, somewhere not here. So Peter couldn’t help but wonder if staying put like this was a deliberate choice.

“Let’s say… a nice breakfast,” Tony replied after a beat. “Then I have to swing by the company this afternoon. But why don’t we have a movie night tonight?”

Peter could guess the reason behind the Sunday work trip—the new project launch was coming up soon, and Stark Industries was always moving faster than the rest of the world.

“That sounds good. And then I can go visit May in the afternoon.”

And so that’s what happened. After breakfast, Tony drove him to the hospital. Not just a quick stop, either—he parked in the hospital lot and walked Peter all the way inside. It struck Peter then that he had never actually introduced Tony to May before.

Normally, visitors weren’t allowed in the ICU but since this was a hospital owned by the Starks, with their shares, investments, and technology, they were making an exception for him. 

Peter didn’t do much during these visits—he’d sit beside her bed, hold her hand, talk to her as though she could hear every word. Sometimes he’d fill the silence with mundane updates, sometimes with quiet reassurances. He hoped that, when May woke up, these moments would make the transition easier to explain.

This time, before going in, Peter glanced through the glass panel at her room, then turned toward Tony. The man didn’t seem eager to follow him in, and Peter didn’t want to push.

“See you at home then?”

Tony looked through the glass too, then turned back to him with a small smile—one that made Peter think he’d said something worth smiling at. Tony stepped forward, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.

When Peter felt the man’s hand against his cheek, he instinctively rested his head into the touch, closing his eyes briefly.

As the man withdrew, he thought for a moment that this intimate moment felt very real. “You got to choose the movie, Parker.” 

As Tony pulled back, Peter thought—just for a second—that this felt startlingly real. Not an accident, not a fleeting indulgence, but something solid.

“You get to choose the movie, Parker,” Tony said, and the way he said it made it sound like a promise.

Peter took the statement as seriously as Tony had intended. He watched him walk toward the elevator, standing there until the doors closed. When he turned back toward May’s room, a strange thought crossed his mind—one he didn’t like admitting even to himself. For the first time, he almost wished May wouldn’t wake up right now.

It wasn’t that he was ashamed of kissing Tony. He wasn’t. But he was aware of how the moment might look to someone else—how intimate, how revealing it was. Still, while it was happening, none of that had mattered.

When Peter returned home, the day was still going on, but the silence in the room made him realize immediately that Tony hadn't come home yet. A faint smell of coffee was coming from the kitchen; the cup they had prepared in the morning and forgotten was still on the counter. Peter took off his coat, left it on the sofa, and sank into the soft cushions of the sofa.

Actually, when he thought of movie night, the scene that came to mind was always the same: junk food from the grocery store, a half-open blanket, and half-serious, half-mocking discussions in the middle. But this was going to be with Tony. And he knew Tony never stuck to simple plans.

Indeed, when Tony walked in, he was carrying two large bags. “Movie night means at least three different kinds of popcorn and an unnecessarily expensive ice cream next to the screen.”

Peter laughed and took one of the bags. “Are the two of us going to finish all this food?”

“Us?” Tony raised an eyebrow. “Me, you… and our greedy alter egos.”

Preparation began in the kitchen. As the rhythmic sound of popping corn filled the room, Tony glanced at Peter from time to time. There was a subtle softening in his eyes; different from the morning, more... a conscious closeness. Peter's heart raced when he caught these glances without realizing it.

Choosing a movie, however, was a battlefield in itself. Peter favored classics, while Tony defended “the latest, trendy films everyone was talking about.” Eventually, a compromise was reached: first, an old science fiction film chosen by Peter, followed by an action-comedy suggested by Tony.

When the lights dimmed, the room was bathed in a soft glow. Tony sat down next to Peter as he pulled the blanket over himself. Without hesitation, he leaned his shoulder against Peter's arm, as if the distance between them had been closing step by step throughout the day and this last step was only a natural consequence.

As the movie progressed, Tony's hand slowly slid onto Peter's shoulder. Peter enjoyed the weight and warmth on his shoulder without taking his eyes off the screen. Tony would pause the movie occasionally and make sarcastic comments, and Peter would respond seriously. But after each line, a slight smile would appear on both their lips, revealing the true intention of their conversation: to listen to each other rather than watch the movie.

By the time the second movie started, Peter had unconsciously leaned completely against Tony. The man's arm was loosely around his shoulder, his fingers occasionally touching his hair. At one point, Tony pushed his hair back with his hand, tilted his head slightly to the side, and said, almost whispering, “I guess this movie night idea wasn't so bad after all, Parker.”

Peter's attention had long since drifted away from the screen. He slowly leaned his head back against Tony's arm, his shoulder resting lightly against the man's chest. It didn't matter what was happening in the movie anymore. His eyes were fixed on the profile of the man next to him—the jawline defined by the shadows of the light, the slightly curved lips, the chest rising and falling rhythmically with each breath.

Another scene changed on the screen, but Peter didn't even notice. Now the only thing he was watching was Tony; he was memorizing his voice, his scent, his presence next to him.

Tony felt the movement of his head and turned his gaze heavily toward him. He brought his face closer to Peter's neck, through his hair. He paused for a moment before pressing his lips against his exposed, warm skin—as if he wanted to prolong the moment before contact. Then he kissed him lightly.

The slight roughness of his beard left a faint tingle on Peter's skin; the warmth of his lips instantly warmed him inside. When Tony's breath touched his skin, he felt that brief touch of tongue sneaking in between, and his breath trembled involuntarily.

Peter closed his eyes, completely immersed in this slow but intense moment, when Tony pulled back just as slowly. A slightly mocking expression appeared on his face.

“Aren't you watching the movie I suggested, Parker?”

Peter opened his eyes and looked at him, an involuntary smile appearing at the corner of his lips. “Was there a movie?”

Tony smiled and ran his hand through Peter's hair, pushing his head back slightly. “It was there for you, boy. But apparently something else was more interesting.”

Peter shrugged slightly and leaned back against Tony. “I admit my guilt,” he said with a subtle smile.

Tony tilted his head slightly and murmured, “Good, then accept your punishment.”

Before Peter could find the right words, Tony leaned in again—but this time he kissed him briefly on the cheek, not the neck.

Then he went back to watching the movie as if nothing had happened.

Peter glanced at the screen, but he was no longer following the story. The characters on the screen were talking, the action scenes were passing quickly, but his attention was on the man next to him. 

Tony's arm was still around his shoulder, his fingers occasionally pressing lightly on his shoulder without him noticing, or the light, sharp scent of cologne he smelled close to his nose when he turned his head to the side... All of this had overshadowed the movie.

Occasionally, Tony would make short, sarcastic comments about the scene, and Peter would respond reflexively, but they both knew that these dialogues were just for the sake of appearing to watch the movie. In reality, the words were just an excuse to hide the silent intimacy between them.

After a while, Tony pulled the popcorn bowl toward him and handed it to Peter without taking his eyes off the screen. “Here, take it, or I'll finish it all myself.”

Peter took one and smiled slightly. “You're sabotaging yourself. If you give it to me, I'll keep bothering you throughout the movie.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You're already bothering me throughout the movie, Parker.” But the tone of his words clearly revealed that he wasn't complaining about the situation.

For the last half hour of the film, Peter leaned completely against Tony, burying his head in his shoulder. Tony's fingers occasionally moved as if of their own accord, running through Peter's hair, pushing a strand back and then letting it fall again. 

As the grand finale played out on screen, Peter closed his eyes, and the only thing he could think of was that this quiet, warm weight would never lift.

When the movie ended, they watched the credits roll on the screen for a while, but both had the same thought in mind: tonight should never end.

Tony stretched slightly and stood up. “Come on, Parker. It's ridiculous how late it is.”

Peter got up, mumbling, and left the blanket on the sofa. “Going to sleep?”

“No, of course we're going to count popcorn until morning,” Tony said, with a mocking expression. But his voice softened a little as walked out.

The bedroom was dim, moonlight seeping through the curtains and casting silent shadows on the furniture. 

As they lay side by side, Tony wrapped his arm around Peter's waist without hesitation and pulled him closer.

When Peter rested his head on Tony's chest, he could hear the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. A few seconds later, Tony's hand moved down his back to his waist, then slowly to his hip—a light, confident but completely possessive touch.

When Peter wrapped his arms around Tony, he felt his beard lightly brush against his chin. After that rough touch, Tony's warm breath spread across his neck. His lips kissed his neck, then the side of his chin, each kiss patient but firm, as if to say, “You are here, and you are here.”

Peter closed his eyes. After the sleepy silence of the morning, this moment felt deeper tonight. No scene in the movie conveyed so much. 

Tony whispered softly, “Are you really asleep, Parker?” Peter, unable to hide his smile, said, “When you’re around? Maybe a little.”

Tony squeezed his arm even tighter. “Good. Because I have no intention of letting you go.”

And with that, the conversation slowly died down.

Chapter Text

Peter felt the soft pressure of lips on his neck—warm, unhurried, and lingering. They trailed lower, slow as if savoring every inch of skin. When they reached the bare curve of his back, a quiet shiver rolled through him.

The touch kept moving down. Heat pooled under his skin, and he buried his face in the pillow, muffling a shaky breath. His hips lifted involuntarily, back arching under the teasing path. And then, he felt it. The warm glide of a tongue, intimate and deliberate, sending a pulse straight through his body.

His breath caught. Eyes fluttered open.

The room around him came into focus in sluggish pieces—the morning light, the faint coolness of the sheets, the weightless disorientation of waking. He was lying face down, hair tangled from sleep, legs sprawled apart in a way that felt far too similar to the dream he’d just been pulled from.

At least he was alone. There was no Tony in the bed. No sharp, knowing smirk catching him like this. No one to hear the sounds he might have been making in his sleep.

Shaking his head, he pushed himself upright. Today wasn’t just any day—it was the day. Stark Industries’ new project launch.

The weeks leading up to it had blurred together. Time with Tony always seemed to pass that way—hours collapsing into days, days into weeks—until Peter could hardly remember what their arrangement had even been at the start. Somewhere along the way, the rehearsed boundaries had softened. Tony’s warmth, his unguarded moments, had made Peter’s head spin.

And yet… something was missing. That night—the night—had never happened again. There were still touches, hugs, lingering kisses that hummed with something unspoken. They slept together every night now, the kind of closeness that should have erased all distance. But there was still a line neither of them had crossed.

They went out often. Most of the time to places Tony loved, places that were all glass chandeliers and quiet background music, where the staff greeted him by name. Peter wanted to suggest his own spots too. Small street shops, cozy cafés, but compared to Tony’s choices, they felt… too simple. And so, the ideas stayed unspoken.

There were other moments Peter wanted as well. Late nights in Tony’s workspace, for example; when he was still bent over some project in the lab, claiming he’d be done “soon” but really working until absurd hours. Peter always hesitated to interrupt, afraid of breaking his focus. So instead, he waited in bed, listening for the sound of his footsteps coming down the hall.

This morning, though, there was no rush. He glanced at the clock—9 a.m. He had taken the day off from classes, giving himself the full day to drift until the evening’s event.

It was after noon when the quiet was broken—Tony arrived with Happy and an entire prep team in tow, the house buzzing with movement and last-minute arrangements. Peter didn’t need long to get ready himself, so after pulling on his clothes, he went to find Tony.

The guest room was empty.

That left only one place.

He pushed open the door to the master bedroom and, sure enough, there he was—standing before the full-length mirror, adjusting the cuff of his suit and giving himself a final spray of cologne.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed, watching quietly. The man had a way of making something as ordinary as getting ready feel like a performance. When Tony finally turned, he crossed the space between them with that effortless confidence that was so completely him.

“Well?” he asked, stopping just in front of him. “How do I look?”

Peter’s lips curved. “Stark as always.”

Tony braced his hands on either side of the bed, leaning down until his shadow fell over Peter. “Is that a compliment?”

Peter arched his brow. Does he really want to do this now? The house is full of people, and they’re supposed to leave for a celebration in—what—twenty minutes?”

“Do we need to go somewhere else tonight?” Peter asked, voice low, testing the waters.

The flicker in Tony’s eyes told him the question hadn’t gone unnoticed.

When Tony leaned in closer, their noses were almost touching. His voice dropped to that rough, deliberate tone that always managed to curl heat in Peter’s stomach.

“So now,” Tony murmured, “you have to give me a reason not to cancel this whole event.”

Tony's breath stopped just in front of Peter's lips. His eyes lingered on the boy's face for a moment—as if he already knew the answer, but was forcing him to say it anyway.

Peter thought that even breathing would make too much sound at this distance. His lips parted slightly, but before the words could come out, Tony's gaze hardened and intensified.

“We'll take care of this,” he said in a low voice, “tonight. After the event.”

Peter's heart raced involuntarily. “Tonight?”

Tony's lips curved slightly, but his eyes remained serious. “That's right, Parker. But for now... let's not be late for the event.”

Contrary to what he said, he was in no hurry to retreat. He stood there for a moment, his hands still resting on the edge of the bed, closing the distance between Peter's legs. Then, as if deliberately cutting the tension between them, he straightened up and adjusted his tie slightly.

“Are you ready?” he said, his voice now back to its familiar, everyday tone.

Peter nodded, but inside, Tony's words from earlier, “tonight,” continued to echo.

After his brief reply to Tony's question, “Are you ready?”, the noise of the house immediately descended upon them as they left the room. In the hallway, the preparation team was still bustling about, making last-minute adjustments on one side and the security team exchanging conversations on their walkie-talkies on the other.

Happy was waiting by the door. “The car's ready,” he said with a brief nod. Tony's response was merely a nod of his head. They finally managed to leave while Tony's speech, which he refused to rehearse, was in Happy's hands. 

The cold evening air hit their faces as they stepped outside. The sky had turned a deep blue, illuminated by the city lights. The car was waiting in the large driveway in front of the house; black, shiny, and almost mirror-like, it reflected the lights of the house.

Tony walked ahead, glancing briefly at Peter when Happy opened the door. “Come on, Parker. Your VIP seat is waiting.”

When they got into the car, the warmth of the soft leather seats inside immediately made them forget the cold outside. When the doors closed, all the sounds filling their minds turned into a muffled hum.

Along the way, Tony reviewed his last-minute notes on his tablet and took occasional phone calls to discuss business matters. But at the end of each conversation, he would turn his gaze to Peter and give him a brief smile, as if to say, “Don't think I've forgotten you.”

Peter was looking out the window. The city was bustling with pre-event excitement; the lights were brighter, the streets were more crowded. But what kept running through his mind was the sentence Tony had said in the room: We'll take care of this tonight.

By the time the car pulled up in front of the large event hall, the crowd had already gathered. Members of the press, flashbulbs, spectators waiting behind security barriers... This was going to be one of Stark Industries' most important launches, so every detail was in plain sight.

Happy got out first, opening the rear door and letting Peter out first, followed by Tony. As soon as they stepped out of the car, flashes went off and the area was suddenly filled with white light.

Tony stood beside Peter, unperturbed. He placed a hand on his back, a gesture that was both guiding and protective. As they stepped onto the red carpet together, questions from the press came thick and fast—but Tony gave only brief answers to a few, smiling and brushing off the rest.

The entrance to the event space was behind giant glass panels, with golden light shining from inside. As they stepped inside, the noise of the city faded away, replaced by soft music accompanied by violins and pianos. The spacious hall was filled with modern chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and subtle details bearing the Stark Industries logo in every corner.

Tony leaned over to Peter at the entrance. “Now calm down, Parker. Just a little talk, a little show... then the real deal.

Peter replied with a slight smile. “Showmanship is your area of expertise.” 

“And your homework for tonight is to keep up with me.” Tony winked, then quickened his pace toward the crowd.

The hall, bathed in golden light, looked almost flawless with the sparkle of chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. People sipped champagne from crystal glasses, their conversations echoing over the low-key music.

Peter found Tony in the crowd, talking to three different businessmen around a table. As usual, he was confident, his words sharp but polite, his hand movements controlled. As Peter watched him, something else caught his attention.

A figure standing slightly behind the crowd, in partial shadow. His posture was stiff, and the expression on his face was clearly mocking. Howard Stark. With a drink in his hand, his gaze was fixed directly on Peter. Although he felt nervous, he turned his eyes away from him.

Time passed. Tony moved from one group to another, leaving Peter alone at a table. Then, there was a movement directly across from him—Howard. This time, there were only a few steps between them.

“Big night,” said Howard, his tone both cold and measured. “Game changer, we might say.”

Peter assumed these words referred to the product. “You’ve been preparing for so long. It must be big.”

The old man’s always-furrowed brow lifted slightly, as if the idea genuinely surprised him. His gaze sharpened. “I guess you aren’t aware of the project details?”

Peter’s frown deepened. There was something in Howard’s voice that made the simple question feel like a trap.

A mocking expression slowly returned to the man’s face, and he placed a small, inscrutable smile on the corner of his lips. “Tonight will change the future of the company…” He let the pause stretch, his eyes never leaving Peter’s. “…and some relationships… in a completely different direction.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy enough to make Peter’s stomach tighten. Howard didn’t elaborate, didn’t need to—he simply let the implication linger before turning away, leaving Peter standing there with the quiet hum of the crowd suddenly sounding much louder.

Finally, as the low hum of conversation faded, the stage curtains parted with a smooth mechanical motion. The overhead lights dimmed across the audience, leaving only the stage bathed in a clean, sharp glow. Shadows stretched across the rows of seats, pulling all focus forward.

As tradition dictated, Howard was the first to take the stage. His voice carried with the weight of authority, each word measured and deliberate. He spoke at length—too long, Peter thought—about legacy, progress, and the importance of innovation.

When he finally reached the end, there was a flash of genuine enthusiasm in his eyes as he turned and handed the microphone to Tony. The exchange looked polite enough, but Peter caught the faint tension in Tony’s jaw.

Tony stepped up to the podium, posture relaxed but gaze sharp. His first words cut through the lingering stiffness in the air—dry humor laced with just enough charm to turn the mood. A ripple of laughter moved through the room, and the atmosphere shifted almost instantly.

Without missing a beat, he reached into his jacket pocket, producing a sleek remote control. One casual click, and the screen behind him flickered before coming to life. In a breath, the image shifted into a fully rendered hologram—a full-body suit suspended in midair, rotating slowly in place.

The suit was sleek, almost seamless, its metallic surface shifting in color as it turned. Every contour looked intentional, every detail engineered for a purpose Peter couldn’t quite place.

Tony didn’t speak right away. Instead, he stepped back, giving the audience time to take it in. For a few long moments, the only sounds were the quiet whir of the projector and the faint rustle of people leaning forward in their seats.

The holographic suit continued its slow rotation, metallic plates catching the light in shifting shades of silver and graphite. Then, with another click from Tony’s remote, bold white letters appeared on the screen behind it:

Adaptive Nanotechnology Wearable System

Simple. Neutral. Almost… reassuring.

Tony gestured toward the projection, his voice smooth and confident.

“Ladies and gentlemen, ANWS. An adaptive nanotech exosuit designed for protection, rescue, and response. Whether you’re dealing with a building fire, a flood, or the aftermath of an earthquake, ANWS adapts to your environment in real time—heat resistance, water sealing, impact absorption. A single system, countless applications.”

Peter’s brow furrowed slightly. He’d seen Tony talk about tech before—proud, yes, but this was different. There was a pure, almost idealistic enthusiasm in his tone, as though he genuinely believed every word.

Tony continued, pacing the stage. “It’s light enough to be worn all day, strong enough to shield you from a collapsing structure, and smart enough to detect hazards before you even see them. This is about saving lives. That’s it.”

The crowd responded with polite applause, a few impressed murmurs. From where Peter sat, it looked like everyone had bought into the vision without a second thought.

Really? Peter thought. No one was seeing it? The way the armor segments interlocked, the energy ports hidden at the wrists, the fact that “impact absorption” could just as easily mean locking. He wasn’t an engineer at Stark’s level, but even he could see that ANWS was a lot more than disaster relief gear.

And yet, as he glanced around, the expressions were unanimous—admiration, approval, even a few people leaning toward each other in hushed excitement. It was as if Peter was the only one in the room who saw the other side of it.

As Tony showed the holograms of the details, Peter's mind was thinking about how dangerous this was every second. 

He couldn't understand how something that was completely dependent on artificial intelligence and technology and had powerful weapons on it could be sold in a way that people could simply buy it with money. It was a product that, after being presented to everyone as if it were a good thing, could easily be hacked by bad people and cause disasters.

It was almost like... a weapon. An industrial area that Stark Industries claimed to have abandoned years ago.

His gaze met that of the man standing in the dark corner of the stage. Howard Stark was watching him intently, as he had done before. This time, the smile on his face was one of triumph. In contrast to the impressed faces of everyone else in the room, to Peter's disapproving expression.

Chapter Text

The applause swelled again as Tony wrapped up his presentation, the hologram dissolving into a cascade of light before fading completely. Stage lights brightened for a brief moment, signaling the transition from the main reveal to the networking portion of the evening.

Peter stayed in his seat for a beat longer than most, the polite clapping around him feeling strangely hollow in his ears. His eyes drifted back to the spot where Howard had been standing. Dark corner, hands folded, that same quiet, smug curve to his mouth.

By the time Peter looked again, Howard had already slipped into the crowd with the ease of someone who knew exactly where he wanted to be.

On stage, Tony stepped down into a wall of eager faces. Executives, investors, people leaning forward just for the chance to be heard. Peter watched the shift in him, the way stage confidence bled into that effortless social charm he carried at events like this.

Peter rose slowly. The clink of glasses, the swell of conversations, the faint background music. All of it blurred into a dull hum. Every step toward the crowd made the room feel smaller, hotter. The image of the ANWS suit burned in his mind like a ghost of light.

Howard’s words came back, heavier now than before: Tonight will change the future of the company… and some relationships… in a completely different direction.

A sudden weight on his shoulder made him turn. Tony stood there, somehow having slipped away from the circle of admirers without a trace.

Before Peter could say anything, Tony reached for his hand, closing his grip firmly, and began moving. He didn’t slow, didn’t glance back.

Peter caught a glimpse over his shoulder—Tony really should’ve stayed, mingling, making those obligatory handshakes and speeches. But the man’s pace never faltered, pulling him steadily toward the main exit.

By the time they reached the grand front doors, Peter realized they weren’t just stepping out for a moment. They were leaving.

“What—Tony,” he managed, but Tony didn’t answer. The set of his jaw made it clear this wasn’t the time for conversation.

They crossed the red carpet in less time than it had taken to arrive, weaving through a smaller cluster of paparazzi. Flashbulbs sparked in their periphery, but Tony didn’t even blink, guiding Peter toward a waiting car—different from the one they’d come in.

At the passenger door, Tony finally let go of his hand, opening it and waiting until Peter slid inside. Then he rounded to the driver’s seat, got in without a word, and started the engine.

The city lights slid across the windshield in fractured lines as the car eased away from the curb. Inside, the air was warmer than outside, but the silence between them felt sharp.

Tony kept his eyes on the road, one hand resting loosely on the wheel, the other shifting gears with precise, almost impatient movements. His jaw was set in a way Peter recognized. Focused, closed off, unreadable.

Peter waited for him to say something. Anything. The hum of the engine filled the gap.

Finally, Peter broke the silence. “You’re just going to leave your own event?”

Tony’s expression didn’t change. “It’ll survive without me for a couple of hours.”

“That wasn’t really an answer.”

“Didn’t think you were asking a question.”

Peter frowned, turning to face him fully. “So where are we going?”

Tony’s eyes flicked to him for half a second, then back to the road. “Somewhere we can take care of a problem.”

“What problem?”

A beat of silence.

Peter leaned back against the seat, a knot tightening in his stomach. Outside, the streets blurred into a smear of light and shadow, and with every mile they put between themselves and the event.

They drove in silence for several minutes, the rhythm of the city flashing by in streaks of neon and gold. Peter had assumed they were heading home—their home—but the route felt… wrong. Too many turns in the opposite direction.

He glanced out the window again, recognizing fewer and fewer streets as they moved deeper into Midtown.

When the car finally slowed, it wasn’t in front of the familiar tower he’d expected. Instead, it rolled to a smooth stop at the base of a glass giant—the Central Park Tower, its sheer height vanishing into the night sky.

Peter blinked up at it. “This… isn’t home,” he thought, but didn’t say out loud. The place looked more like one of those ultra-luxury hotels with a lobby big enough to fit an airplane in.

The valet opened Peter’s door before he had time to get his bearings. Tony stepped out on his side, adjusting his jacket like he owned the building—which, knowing him, wasn’t entirely out of the question.

Inside, the lobby was all polished marble floors and soft golden lighting. The ceilings seemed impossibly high, the air carrying that faint, expensive scent of fresh flowers and subtle cologne.

Peter followed as Tony strode toward the private elevator bank without breaking stride. Only when they stepped inside did Peter notice the discreet brass plaque listing floor ranges. Tony pressed a button high enough to make Peter’s ears pop just looking at it.

A uniformed attendant stepped in after them, keying a code into the panel. Peter glanced at Tony, wondering if now was the time to ask, but Tony’s expression was still locked in that same unreadable calm from the car.

The elevator began its smooth ascent, the faint hum of the machinery the only sound. The presence of the attendant made it impossible to break the silence; Peter could feel his own questions piling up but stayed quiet, watching the floor numbers tick higher and higher.

When the doors finally slid open, the space before them wasn’t a hallway. It was a vast open foyer, the kind you’d expect in a penthouse magazine spread. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the glittering sprawl of Manhattan below, the city lights stretching to the horizon.

Peter’s mind caught up a moment later: this wasn’t a hotel suite. This was Tony’s place. Another place. And from the sheer size of the foyer alone, it was clear they weren’t on just one floor.

The elevator doors slid open to a flood of warm light.

It was night outside, but you wouldn’t know it from here—the entire floor was bathed in a soft golden glow from recessed lighting and tall floor lamps. Smooth cream-colored walls, pale wood floors, and gleaming metal accents made the space feel both modern and lived-in.

The wall of glass to their right hinted at the city beyond, but the reflections of the room’s lights drowned out most of the view. The outside world was reduced to faint, distant sparkles, easy to forget entirely.

Peter stepped forward, taking it in, but his attention didn’t stay on the space for long. With nothing to distract him, his gaze drifted back to Tony. The man had already shrugged off his jacket, tossing it casually onto a low armchair, his movements unhurried but precise.

There was still no word between them. The quiet was heavy enough that Peter could hear the faint hum of the air system and the soft click of Tony’s shoes against the polished floor.

For a second, Peter thought about asking the obvious—Why here?—but something in Tony’s expression kept him quiet. It was the same focused look he’d had since leaving the event, the kind that made you feel like interrupting would be stepping into the middle of a chess game you didn’t understand.

Peter took a breath, feeling he couldn't bear the silence any longer. “Tony—” he began, his voice sounding a little clearer in the emptiness of the room.

But the man didn't stop. He turned his head and gave him just a brief glance, then reached out his hand. His fingers wrapped around Peter's hand, warm and firm.

“Come.”

Without giving him a chance to say anything else, he steered his steps toward the stairs. Footsteps echoed on the steps as they left the warm light of the lower floor behind and began to climb upward.

As Peter moved along the long staircase, he glanced out through the huge windows right beside him. From here, the whole of Central Park stretched out like a black sea amid the city lights shimmering through the night. In the distance, Manhattan’s skyscrapers seemed to defy the sky, each window spilling light outward.

Peter slowed down without meaning to, taking in the view. He had never seen the city from such a height before. Especially from a place that felt this quiet and close.

But Tony’s hand was still in his, and he didn’t let go. He pulled them both away from the view and led them toward the second floor.

The second floor was not as brightly lit as the one below. There were no curtains; the city lights streamed in through the massive windows, painting the walls and furniture in a soft silver hue.

Without saying a word, Tony dragged him straight into the spacious bedroom bathed in this dim glow. The bed stood directly opposite the windows—behind it, the nighttime silhouette of New York made the room’s silence feel even more intense.

The moment they stepped into the dark room, Peter noticed his feet had involuntarily stopped. When Tony, still holding his hand, paused his movement, the sudden halt drew the man’s attention.

Instead of continuing his steps, Tony turned back and closed the distance between them. After a brief silence, he released his hand, but immediately after, placed both hands on Peter’s face. His fingertips slowly spread from the line of his jaw down to beneath his ears; the touch was warm, yet carried a certain weight.

Peter’s hands reflexively gripped Tony’s wrists, squeezing slightly. This was more than just a physical contact; it was a silent expression of his desire to keep him there, to look him in the eyes, to talk, and to sort out all this chaos.

“Tony…” His voice carried both reproach and helplessness. His eyes never left the man’s. “How can you do that?”

The expression on Tony’s face didn’t change; his gaze remained steady, the line of his lips neither softening nor hardening. He seemed to interpret Peter’s question in a completely different way, as if he had no idea what he was talking about.

“Howard Stark is there,” he said calmly, without breaking eye contact. “I’m sure he’s handling things fine. We… can spend our time however we want.”

As Peter tried to decipher the real meaning behind Tony’s words, Tony suddenly stepped forward. He had no choice but to match the speed of that movement; he took a few steps back and stopped when his back met the cold wall.

As the man’s face drew closer, Peter tilted his head slightly. He withdrew the hands gripping Tony’s wrists and pushed toward Tony’s chest, as if trying to maintain some distance between them.

The gesture didn’t move the man back an inch. Yet Peter felt, deep down, that it was stopping him from kissing him. At least for now. Instead of his lips, he noticed the stubbled chin pressing lightly against his temples and the warmth of his breath.

Tony intensified his movements. It was as if he had interpreted Peter’s reaction as fear, shyness, or hesitation. He slid his hands from Peter’s cheeks down to his neck, then to his shoulders.

When Peter lifted his head slightly to meet his eyes, Tony’s voice was low but confident, “Alright… we can go slow.”

In that moment, Peter realized the real issue was still being completely ignored. Tony’s sole focus was on not moving faster than Peter wanted, while Peter’s mind was occupied with something entirely different.

This time, Peter looked deeply into the man’s eyes. There was no way he was truly ignoring it. He couldn’t possibly not see a problem after all this time.

“Tony…” For a moment, among everything he wanted to say, he couldn’t figure out how to express the issue in the simplest, clearest way. “You’re making a weapon.”

The man’s gaze didn’t change. Not even for a fraction of a second. It was as if the words had hung in the air, never reaching him. When Peter tilted his head slightly forward, their foreheads touched.

He felt the warmth of a thumb tracing along his cheek—a light, soothing touch.

“I’m protecting people,” Tony said, his voice low but certain.

An involuntary smile appeared on Peter’s lips. But it was more bitter acceptance than joy. Was he deceiving himself, or others?

“Tony, I can see how much your father’s influence affects you,” he said, his voice soft but direct. “But this… this isn’t your choice.”

He kept his gaze steady. “People can be good. You can be good. You’re good. Years ago, you were the one who announced that you’d stopped making weapons.”

Tony smiled as if he hadn’t heard his words. That familiar, calm smile that seemed to take nothing seriously. His thumb brushed Peter’s cheek again, soft yet guiding in its touch.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he pulled back.

“If you don’t want to, we won’t,” he said, as if it were that simple.

Peter’s lips parted, but no new objection came. Inside him, that sharp, unsettling feeling that he might have hurt Tony began to stir. Maybe I went too far, he thought, but no matter how certain he was, the thought didn’t reach his lips as it grew heavier.

Tony slowly stepped away from the wall. He turned his steps toward the large window in the darkest corner of the room. The city lights reflected on the glass, casting a pale glow on his face and highlighting his profile.

Peter stayed where he was for a moment, then took a few steps forward. His footsteps echoed clearly in the silence of the room.

The distance between them was just a step, but Peter remained motionless. His eyes were on the city lights outside, yet his mind focused on only one thing: Tony’s presence.

He quietly stepped forward. He didn’t raise his arms; all he did was move behind Tony. He rested his head lightly against the man’s back. The warmth beneath the fabric and Tony’s steady, heavy breathing instantly made everything feel closer.

Tony paused at the unexpected touch. Then, slowly, he turned around. Their eyes didn’t meet. Even as he completed the turn, his arms wrapped around Peter. It was a warm, strong, and determined embrace.

Peter didn’t move for several seconds within those arms. There was no room for conversation, no room for argument anymore; just the silence, and something both of them knew deep down: for now, this was enough.

Tony’s arms remained around him. After a few seconds of that quiet, they lifted their faces slightly and looked at each other.

Tony’s expression seemed relaxed—as if nothing had happened—but deep within his gaze, a carefully hidden hurt shimmered. It was a look that stirred a faint sense of guilt in Peter.

“I… should go take a shower,” Tony said, his voice neither cold nor warm; just distant.

It was as if that statement would completely close the tension between them, ending the night early.

But Peter didn’t let go of his arms. He placed his hand on Tony’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t go,” he said in a low voice.

His eyes didn’t look away. “Let’s continue our night.”

A faint smile appeared at the corner of Tony’s lips. The smile of someone who knew they’d won.

Chapter Text

Tony leaned in after looking into Peter’s eyes and placed a slow, deliberate kiss on his lips.

After pulling back, he tilted his head slightly to the side and looked deeply into Peter’s eyes. “We can stop right here,” he said.

Peter just shook his head slightly, silently disagreeing, as he met Tony’s gaze. He was a little embarrassed and didn’t want to put what just happened into words.

The man rested his forehead against his, and Peter felt the warmth of his breath so close. “Do you really want to continue?”

Realizing that Tony was genuinely asking for his consent, Peter didn’t answer with words this time. Instead, he leaned forward on his own and kissed him.

Peter pulled back just slightly, resting his forehead against Tony’s, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. His hand slid gently up Tony’s arm, tracing slow circles on the inside of his wrist, hesitant but searching.

Tony responded without words, his hands moving to Peter’s sides, fingers lightly pressing into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring him closer. There was no rush, no urgency—just the quiet rhythm of their shared space, the intimacy growing with each heartbeat.

Peter’s lips hovered near Tony’s jawline, brushing softly against the curve, teasing, testing. Tony shivered slightly at the touch, and that small reaction gave Peter the confidence to inch closer again, lips meeting lips in a gentle, lingering kiss.

Their hands explored cautiously. Peter’s on Tony’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, Tony’s on Peter’s back, guiding and grounding him. The room seemed to shrink around them, the city lights casting faint shadows on the walls, marking their closeness.

Neither spoke. Every look, every brush of skin, every shared breath spoke more than words ever could. The slow burn continued, teasing, drawing them deeper into each other’s orbit, until the next step—whatever it might be—felt inevitable.

When Peter’s legs bumped against the edge of the bed, he blinked in surprise, only then realizing they had been drifting across the room without thinking. His pulse had been loud in his ears, drowning out everything else, and now the sudden halt brought him back to awareness.

Sitting down on the mattress, he froze for a moment. The closeness was overwhelming. So much so that when his gaze landed uncomfortably low, he had to force himself to look up again. The sight, the silence, the tension. It all pressed down on him at once.

Tony’s hand moved then, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing through Peter’s hair as though to soothe him. The touch was steady, grounding, and yet it made Peter’s chest tighten. Should he give in to this? Should he take the step he’d been imagining, or would it be crossing a line he couldn’t come back from?

His hands trembled faintly as they drifted forward, almost of their own accord, reaching for Tony. But before he could truly act, strong hands guided him back against the bed, his shoulders sinking into the mattress.

The world narrowed. Tony leaned close, their noses almost touching, his hand still lost in Peter’s hair. His voice came low, gentle but firm, “Our night?”

Peter’s breath caught. The words hung in the air like a lifeline, an invitation wrapped in a question. It could be his chance to step back, to say no. Yet in the same heartbeat, he felt the pull of wanting, the undeniable weight of choice. And for once, he realized. He wanted this more than he feared it.

The first thing Peter noticed was the strange sensation. Something cool brushing against his skin. It startled him in the haze of half-sleep, a chill that seemed almost out of place beneath the warmth of the blankets. His mind stirred groggily, wanting nothing more than to sink back into dreams, yet the touch persisted: cold at first, then softened by the warmth of careful fingers.

He shifted slightly, or at least he tried to. His body felt heavy, unwilling to cooperate, so the only thing that moved was his head. Turning to the side, his face pressed into the familiar fabric of a worn T-shirt. The scent that clung to it was unmistakable, Tony.

Peter didn’t have to open his eyes to know he wasn’t alone. He could feel the weight beside him, the quiet presence, Tony stretched out not on his usual side but leaning close, settled at the edge of Peter’s.

The coolness faded gradually, replaced by the faintest glide of cream being smoothed in with patient, practiced motions. Every stroke was deliberate, as if Tony were trying to ease something away without waking him fully. It was gentle, almost tender, and Peter’s chest tightened at the thought of being cared for like this.

“Please…” The word slipped out before he even realized it, no clear reason behind it. Half plea, half surrender. He wasn’t sure what he was asking for, or if he was asking at all. But as the cold gave way to warmth, a deep calm washed over him.

For a moment, Peter let himself drift in that comfort. The steady hand, the scent that grounded him, the quiet reminder that he wasn’t alone.

When the touch finally pulled away, Peter found the strength to move at last. He rolled onto his side, no hesitation this time, his entire body seeking warmth. Without thinking, he buried his face against Tony’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent that always seemed to calm him. It felt safe there. Safe enough that the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“I love you.”

The sound was quiet but certain, and for a moment even Peter himself was surprised at how naturally it had left his lips. No struggle, no second-guessing. Just truth, plain and simple.

He’d grown up hearing warnings about this, about how love was something dangerous if spoken too soon. People told him that the first person to say it would always regret it, that it gave away too much, too quickly. He had carried those warnings for years like heavy weights, convincing himself that he would be careful, that he would never be the one to break first.

But there it was.

Actually, he wasn't the first to say it. Tony had said it. Last night, between his legs. Peter couldn't understand what was going on at first because he was focused on the pleasure, but Tony kept saying it while kissing every inch of him until he understood.

Nestled against Tony’s neck, Peter let out a slow breath. For the first time in a long time, the idea of saying “I love you” didn’t scare him. It felt like coming home.

As Peter pressed his face into the warmth of Tony’s neck, he felt a subtle shift above him. A faint brush, softer than a whisper, landed against his hair. For a second, he thought he had imagined it—until the warmth deepened, unmistakably lips pressing into his curls.

The touch lingered just long enough to send a shiver down his spine, comforting and grounding all at once.

“I love you too, Pete.”

The words were low, steady, spoken right against his skin. Simple as they were, they seemed to echo inside Peter, filling up every corner that had ever doubted, every space that had once been hollow.

His chest tightened. Not with fear this time, but with something so full it almost hurt. All those warnings, all the fears he had clung to, felt suddenly small. Because here, in this quiet morning moment, Tony had answered him without hesitation.

Peter’s fingers curled into the fabric of Tony’s shirt, as if anchoring himself to the reality of it. A shaky breath left his lungs, but when he exhaled, it was with a sense of relief so deep it almost made him laugh.

He didn’t have to wonder anymore. He didn’t have to be afraid. The words were out there, shared between them, and they weren’t fragile. They were strong, solid, and alive.

Peter stayed there for a long moment, his nose tucked into the curve of Tony’s neck, breathing him in. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was warm, humming with something steady and new.

Tony’s hand absently threaded through Peter’s hair again, his touch almost rhythmic. “You know,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep but carrying that familiar teasing edge, “you saying doesn’t mean you win.”

Peter huffed a quiet laugh against his collarbone. “Pretty sure it does.”

“Mm, nope.” Tony shifted slightly so he could glance down, eyes catching Peter’s half-lidded ones. “Because I definitely said it before you last night. You were just too… distracted to respond.”

Peter’s face heated instantly, and he buried himself deeper against Tony’s shirt to hide it. “That’s not fair,” he muttered.

Tony chuckled, low and satisfied, pressing another kiss into his hair. “Hey, I didn’t say it wasn’t fun.”

Despite the teasing, Peter could hear the sincerity woven into every word, could feel it in the steady heartbeat under his cheek. The playfulness only made the honesty easier to hold.

“Guess we’re even then,” Peter whispered after a pause, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Tony squeezed him a little closer, voice softening. “Even’s good. Even means you’re stuck with me, Parker.”

And though his tone carried that usual smirk, the way he said it—quiet, steady, certain—left Peter feeling like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

“Do you want me to run you a hot bath?”

Peter couldn’t help but laugh at Tony’s question. The sound bubbled up from his chest before he could stop it. “Tony Stark. Full-on aftercare provider. Who would’ve guessed?”

But unlike him, Tony wasn’t laughing. Instead, he leaned down slowly, pressing his lips softly to Peter’s neck. The kiss was fleeting but enough to make Peter’s heart stutter.

When Tony pulled back, his voice was that familiar low murmur again, caught somewhere between teasing and earnest, “Probably no one but you.”

Peter’s smile widened. He loved provoking him, loved pushing just enough to get this kind of reaction. “Am I supposed to feel honored by that?” he asked, mischief sparking in his eyes.

Tony didn’t answer. At least not right away. He buried his face against Peter’s neck again, his breath warm against skin, his mouth curving into what might have been a hidden smile. From there, muffled but certain, he murmured, “You better do.”

Peter closed his eyes, the smallest grin tugging at his lips. To share mornings like this, to have this man pressed close to him. Yes, there was no way he couldn’t feel honored.

The hot bath had been wonderful. But Tony’s massages? Even better.

While Tony was putting the finishing touches on breakfast, Peter had already wandered off, exploring the apartment. Finally, he flopped into the chair in the living room right next to the kitchen and spoke up. “Why don’t we live here?”

It felt like the entire city of New York stretched beneath his feet. Central Park lay spread out in front of them, magnificent and endless.

Tony emerged from the kitchen carrying a large tray and set it down on the coffee table in front of Peter, then sat beside him. “Because I don’t have my lab here. But if you want, we could live here.”

Peter reached over and kissed him. Tony Stark… and his lab. Who would dare try to separate them? Yet here he was, looking him in the eyes with complete seriousness, simply because he liked the apartment. “Our home is great and enough,” Peter said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

His eyes drifted to the tray in front of him. Breakfast? No, that would be far too simple.

He leaned forward, inspecting every item like a detective on a case. The golden toast, perfectly buttered, gleamed under the morning light. Fresh fruit arranged with careful precision sat beside a steaming cup of coffee, the aroma curling into the air. Even the scrambled eggs looked as though someone had painted them with care, every detail deliberate.

Peter couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “This is… excessive,” he said, half amused, half impressed. “Are you trying to feed me, or win me over?”

Tony smirked, leaning back casually on the couch. “Why not both?”

Peter shook his head, laughter tugging at his lips. “You know, if someone saw this, they’d think I was dating a five-star chef instead of a slightly insane billionaire.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, voice dripping with mock offense. “Slightly insane? That’s the nicest thing you’ve called me all morning.”

Peter reached for a piece of toast, but then paused, looking back up at Tony with a playful glint in his eye. “You really think you can spoil me this much every morning?”

Tony’s smirk softened, and for just a second, the humor in his expression melted into something warmer. “Depends on how willing you are to stick around and find out.”

Peter felt his chest tighten, a fluttering mix of amusement and warmth spreading through him. Somehow, just sitting here, beside Tony, with the city stretched out behind them, the smell of breakfast filling the air. He felt utterly content. Maybe not spoiled. Maybe not excessive. Just… exactly where he was supposed to be.

Chapter Text

Peter let his gaze wander across the hall until it landed on the massive statue standing proudly a few meters away. He turned toward Tony, pointing with a spark of excitement “Look at that.”

Tony followed his line of sight and smiled. Still holding Peter’s hand, he led them closer.

“Zeus,” Tony murmured, a grin tugging at his lips as they stopped before the towering figure “I have a feeling I’m about to discover just how much of a Greek mythology nerd you really are,” said Peter.

“It’d be embarrassing not to recognize the most important one, Parker.”

“For a second, I thought you were about to give me a full Mythology 101 lecture.”

The man turned to him with a sly look. “And I could do that,” Tony replied smoothly. “But at home.” He tilted his head toward the far side of the gallery, where the crowd had thinned. “Let’s head that way. I know where we’ll find the people we’re looking for.”

They began walking, weaving past the scattered sculptures and paintings. Peter, however, wasn’t done poking. “I don’t know,” he teased. “I’m getting the feeling you see yourself as Zeus. You know, the thing with his dad, endless sex life…”

“And you’d be right,” Tony whispered back, leaning close enough for only Peter to hear. “Now, I’m giving you a tiny chance to walk away. Otherwise, you’ll be stuck standing there for minutes on end.”

Peter’s retort caught in his throat when he noticed what lay ahead. Past the rows of artwork, the gallery opened into a quieter section, where instead of admiring paintings, several men in tailored suits had formed a circle, speaking to one another in low, serious tones.

Peter slowly let go of Tony’s hand, slipping past him with a half-smile. “Goodbye, Romeo.”

While Tony made his way toward the group of suited men, Peter wandered off in the opposite direction, pretending to busy himself with the gallery’s displays. It was clear the entire exhibition revolved around Greek mythology. Statues, paintings, photographs, and carefully written plaques filled the space.

He paused here and there, studying the pieces that caught his eye, leaning closer to read the inscriptions when the meaning wasn’t immediately clear. Every so often, his gaze drifted back to Tony, but the man was already absorbed in conversation, blending seamlessly into the circle of businessmen.

Realizing it wasn’t going to be a quick exchange, Peter decided it might be a good idea to explore other sections of the gallery on his own. With a curious glint in his eyes, he stepped further into the exhibition, eager to see what else it had to offer.

The further Peter wandered, the quieter it became. The hum of voices and clinking glasses faded behind him until only the soft echo of his footsteps remained. This section of the gallery was nearly empty. Just a couple of people drifting silently from frame to frame.

He stopped in front of a large painting, tilting his head slightly as he took it in. A young man was depicted at the center, delicate features rendered with almost unnatural grace. His body seemed caught between motion and stillness, as if the artist had frozen a moment of being lifted away. Draped fabrics swirled around him, painted with fluid strokes that gave the impression of wind or flight. Above, an eagle loomed, wings spread wide, its talons just barely brushing against the boy’s form. Not harming him, but carrying him, almost reverently.

Peter blinked, frowning thoughtfully. It wasn’t a scene he recognized, but there was something unsettling in it. The boy didn’t look frightened. If anything, there was a strange calm in his expression, like he belonged in the sky rather than on the ground.

“Ganymede,” a voice said softly beside him.

Peter startled, whipping his head to the side. An elderly man had appeared at his shoulder so quietly, it was as though he had materialized out of thin air. His presence was calm, almost disarming, and he regarded the painting with gentle eyes.

“Forgive me,” the man continued with a polite nod, “but may I join you?”

Peter hesitated for a moment, glancing back toward the main hall. Tony was nowhere in sight. Lost to his conversation with the suited men. Left alone, Peter gave the stranger a small shrug and a tentative smile.

“Sure. Why not?” The old man stepped closer, folding his hands behind his back as he studied the canvas.

“Ganymede was the most beautiful of mortals,” he began, his voice carrying the cadence of someone well-versed in stories told many times before. “A prince of Troy. Zeus saw him and—depending on which tale you believe—either fell in love with him, or simply desired to possess him.”

Peter raised his brows, glancing back at the painting, at the boy carried skyward by the eagle.

The man continued, his tone thoughtful rather than lecturing. “Zeus sent his great eagle to bring Ganymede to Olympus. Some say it was abduction. Others insist it was devotion, that Ganymede became his cupbearer, even his beloved. Whether it was love or theft… well, mythology often leaves us with questions rather than answers.”

Peter’s chest tightened as the old man’s words lingered in the air. He looked back at the painting. At the boy’s calm expression, at the eagle’s unyielding grip. A flicker of unease ran through him, a strange mirroring of everything Tony had teased him about earlier.

“So…” Peter’s voice was quieter than before, almost hesitant. “Was it love, then? Or was he just… taken?” His eyes remained on the painting, but the question was directed at the stranger beside him.

The old man gave a knowing smile, his gaze still fixed on the canvas. “Of course Zeus loved him. And Ganymede loved him in return,” he said gently. “He was one of the rare beloveds among Zeus. But…” His tone shifted, carrying the weight of something darker. “We must not forget how it began. At first, it was not a choice. It was a forceful act.”

Peter swallowed, the words settling heavy inside him. For a moment, he wasn’t sure whether he was staring at a story from centuries past or at the reflection of something far closer to home.

The old man’s eyes softened, the faintest trace of a smile curving his lips as he finally turned to Peter. “Love that makes the world spin,” he said quietly, “should it be judged for its flaws? Or forgiven for its fire?”

His words hung between them, at once gentle and unsettling, like a riddle left unanswered. Peter drew in a slow breath, unsure whether to take comfort in the thought or to fear what it implied.

“But wrong is wrong, isn’t it?” Peter asked this time, turning his eyes fully on the man.

The old man glanced at him, smiled softly, then returned his gaze to the painting.
“For us, perhaps, it may seem wrong,” he said calmly. “But love between two people belongs only to them. If no one ever heard Ganymede complain, can we truly claim he suffered?”

Peter frowned, his voice sharper now. “But you said it yourself. If love makes your head spin… doesn’t it need someone to step in?”

This time, the man turned fully to face him. His eyes carried the weight of years, yet his smile remained steady. “Life’s lessons,” he said quietly, “are never handed down by others. They are earned. So let us wait and see. When all is done, what lesson Ganymede will take from it.”

The old man gave Peter one last, gentle nod, as if sealing their quiet conversation. Without another word, he began to move away, his steps soundless against the polished gallery floor.

Peter watched him go, a strange mix of curiosity and unease settling in his chest. The space around him felt emptier now, the echo of the man’s words lingering in the air.

And then, as if filling the quiet left behind, a familiar presence appeared at the edge of his vision. Tony. He was moving toward Peter with that same confident ease, a small, teasing smile playing at his lips.

“Lost someone interesting?” Tony asked lightly, noticing the thoughtful look on Peter’s face.

Peter shook his head, glancing back at the painting one last time before meeting Tony’s gaze. “Just… someone with a lot to say about love and eagles,” he replied, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

Tony’s eyes drifted toward the painting behind Peter, and a slow, knowing smile curved his lips. “You know,” he said casually, “for a second there, that boy could almost be you.”

Peter blinked, caught off guard by the comparison, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. Before he could respond, Tony clapped him lightly on the shoulder and added with a grin, “But let’s leave mythology for later. Dinner’s waiting, and I’m starving. What do you feel like eating tonight?”

Peter let out a small laugh, shaking his head as the tension melted away. “Whatever you’re having,” he said, falling into step beside Tony.

Together, they walked away from the gallery, leaving the stories of gods, eagles, and mortal princes behind them for the night.

The dinner had been pleasant and calm. The kind of calm that felt almost artificial, like a fragile glass surface that could shatter at the slightest touch. When they finally returned home, Peter thought that after everything that happened that night, he would feel completely different. Lighter, maybe, or perhaps heavier.

But somehow, everything seemed the same, as though the world had chosen to remain indifferent to the storm inside him.

The night was no different, either. The air felt stale in his room, walls pressing against him like they knew his thoughts. He had thought that, this time, when Tony spent too long in the lab, he might actually go to him. Knock on the door, confront the silence, maybe even ask for the company he desperately craved. 

But he didn’t. Even though he got out of bed several times, he distracted himself with trivial things. Picking up a book, rearranging his desk, scrolling endlessly on his phone. Anything to keep his hands busy and his mind fooled. as if the man’s presence could temporarily silence every dark whisper. It wasn’t peace exactly, but it was something. Something enough to keep him from breaking apart completely.

Whenever he was alone, his thoughts consumed him. Sharp and relentless, clawing at every fragile piece of clarity.

Yet whenever he was with Tony, it felt like everything simply slipped away from his mind, as if the man’s presence could temporarily silence every dark whisper. It wasn’t peace exactly, but it was something. Something enough to keep him from breaking apart completely.

For a while, it went on like that. Like no one noticed anything.

Maybe Peter just wasn’t showing it, or maybe everything had become so tangled that no one wanted to talk about it anymore.

Silence had a way of weaving itself into daily life, disguising itself as normalcy. People smiled, conversations went on, but underneath it all, there was a weight no one dared name.

Even Ned and MJ hadn’t said a single word about Stark Industries’ new project. Not a curious question, not a teasing remark. Just silence. Peter couldn’t tell if they were protecting him from something or if they, too, were pretending nothing was happening.

When he sat beside May, those were the moments he felt the most honest with himself. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender lotion, an odd mix that somehow grounded him. And yet, while trying to make sense of things, it always seemed as if he was only making them more complicated. Every quiet confession he whispered to her unconscious form echoed back at him like riddles he couldn’t solve.

As he stepped out of her room, he cast one last, lingering glance. That’s when he caught a voice, sharp and unguarded, “So poor they aren’t waking her up.”

He turned around and saw two young nurses talking, their voices low but not low enough. A strange chill slid down his spine. They aren’t? What was that supposed to mean?

“Excuse me,” Peter said, his voice tighter than he expected, taking a step toward them. “What do you mean, they aren’t waking her up?”

The nurses exchanged a quick glance, the kind of glance that carried entire conversations in a single heartbeat. Then, one of them spoke up in a hesitant tone, “Well, um… her condition is much better now. Honestly, she should have been awakened quite some time ago. But for some hidden reason, she’s still being kept under sedation.”

Peter stood in silence, his eyes fixed on the nurses’ faces. Time seemed to stretch, every second dragging like lead. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, a sound that suddenly felt deafening. What did this mean?

Ever since May had been transferred to this hospital, he had come here day after day, asking doctors and nurses for updates on her condition. And every single time, they told him the same thing: “Her condition is stable.” Stable. Always stable. Like that word was meant to comfort him. Like stability was the same as hope.

But now? Now he was hearing something entirely different. That there was a choice being made. That there was something he wasn’t told.

A tightness gripped his chest as he slowly shook his head. “No…” he whispered, almost to himself. “No, that can’t be true.”

The nurses exchanged another uneasy glance, as if regretting the words that had just slipped out. As if realizing they had opened a door that should have stayed locked. But for Peter, there was no going back. Something inside him had cracked—and at the same time, something dangerous had awakened.

The elevator doors slid open, and Tony stepped out. In his hand was a small bag, the desserts he had promised to bring for after dinner. A faint smile rested on his face, the kind of forced lightness people wear when they want to keep the darkness away.

But the moment his eyes fell on Peter, that smile vanished.

Peter’s face was tense, his eyes brimming with unspoken storms. The sharp, restless look at the corner of his mouth betrayed what words had not yet said. Nothing was okay. Nothing at all.

Tony didn’t need to ask; he already knew something was wrong. And yet, he kept moving forward, his steps slow but steady, as though approaching a wild animal that might bolt, or bite.

The nurses, noticing Tony’s arrival, slipped away quietly. As if this moment wasn’t meant to have witnesses. As if they knew the weight of what was about to unfold.

Peter drew in a long breath, forcing his voice into a calmness that didn’t quite belong to him. It came out hollow, almost mechanical.
“Did you know?” he asked, quiet but steady.

Tony froze. The silence that followed lasted barely a second. But for Peter, it stretched into eternity.

And then, all at once, the calm shattered. He snapped, his voice rising, roughened by anger. This time with a curse laced through the words, “Did you fucking know?”

He shoved Tony hard in the chest, the question now not just in his voice but in his hands.

Tony staggered back a step but didn’t fall. Instead, he looked straight into Peter’s eyes and saw the storm there. Rage burning through grief, a fury that was less about violence and more about betrayal.

Tony said nothing. There was a shadow in his eyes, but his lips refused to move.

Peter’s anger surged higher, no longer contained, no longer calm. Every word burst from him like an explosion.

“You did this!” he shouted, his voice echoing down the corridor. “You did this to keep me close! You let her suffer all this time!”

His eyes brimmed with tears, but rage swallowed them whole. He stepped closer to Tony, as if he could tear the truth out of him. “Say it!” he screamed. “Say you did it!”

Tony still didn’t answer. He just stood there, his face caught in something. The same look, the same blank expression. Just like that night, the moment he would open his mouth, he would drop the whole matter and start talking about something completely different.

Peter’s chest heaved, his fists trembling. The silence felt louder than any confession.

“Fuck you Tony Stark. Fuck you and your contract.” He had no strength left. He had no strength left to listen to another manipulative word coming out of this man's mouth. 

He was about to leave. He was about to walk toward the elevator and leave, without knowing where he was going. But a force grabbed his arm.

“You can’t go.”

The man’s voice was heavy, calm. But underneath that calmness something like a storm was hiding. Peter didn’t even look at him. His jaw was clenched, his breath sharp and uneven. He tried to pull his arm free, pulling so hard that his skin stung from the grip.

“You can’t hold me here,” he snapped, his voice trembling. “I’ll pay every damn cent of your contract. I don’t even care.”

But the man didn’t let go. His fingers weren’t crushing, but they were unyielding; Peter’s struggles felt like arrows loosed into the void, sharp but useless.

In his thrashing, Tony dropped the bag he had been carrying. The paper tore open on the cold floor, small dessert boxes tumbling out, scattering like fallen pieces of something fragile. Normally, even a trivial sight like that would have pulled Tony’s attention for a second. But this time, he didn’t look away.

“You can’t go…” he repeated, softer now, his voice stripped bare. As if a secret was about to break loose.

Peter’s breath caught in his throat. His fight hadn’t stopped, but the fury in his body was slowly giving way to something else. Something colder, heavier.

And then the words came. Jagged, unsteady, but too real to escape,

“You can’t go because we have a baby.”

Chapter Text

The corridor collapsed into silence. Even the hum of the lights seemed to vanish. Peter’s heart pounded so hard it felt like it might tear through his chest. For a moment, just a single moment, he couldn’t comprehend what he had heard.

His hands were still shaking, his eyes fixed on Tony’s face but unable to focus.

“What…?” he whispered, fear and anger and disbelief colliding in his voice.

Tony’s face was hard, but in his eyes burned something raw, undeniable. For the first time, Peter saw him utterly defenseless.

He tried to step back, air choking in his lungs, but Tony still hadn’t let go of his arm.

The desserts lay scattered on the floor, their sweetness wasted, while the corridor filled only with the sound of ragged breaths and the silence swelling between them. All of it frozen in the gravity of that single sentence.

“What the hell are you talking about?” His voice was calm this time. He must really be losing it.

He looked into the man’s eyes with a hint of mockery, struggling not to laugh. What could possibly explain something this ridiculous?

But the man’s expression was entirely serious. Their silent stare stretched on for a few seconds, and Tony slightly lowered the arm he had been holding so rigidly.

Tony ran a hand through his hair, letting out a quiet sigh, his voice calm as if he were discussing something trivial. “Peter… I know this sounds… insane. But it’s not as crazy as it looks.” He gave a small shrug, his expression almost casual, like he had rehearsed this a thousand times. “My friend Bruce, you know him, you met him on the day we went to the pool. He’s a brilliant biologist. The best in the field. He helped us. Designed everything, monitored everything. Did it right… in this hospital. Safely. Legally, scientifically, everything.”

He paused for a moment, letting Peter take in the words, his calmness deliberate, almost infuriatingly measured. “The… baby… it’s coming. June. There’s no going back. We can’t reverse this. It’s already… progressing. Fast. Accelerated growth. That’s why we’re here now, in March, and… by June, it’ll be ready. Born.”

Peter’s jaw tightened, disbelief and anger flickering across his face. Tony didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. Instead, he continued, his tone steady, almost conversational.

“If you want,” he said, leaning slightly against the wall, “we can redraw the prenup. Make it more… generous. More than enough for you. Whatever you think you deserve. But right now? Leaving? Walking out? Not an option. Too late. The baby… it’s coming whether you like it or not. And honestly… you wouldn’t want to. It’s our responsibility now. A part of us.”

He glanced at the scattered desserts on the floor, as if noticing them for the first time, then back at Peter. “And May… we can wake her soon. She’s almost… okay now. Stable. Nothing catastrophic. She’ll recover. She’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about that part. We can deal with her, and this, together.”

Tony straightened, his eyes locking onto Peter’s. His voice softened, but the calm, almost clinical delivery remained. “I know it’s… a lot. A shock. Unfair. Maybe even impossible to wrap your head around. But it’s real. It’s happening. And I need you here. Not just for me, not just for May, but… for us. For this. For the baby. Because it’s already part of our lives. And it’s not going anywhere.”

He let the words linger in the air, letting the weight of reality sink in. Calm. Unflinching. Terrifying in its quiet certainty.

“You’re pathetic.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, sharp and cold. Peter’s chest heaved, his fists clenching at his sides. “You’re standing there… calm… like this is nothing. Like it’s all just some experiment. A game. And you expect me to… what? To just nod and say, ‘Okay, fine’?”

His voice cracked, a mixture of anger and disbelief. “You made a baby a real, living thing and you hide it like it’s a lab toy! You think I can just accept that? That I can just… pretend?”

Peter stepped closer, his whole body trembling with fury, but his eyes shone with pain deeper than anger alone. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? How completely insane… how wrong this is? And you’re smiling, calm as if… as if you’re proud of yourself!”

He shook his head, voice dropping to a harsh whisper, venom laced through every word. “You’re pathetic. Pathetic thinking, a contract, a prenup, any of that could make this okay. Pathetic for thinking hiding the truth… that somehow you could control how I feel about this.”

Peter’s gaze fell for a moment to the small bag of desserts Tony had dropped, then back to him, every word burning through the silence of the hallway. “You didn’t even think about me. About us . About May. About what’s right. You just… did it , and now you expect me to… what? Forgive you? Pretend this isn’t happening?”

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he swallowed them back, letting his anger roar instead. “You’re pathetic,” he repeated, quieter this time, almost as if saying it slowly would make Tony understand the depth of his contempt. “You’re pathetic, and I… I don’t even know how to deal with you right now.”

Peter’s voice hung in the air like shattered glass, every word cutting deep. His chest was still rising and falling too fast, his face flushed with heat, when he finally turned on his heel. His steps were sharp, determined, carrying him toward the elevator doors with no hesitation this time.

Behind him, Tony moved—instinct, desperation, something in between. His hand reached out, closing around Peter’s arm again, just like before.

But this time, Peter didn’t freeze. He didn’t waver.

“Don’t,” Peter hissed, and with a sudden force he shoved Tony’s hand off him. The contact was brief but electric, like touching fire. His skin burned where Tony’s fingers had been, not from pain, but from a rage so sharp he couldn’t stand even the weight of his touch.

Tony staggered back a half-step, his arm falling uselessly to his side. For a heartbeat he looked at Peter as though he didn’t recognize him—as though the boy standing in front of him wasn’t the same one who had once looked at him with trust, with warmth.

Peter’s eyes were wild, dark with fury and something more fragile hiding beneath it, but his voice was unyielding. “Don’t touch me.”

The words were quiet, but they struck harder than any scream. And for the first time that night, it was Tony who stood completely still, empty-handed, as Peter pulled further away.

The elevator swallowed him in a dull metallic silence. Peter pressed the button without even looking, his movements sharp, restless, almost desperate. His reflection on the steel doors stared back at him. Eyes burning, face pale, lips trembling with words he hadn’t managed to say.

He had no idea where he was going. No plan, no destination. He just wanted distance. Space. To put as many walls and locked doors as possible between himself and Tony. Between himself and that unbearable truth.

I can’t breathe here. The thought pulsed through him like a drum. His chest ached, not from running, not from fighting. But from the sheer weight of it all.

The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open.

Peter stepped forward. Only to stop short.

Two security guards stood in front of him, firm but not aggressive, their expressions calm but unyielding. One of them raised a hand, not in threat, but in quiet insistence. “Sorry, sir. We can’t let you leave.”

Peter’s heart sank, fury sparking again in his veins. “Are you kidding me?” His voice cracked, thin from exhaustion. “You’re stopping me from leaving?”

The guards exchanged a brief glance, but they didn’t move. They didn’t push, didn’t argue. Just stood there like immovable statues.

Peter’s breath came out in sharp bursts, his fists trembling at his sides. He wanted to scream, to fight his way through, but somewhere deep down he knew, Tony. This was Tony’s doing. Of course it was.

The silence stretched unbearably, until finally, the guards shifted. Not because Peter had won, but because someone else was coming.

And then, there he was.

Tony stepped into view, calm as ever, his figure filling the doorway the way only he could. For a moment, the world shrank down to just the two of them again—rage and betrayal on one side, unshakable control on the other.

Tony didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move with urgency. He simply stepped closer, his presence swallowing the air between them. His hand lifted slowly, almost gently, until his palm brushed against Peter’s cheek. His touch was warm, steady—like he was trying to hold the world together with that single gesture.

“Don’t go away, baby,” he murmured, his voice low, almost tender.

Peter froze for half a second, the words striking deeper than he wanted them to. But the next instant, his body jerked back, sharp and defensive. He slapped Tony’s hand away, his voice breaking through the fragile silence.

“Don’t touch me.”

The words came out raw, venomous, louder than he had intended. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, but they were drowned by anger. His breath trembled, chest heaving as if every syllable cost him air.

“I’m not your baby.”

The declaration rang down the hall like a verdict, final and cutting. For a moment, even the hum of the hospital lights seemed to vanish, leaving only the weight of those words between them.

Tony didn’t flinch at Peter’s words. His hand, now pushed away, hovered uselessly in the air for a moment before he slowly let it fall back to his side. His eyes, however, never left Peter’s. There was no anger in them, no sharpness—only that unsettling calm, like he was holding something steady that should have been shaking apart.

“Do you want to see our baby?” Tony’s voice was steady, almost gentle. “We can see him here. Now.”

The offer hung between them, heavy and surreal.

Peter’s laugh came out sharp and humorless, his lips twisting with disbelief. “Our baby?” His eyes burned as he took a step back, his words laced with venom. “You mean your lab project?”

The air in the corridor grew heavier. Tony’s calm expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes flickered. Pain, guilt, or maybe just the smallest crack in that carefully built composure.

Peter’s chest rose and fell with fury, his whole body trembling from the weight of his own words. His fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms.

“I hate you.” His voice cracked, but the venom was undeniable. He took another step back, closer to the open elevator doors. His eyes glistened with rage and hurt.

“I fucking hate you.”

The words tore out of him like shrapnel, each one sharp enough to wound. He didn’t even realize his heels had hit the threshold of the elevator—his only thought was to get away, to put distance between himself and Tony, between himself and this nightmare.

But then,

A sudden pressure clamped down over his mouth and nose. Cold, chemical, suffocating. His eyes widened in shock as his muffled gasp scratched against the palm of a hand he didn’t see coming.

The world spun violently. His knees buckled. The corridor blurred into a mess of light and shadow.

His last glimpse was Tony’s figure, still standing there, too calm, too steady, as everything else dissolved into black.

And then, nothing.

Peter’s eyes fluttered open. His head felt heavy, his throat dry, and for a moment, nothing made sense. He was lying in a bed, a large one. The sheets smelled unfamiliar, too clean, too sharp, and the ceiling above him wasn’t one he recognized.

This wasn’t their home.

He pushed himself up slowly, confusion knotting in his chest. Where…?

And then his gaze shifted to the right.

The entire wall was glass—floor to ceiling, unbroken, without curtains. Beyond it stretched the city, alive with light. Skyscrapers glittered against the night sky, headlights weaved across the streets like rivers of fire, and the faint glow of the bedside lamp only made the view sharper, clearer.

He didn’t need to ask where he was. He knew.

Central Park Tower.

He was here again.

The weight of the realization pressed down on him, heavier than the sheets tangled around his body. The city’s brilliance poured in like a cruel reminder, illuminating a room that felt more like a cage than a sanctuary.

Peter shoved the sheets aside, his movements sluggish, uncoordinated. His legs trembled as soon as his feet hit the cold floor. Standing was harder than he expected, every muscle heavy, as if the air itself resisted him.

Still, he tried. One hand pressed against the wall for balance, the other dragging across the edge of the nightstand. Step by step, slow and uneven, he made it toward the door. The room spun faintly with every movement, but he pushed through the haze, desperate for an escape.

His fingers brushed the door handle, just a touch, before his knees buckled. The weight of his body and the weight of everything else collapsed all at once.

Peter sank to the ground, his palms slapping against the polished floor. For a moment, he just knelt there, hunched over, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the silence. And then the dam broke.

A sob tore its way out of him, raw and unrestrained. He clutched at his hair, at his chest, as if trying to hold himself together while everything inside ripped apart.

“Why…why are you doing this to me?!” His voice cracked, shattering into the empty room. He didn’t care if anyone heard. He didn’t care if Tony was listening. He screamed again, louder, until his throat burned.

He couldn’t stop. The anger, the betrayal, the helplessness. They all poured out in broken cries. His fists pounded the floor once, twice, before giving up entirely, his body folding in on itself.

Peter collapsed fully, curling against the cold ground, sobbing into the silence. It was more than just grief. It was overload. Too much for anyone, let alone him.

And for the first time in a long time, Peter Parker had no fight left.

The sound of the door clicking open barely registered through Peter’s sobs. He didn’t look up, didn’t care. But the quiet footsteps that followed, steady and unhurried, forced their way into his collapsing world.

Tony lowered himself slowly, kneeling on the floor beside him. No sharp words, no anger, not even surprise. Just that maddening calm, as if he had been expecting this all along.

A hand reached out, brushing lightly through Peter’s tangled hair. The touch was careful, almost gentle, like Tony was petting something fragile.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low, steady. “The door wasn’t even locked.”

The words slipped into the air so casually, so absurdly normal, they almost didn’t make sense. But that was Tony. Always pretending like nothing was breaking, even when everything was.

When Tony’s fingers slipped through his hair, Peter’s whole body shivered. For a moment, even breathing felt harder. That touch—soft, almost tender—should have comforted him, but instead it suffocated him.

His eyes still burned, raw from crying, but he forced himself to lift them. And when his gaze locked with Tony’s, the fire inside him roared back to life.

Then he snapped.

Peter lunged forward, throwing himself at Tony with a burst of strength pulled from between sobs. His trembling hands clutched at the open collar of Tony’s shirt, the fabric wrinkling under his grip. He could only shake him, pull at him, but no matter how hard he tried, Tony’s body wouldn’t budge.

“You’re a monster!” The words tore from his throat like a blade, jagged and broken by the weight of his grief.

But it wasn’t really an attack. There were no fists, no strangling hands. Just the desperate push and pull of someone who had nothing left. His rage came out as helpless shaking, as if trying to rip the despair out of himself.

Tony, meanwhile, barely moved. His weight was unshaken, his presence unbroken. Peter’s struggle was nothing more than a storm against steel—weak in force, yet devastating in meaning.

Tony’s arms came around him suddenly, pulling him close in a firm, steady hold. The moment Peter felt that embrace, his hands slipped away from Tony’s collar, fingers loosening as if the last of his strength had drained out of him.

His body gave in, collapsing against Tony’s chest. He sagged into him, powerless to resist anymore, his head dropping as if even staying awake was too heavy a task.

The world blurred at the edges, his sobs dissolving into shallow, uneven breaths. And through that haze, the only thing that reached him was Tony’s voice—low, soft, almost a whisper against his ear.

“Shh, that’s okay. You can rest here. But I won’t leave you alone, Pete. I don’t wanna let you hurt yourself.”

Chapter Text

Peter stirred slowly, dragged out of sleep by the pale morning light spilling through the wide glass walls. For a moment, his mind was blank, unmoored from time or place. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, the sheets beneath his hands softer than anything he knew.

And then it hit him. Central Park Tower. Again. 

His chest tightened.

He pushed himself up slightly, the effort alone making his head throb. A dull ache spread through his skull, his muscles stiff and heavy, like he’d been wrung out and left to dry. The sharp pulse in his temples only worsened as flashes of the night before pushed their way back into his memory. His breathing quickened, heart pounding harder with every fragment that surfaced.

Only then did he notice what he was wearing. Pajamas. Not his own clothes, not the ones he’d been in before everything blurred. He remembered, distantly, that when he had woken briefly last night, he’d been in them already. But too exhausted, too broken to process it. Now, fully awake, the realization sank deeper.

Had Tony changed him?

The thought made his stomach twist. His skin prickled at the intimacy of it, at the unspoken invasion wrapped up in something so seemingly harmless.

Peter clenched his fists against the sheets. The urge to run surged through him again, sharp and desperate, but when he tried to move, his body refused. Every muscle was too heavy, his limbs sluggish as though they belonged to someone else. Escape was still just out of reach.

The door opened slowly, the soft creak of the hinge breaking the silence. A moment later, Tony appeared, carrying a breakfast tray with careful balance. He stepped into the room quietly, as though not to disturb the still air.

Peter averted his gaze, fixing his eyes on the window. He didn’t say a word.

Without hesitation, Tony moved to the edge of the bed and sat down. He placed the tray gently across Peter’s lap; the faint clink of porcelain was the only sound between them. Then he set a few small bottles and blister packs onto the nightstand beside him. Under the glow of daylight, the labels glinted faintly.

“You’ve lost a lot of energy since yesterday,” Tony said, his tone calm and steady. “These supplements will help. They’ll get you through the day.”

Peter’s fingers brushed the edge of the tray, but he didn’t touch the food. He didn’t look at the pills. He didn’t look at Tony. He just stayed silent.

The silence itself felt like defiance. Every breath he took carried the weight of refusal. He had no strength, he knew that. He couldn’t run, he couldn’t fight. But still, he refused to surrender. His chin stayed lifted, his silence a battle all on its own.

Peter kept his silence. The food on the tray was beginning to cool, but he still stared at the window, refusing to speak a single word.

Tony acted as though the silence didn’t bother him in the slightest. His voice came in the same calm tone:

“We need to go to the hospital.”

The words made Peter turn his head sharply toward him. His eyes locked on Tony, but his lips stayed pressed together. For a few seconds, he waited, expecting Tony to explain. But Tony only held his gaze, saying nothing more.

At last, Peter spoke. His voice was low but firm:

“May.”

His eyes shone with pain. “I want her awake. I want her back.”

All the battles behind his silence, all the fractures within him, broke open in that single word.

For a few seconds, Tony only looked at him in silence, his expression unreadable. Then his gaze dropped to the untouched tray.

“Eat your food. Don’t skip it. Take care of yourself,” he said evenly. “You need to promise me that. Don’t make me put it in the contract.”

At the mention of the contract, Peter let out a faint, almost inaudible laugh. Not loud, but sharp enough to be heard. A smirk curved at the corner of his lips, silent but cutting.

The word contract sounded almost absurd now, like something that belonged to a world already broken. The rules had been shattered long ago.

Tony rose from the edge of the bed, still calm, still unshaken. There was no anger in him, no sharpness. Just that same steady composure.

But before he could step away, Peter’s hand shot out, fingers closing around his wrist. His grip wasn’t strong, not with how weak he still felt, but it was enough to halt Tony in place.

Slowly, Tony turned back to him. Peter’s voice came rough, yet steady, breaking the silence between them:

“You have to wake her up.”

Tony didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand lifted, brushing through Peter’s damp hair. Sweat-soaked strands he hadn’t even realized were clinging to his forehead. He gently pulled them back from Peter’s face, his touch almost absentminded.

The quiet stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Then Tony spoke, his tone as level as ever. “The wedding is in August. I want everything to go smoothly.”

Peter didn’t move. Not a word, not even the faintest shift.

But for a fleeting second, something flickered in his eyes. Tony couldn’t quite name it. Anger? Disappointment? Whatever it was, Peter gave no voice to it, no clue beyond that silent flash.

Tony let the moment pass as though he hadn’t noticed, his calm tone continuing without a break:

“And of course, having my fiancé’s aunt there is very important to me.”

This time, Peter finally broke the silence. His voice came thin, trembling at the edges, the kind of sound that carried both defiance and the desperate effort not to break into tears.

“Today,” he whispered, his throat tight. Then, louder, though still shaking,

“I want to see her today. By my side.”

Tony didn’t respond with words to Peter’s plea. He didn’t need to. What Peter didn’t know was that everything had already been arranged. May would be awake long before the night fell.

Tony’s calm gaze shifted to the breakfast tray beside Peter. Slowly, deliberately, he gestured toward it.

“Eat your food. Carefully,” he said, his voice even, steady. “Then you can go see her.”

Tony gave Peter a brief, unreadable glance. Then, without another word, moved toward the door. His steps were slow, deliberate, controlled. As if every movement was measured to keep the balance of the room intact.

Peter watched him go, his chest tight with a mix of relief, anger, and something he couldn’t quite name. He was alone again, but the quiet wasn’t comforting. It pressed down on him, heavy and unfamiliar.

He shifted slightly on the bed, eyes still fixed on the closed door, trying to sort through the jumble of emotions swirling inside him. Part of him longed to run, another part wanted to collapse right there. Yet beneath it all, a faint spark of anticipation lingered, fragile but undeniable. He would see May soon.

The city outside glittered like shards of light, indifferent and constant. And Peter Parker stayed there, caught between what had happened, what was coming, and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he could hold onto some piece of control in the chaos.

When they left the apartment, a driver was waiting outside. It wasn’t Happy. Tony could have driven himself—he usually did—but today he didn’t, and it was clear why. He didn't want to hear anything about this. 

The streets blurred past them, the city moving around them with a rhythm Peter barely noticed. Every red light, every honk, felt irrelevant compared to the storm of thoughts in his head. Tony remained calm in the his seat, his hands resting lightly on his knees, watching Peter without comment. That stillness, that unshakable composure, only made Peter’s tension spike further.

When they arrived at the hospital, they didn’t park in the usual open garden area. Instead, they pulled into the enclosed parking garage, dimly lit and echoing with the sound of their footsteps. Peter’s impatience had grown unbearable. As soon as the car door opened, he didn’t even glance back at the waiting driver or the sleek black vehicle. It didn’t matter. The moment the door swung open, he was already moving. Fast, determined, almost desperate. Toward the elevator.

Every step echoed against the garage walls, a rapid drumbeat matching the chaos in his chest. His mind raced ahead, imagining May awake, imagining finally seeing her, imagining the weight on his shoulders suddenly shifting, even if only slightly. Nothing else mattered. Not Tony. Not the driver. Not the quiet calm of the car that had carried them here. Only the hospital, only May, only the moment when he could finally be by her side.

The elevator doors slid open right at their floor. Peter stepped forward, ready to move inside, but a hand shot out, gripping his arm. He spun around instinctively.

Tony stood there, calm as ever, but Peter could feel the quiet intensity behind that composed façade. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, but underneath it, something unyielding, almost predatory, remained.

Peter jerked his arm, trying to free himself, the muscles in his shoulders straining. “You promised,” he hissed, voice trembling with anger and exhaustion. “You promised to wake her. You promised to me that i can be her side.”

His words cut through the quiet hallway, each one sharp and desperate, a challenge and a plea rolled into one. Tony didn’t flinch, didn’t raise his voice. He only held him, patiently, letting the storm rage against the calm that surrounded him.

Tony remained calm, his tone steady as ever.

“You’ll be by her side,” he said, “but I haven’t finished setting the conditions yet.”

Peter felt a sharp pang of helplessness at those words. The weight of it pressed down on him, making his chest tighten.

Tony didn’t pause. His voice lowered slightly, deliberate and almost clinical. “You’ll see our child. He carries your blood, Peter. Your DNA.”

Peter turned his face away, moving toward the elevator as if to ignore the words entirely. It wasn’t a refusal, not exactly. It was more like he hadn’t heard, or perhaps he simply didn’t want to speak about it.

Tony released his grip on Peter’s arm without a word and stepped aside, letting him walk forward. The elevator doors closed behind them with a soft hum.

The ride up was silent. No words, no sighs. Just the faint mechanical whir of the elevator and the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging in the air. Peter’s mind raced, yet he said nothing. Tony’s calm presence remained a constant at his side, patient, unshaken, waiting.

The elevator doors slid open, and Peter stepped out. For a moment, it was as if the world had dissolved around him. The polished floors, the overhead lights, even the sterile hum of the hospital receded into nothing. All he could feel, all he could think about, was that room.

He ran down the corridor, each step echoing faintly against the walls. The air felt thick, heavy, almost electric, as if the very hospital itself was holding its breath. He didn’t notice the nurses or the monitors along the hallway. He didn’t notice anything but the faint, persistent beeping that had imprinted itself in his memory.

When he reached the intensive care door, he pressed himself against the glass. Inside, May lay on the bed, the machines slowly detaching, wires being carefully removed one by one. The sight made his chest tighten, his throat raw.

For a moment, Peter felt completely unmoored, suspended outside of time. His thoughts scattered and vanished, leaving only the visceral, unfiltered pull toward her. Every rational consideration, every worry, every fear. All of it melted into a singular, desperate need: to be there, to see her, to make sure she was awake.

He pressed closer to the glass, barely breathing, watching, waiting, as if the world beyond that moment no longer existed.

Peter pressed his forehead against the glass, completely focused on May. The beeping of the monitors, the subtle hiss of the machines, the faint smell of antiseptic. All of it faded into the background. Nothing existed except her, lying there, fragile yet slowly regaining control of her body.

Then, from somewhere slightly behind him, voices reached his ears. He barely registered them at first, but the words began to pierce through his tunnel of focus.

“Her condition is very good,” the doctor said, calm and precise. “We’ll move her to a normal room now and let her wake up there. She should be awake by this evening.”

Peter’s heart skipped. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He only absorbed the words, letting them wash over him. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, hope flickered, tiny but insistent.

As the medical team carefully wheeled May’s bed out of the intensive care unit, Peter’s world shrank to a singular point: her. He barely registered the movement of the nurses or the soft beeping of the machines being disconnected.

Tony’s presence behind him, the familiar calm and steadying hand, simply ceased to exist in Peter’s mind. He didn’t glance back, didn’t hesitate. Every step he took was drawn forward, pulled toward May as if by an invisible tether.

The hallway stretched out before him, but it was no longer a corridor. It was nothing more than the path to her side. He moved with single-minded urgency, ignoring Tony completely, ignoring the world around him. Every fiber of his being focused on her, on reaching her, on finally being there as she emerged from the haze of sedation.

Peter followed quietly as they wheeled May’s bed into the VIP room. The door opened to reveal a spacious, softly lit room. Everything Tony had arranged for her recovery. The sheer size and comfort of it barely registered in Peter’s mind; his attention was entirely fixed on her.

As the medical team carefully positioned the bed, Peter didn’t speak. He moved to the chair next to her, sinking down so that he could reach her without hesitation. His fingers closed around hers, warm and fragile, and he held them tightly, as if his grip alone could reassure her, or himself.

Behind him, Tony spoke quietly with the doctor, but Peter didn’t hear a word. Their voices, their conversation, the technical details about medications or recovery protocols. They all faded into nothing. 

There was only her, her stillness, the faint rise and fall of her chest, and the desperate need to be close, to be there for her the moment she woke.

The doctor quietly left the room, closing the door behind them. Silence settled over the space, thick and heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the machines and the soft rustle of sheets.

Peter didn’t move, didn’t look up from May. His gaze was fixed, unwavering, as if willing her to wake through sheer will alone.

From behind him, a hand rested lightly on his shoulder. He didn’t turn. He didn’t acknowledge it. But Tony’s calm voice still reached him, low and measured.

“It could take hours for her to fully wake up.”

Peter’s fingers tightened around hers, the weight of the words sinking in. He said nothing, but the tension in his jaw and the quick hitch in his breath made his feelings unmistakably clear.

Peter knew exactly what that meant. He didn’t want it. Every fiber of him recoiled at the thought.

He didn’t want to leave this room. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to step away from May’s side, and above all, he didn’t want to see that child yet.

The thought of the baby—the lab-grown life growing so quickly, a product of Tony’s decision—made his stomach twist. He could feel a tight knot forming in his chest, a mix of dread, anger, and helplessness.

For now, all he wanted was to stay here, to be near May, to hold her hand, and to ignore the world outside. Because if he thought about what awaited him beyond this room, he wasn’t sure he could bear it.

Peter leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. His breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps as he tried to hold back the surge of emotions threatening to spill over. His body trembled slightly, the weight of the night, of Tony’s words, of everything he hadn’t yet faced pressing down on him.

After a long moment, his voice came, barely more than a whisper, raw and unsteady:

“Give me… more time.”

The words lingered in the air, ambiguous, carrying multiple layers of meaning. Was he asking for time with May, to savor the fragile moment before confronting the reality outside the room? Or was it a plea for space, a desperate need to brace himself before facing the child. The living reminder of everything he hadn’t wanted to see? Even Peter wasn’t entirely sure.

Tony shifted slightly behind him, his presence calm but attentive. He didn’t speak, didn’t press, didn’t demand anything. It was as if he hadn’t heard Peter’s words, or perhaps he had, but chose to let them linger in the air.

For a long moment, he simply remained there, silent, allowing Peter the space he clearly needed. The faint warmth of his hand brushing against the back of the chair was the only acknowledgment he offered.

And though Tony didn’t respond, his quiet patience, his willingness to wait without interference, gave Peter exactly what he had asked for: time. Time to gather himself, time to process, time to face what he had to, on his own terms.

The room remained still, filled only with the gentle hum of the machines and the quiet, unspoken understanding that Peter wasn’t alone, even if he felt like he was.

And in that fragile, suspended moment, Peter simply held May’s hand, letting the silence hold him, letting himself breathe, letting himself prepare for what was coming.

Chapter Text

Peter and Tony stood in Bruce’s private lab at the hospital, the artificial incubation pod glowing softly in the center of the room. The new life inside—the baby—was there, fragile and fast-developing, yet Peter’s eyes rarely met it directly.

He was there, physically present, but the tension in his posture, the subtle tightness in his jaw and hands, betrayed his discomfort. His gaze roamed instead, sweeping across the sleek lab equipment, the blinking monitors, the soft hum of the machinery. He took in every detail of the space around him, anything to avoid confronting the reality inside the pod.

Tony, on the other hand, seemed unbothered. Calm, composed, almost clinical in his focus on the child. But Peter could feel it. The invisible pull of expectation, the silent insistence that he participate, that he acknowledge what had been created.

Peter shifted slightly from foot to foot, trying to ground himself, trying to reconcile being here with the turmoil churning inside him. He was present. He was doing the right thing. But being present didn't mean he was okay with it.

Peter’s eyes darted around the lab, refusing to settle on the glowing pod. Every surface, every monitor, every piece of equipment drew his attention. Anything but the tiny life inside.

Tony noticed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His tone was light, teasing, almost playful, as he leaned slightly closer.

“Really? Not gonna look at it?”

Peter’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer, didn’t even glance at Tony, but the subtle twitch in his fingers gripping the edge of the counter betrayed his irritation.

Tony chuckled softly, letting the comment hang in the air. It wasn’t pressure, not exactly, but a reminder that Peter couldn’t completely avoid the reality in front of him. And yet, the playful edge made it almost tolerable. Just enough to acknowledge without fully confronting.

Peter’s eyes flicked once, almost involuntarily, toward the pod, then quickly away again. He stayed rooted, unwilling to fully face what was inside, but unable to ignore Tony’s presence, or his words, entirely.

The quiet tension in the lab was interrupted by the soft click of the door. Bruce stepped in, completely aware of the drama unfolding but maintaining his usual calm demeanor. In his hands, he carried a stack of files and he began flipping through them as if that could anchor him in some semblance of normalcy.

“All right,” he said without looking up, voice steady, “condition is excellent. His heart rate, vitals, all within expected parameters.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly at Bruce’s casual reference, “His”. Bruce continued, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “He’s stable, and everything looks good for continued growth.”

Peter’s gaze shot toward Tony, silent but sharp. The pod before him still looked more like a softly glowing cluster of cells than anything resembling a baby, yet Tony’s calm presence seemed to accept Bruce’s pronoun without hesitation. Tony had already assigned a gender, already shaped part of this reality, and Peter couldn’t help the tightness that twisted in his chest.

Bruce finally looked up, smiling faintly at the two of them. “Seriously, everything is fine. You don’t need to worry. I’ll keep monitoring, but it’s progressing faster than expected. Physiology is stable.”

Peter didn’t speak. He let the information wash over him, focusing again on the lab around the pod rather than the pod itself, and tried to ignore the unsettling weight of Tony’s quiet certainty.

Once they left the lab, Peter’s steps quickened. The corridor stretched out before them, sterile and quiet, but he hardly noticed the walls or the faint hum of the lights above. His mind was still anchored to Bruce’s words and to Tony’s calm, almost casual acceptance of them.

He fell into step beside Tony, voice low but charged with restrained frustration.

“You already decided everything, didn’t you?” he muttered, not waiting for a reply. “Gender, everything… it’s all just… done.”

Tony glanced at him, expression neutral, almost playful in its steadiness. “It’s just a designation,” he said, his tone light. “It doesn’t change anything about the baby itself or about you being part of this.”

Peter clenched his fists at his sides, struggling to keep his voice from breaking. “Part of this? I don’t even know what that means right now.”

The corridor seemed longer with each step, the silence between them heavy but charged, a subtle tension that neither wanted to break but both felt acutely. Peter’s gaze flicked toward the floor, then toward the ceiling, anywhere but Tony, as he tried to process the whirlwind of emotions threatening to spill over.

Peter stopped mid-corridor, spinning to face Tony fully. His hands were clenched at his sides, jaw tight, and eyes blazing with a mix of anger, confusion, and hurt.

“How can you do these so easily?” he demanded, voice low but sharp. “Gender, the whole thing… it’s done. And I wasn’t even asked. I wasn’t… included.”

Tony, calm as ever, raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s just a designation, Peter. It doesn’t change what’s happening, and it doesn’t change you being part of this. You’re involved whether you like it or not.”

Peter’s fists tightened further, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Being involved doesn’t mean anything if I can’t even… even process it! You made all the choices, and I’m just supposed to stand here?”

Tony stepped closer, tilting his head slightly, still playful in his tone despite the intensity of Peter’s words. “I know it’s hard to see right now. But running from it won’t help anyone. Not you, not me, not… him.”

Peter’s eyes flicked quickly away, then back to Tony. His voice softened slightly, but it still trembled with frustration. “I… I need more time. A choice.”

Tony nodded slowly, a trace of understanding in his gaze, letting the words settle without pressure.

As Tony stepped closer, Peter instinctively took a step back, trying to keep his distance. He hadn’t expected to collide so quickly with the wall behind him.

Tony had only approached, only closed the small gap between them. His breath brushed against Peter, but he didn’t actually touch him yet. “Would you… accept it?” The words came low, deliberate, carrying the weight of a serious question.

Peter’s gaze flicked down for just a moment, drawn by the pressure against his stomach. Tony’s hand rested lightly there, almost tentative, yet impossibly intimate.

“If I wanted to… would you carry our baby, Peter?”

For a moment, Peter’s mind went completely blank. What did that mean? Was it even possible? His thoughts tumbled over themselves, chaotic and unformed, as he struggled to comprehend the weight of the question.

Peter froze, his back pressed lightly against the wall. His fingers twitched at his sides, unsure whether to move or stay rooted. His mind raced, each possibility tumbling over the next, none of them making sense.

He swallowed hard, his jaw tight, and his eyes flicked once more to Tony’s hand, then quickly away. His chest rose and fell unevenly, heart hammering in his ears.

He wanted to speak, to ask, to protest. But the words tangled in his throat. Instead, he just stood there, caught between instinct and thought, between desire and disbelief. Every muscle in his body screamed confusion, yet he remained still, letting the weight of Tony’s question hang in the air between them.

Peter froze for a brief moment as he felt Tony’s face move closer. His eyes flicked to the background, catching a couple watching them while walking away and in that instant, he was reminded of where they were and the precariousness of their situation.

He quickly turned his face away, pressing his hands against Tony’s chest in an attempt to push him back. His movements were sharp, defensive, a clear signal that he didn't want this closeness.

Tony, calm as ever, didn’t resist immediately, letting Peter set the boundary while maintaining the small, steady presence that had a way of anchoring him despite the tension.

Tony stayed close, his presence calm but insistent, the slight smirk on his lips betraying a hint of amusement. “I’ve got to get to work,” he said softly, almost conversationally, as if nothing about the tension between them existed.

Peter merely nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement of his head. He still didn’t look at Tony, eyes fixed elsewhere, avoiding the closeness, the expectation, the unspoken pull between them.

Even in his silence, the acknowledgement was enough. Tony didn’t push further, allowing Peter the space to stay guarded, yet remaining near, patient, and unyielding in his quiet presence.

Tony’s voice softened as he stepped back slightly, offering a suggestion. “I can walk you to May’s room, if you want…”

Peter’s response was a simple, firm shake of his head. No words, no hesitation. Just a clear signal that he didn’t want the company.

All he wanted was distance, space to escape this unbearably awkward moment, to rid himself of the heat rising in his chest and the shame curling in his stomach. He needed to move, to regain some sense of control over himself, even if it meant doing it alone.

Tony didn’t argue. He only gave a small, understanding nod, allowing Peter to step away, letting him reclaim the space he desperately needed.

When Peter finally reached May’s room, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Thankfully, she hadn’t woken up yet. The sight of her sleeping, peaceful and unaware, eased some of the tension knotting his chest.

Without hesitation, he slipped into her adjoining bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He turned on the tap, splashing cold water onto his face, letting the shock of it wash over him.

As he stepped back and gazed into the mirror, he finally allowed himself a long, searching look. His eyes were still rimmed with tension. His face was almost flushed. What the hell had happened?

For a fleeting moment, he had forgotten everything. For a fleeting moment, it was as if all of it had been wiped from his mind, and he had almost let Tony kiss him.

That single question kept spinning in his head, tangling everything up. How could I even think about it? Did some part of him—deep, hidden—actually want it? Or had Tony been planning this from the very beginning?

His thoughts twisted back to that night. The way Tony had lingered over his stomach, how his lips had pressed there again and again, how his hands had traced circles like it was something sacred.

Come to think of it, he had thought about it too. He had never mentioned it to Tony. For a moment. For just a tiny moment, as he felt the semen inside him, the doctor's ridiculous words came to mind. “Using a condom is best.” 

Had he ever really thought about wanting a baby in his belly? No, that was ridiculous. It wasn't even possible. 

But why had he thought that? He knew he didn't really want to have a baby. He was too young, it was too senseless. 

But deep down, he also felt that he wanted to live this life with Tony.

Now, standing here in the sterile light, Peter’s chest tightened with realization. Was that what Tony had been thinking all along? Acting as if, pretending as if, Peter were already carrying their child?

The idea made his breath hitch, half in disbelief, half in something he couldn’t even name.

His reflection stared back at him, almost like a stranger. Carry our baby. The words wouldn’t leave his head, no matter how hard he tried to shove them out.

It wasn’t just the manipulation. It wasn’t just Tony pulling strings behind his back, turning his life into something he couldn’t control. Somewhere inside —God, he hated to admit it— even the thought of their baby had stirred something. Something warm. Something dangerous.

He pressed his palms flat against the sink, as if grounding himself there. No. That’s insane. I don’t want that. I don’t want him. Not like this.

But the denial felt thin, brittle, like glass ready to crack. Because hadn’t he, for just a second, almost believed it? Hadn’t he wanted it, wanted him, in some deep, twisted way?

The memory of Tony’s mouth lingering on his stomach burned through him. How he’d let it happen. How he’d felt both wanted and claimed at the same time.

Is that what he saw in me? Someone who could carry his child? Or… is that what I saw in myself?

The question sank heavy in his chest, terrifying in its honesty.

Almost without thinking, his hand drifted lower, pressing against his own abdomen. The gesture startled him —it felt too deliberate, too intimate— and he jerked his hand back as though the touch itself burned.

There was nothing there. Just him. Just his body. No baby. No future he hadn’t agreed to. He repeated it to himself, like a mantra: This isn’t real. This isn’t what I want. This isn’t me.

He exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the sink. The cool porcelain anchored him, but the memory of Tony’s voice lingered like a brand on his skin.

You’d never want that, he whispered to his reflection, almost daring himself to believe it. His eyes, though, betrayed him. Too conflicted, too uncertain.

He forced himself to straighten, splash another handful of cold water across his face, and scrub the thought away. May. That was all that mattered now. His aunt. The one person who tethered him to who he really was.

Not Tony. Not the baby. Not this madness.

Peter wiped his face with the towel and pulled his gaze away from the mirror. The storm of thoughts inside him was still there, but he swore not to feed them any longer as he opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom.

Back in the room, May was still in deep sleep. The silence, paired with the steady rhythm of the heart monitor, created an almost peaceful atmosphere. Peter slowly sat down on the chair, reaching for his aunt’s hand.

It wasn’t cold. It was warm, alive. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not Tony, not that lab, not the questions still echoing inside him. All he wanted was for May to open her eyes.

For a brief moment, he closed his own, drawing in a deep breath as if trying to sync his heartbeat with hers. “I’m here, May…” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

This was his only refuge from the storm in his mind. And he had no intention of leaving it.

Chapter Text

By the time May opened her eyes, evening had already settled over the city. Peter hadn’t moved from her side once. He was still there, slouched in the chair, her hand clutched tightly in his own as if letting go might mean losing her again.

The moment her lashes fluttered and she looked at him, the world seemed to stop. For the first time in what felt like forever, Peter could breathe. His throat was tight, and all he managed to whisper was a shaky, “I’m right here.”

Before the tears in his eyes could spill, he was already stumbling toward the door, calling for the nurses, his voice breaking with relief as he alerted them that May was awake.

The doctors busied themselves around the bed, checking May’s vitals, adjusting her IV, making notes on their charts. Through it all, May’s gaze found Peter across the room. Her lips curved into a smile so radiant it nearly lit up the sterile walls of the hospital. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, filled with pure joy, relief, love, a happiness so unfiltered it almost made Peter forget the weight crushing down on him.

Almost.

Because while his chest swelled with relief seeing her awake, the knot inside him only tightened. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know. How could he explain that in the month she had been unconscious, he had somehow become engaged to his boss. No, not engaged. Trapped in a sham marriage contract with Tony Stark? That there was already a baby growing in a lab, with his DNA, without his consent?

Peter’s smile trembled as he forced it back onto his face, mirroring her joy, even as his thoughts screamed. May deserved the truth. 

But he couldn’t give her the truth. It was in the contract, but even if it wasn’t, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. How could he? How could he ever admit that he had agreed to all of this for her? That the only reason he let himself be bound to Stark, to this nightmare, was because it meant saving her life? How could he bear the look on her face if she knew?

One of the doctors finally stepped away from May’s bedside and approached Peter, his voice low but firm. “She needs rest. Waking this soon is good, but she shouldn’t push herself. You can go home for tonight. She’ll be cared for.”

Peter’s eyes darted back to May, her chest rising and falling in steady breaths now. The thought of leaving her side, after weeks of waiting, felt unbearable. He shook his head, his voice rough but steady.

“Just… a little longer. Please. I want to stay with her.”

The doctor gave a small nod, a silent acknowledgment of Peter’s plea, before stepping back and leaving the room. The nurses finished their checks quietly, straightening the sheets and adjusting the monitors, and then slipped out, leaving the room calm and still.

Peter finally allowed himself to settle into the chair beside May. He rested his hand gently over hers, feeling the warmth and the steady pulse beneath his fingers. Her eyelids drooped slowly, the long day of recovery catching up to her.

He watched her with quiet intensity, committing every detail to memory. The gentle rise and fall of her chest, the soft curve of her lips, the way her breathing slowed as she drifted toward sleep. For now, this was enough. He was here, and she was safe.

And for Peter, that alone was everything.

Hours had passed, and the night had deepened. The city outside was a blur of lights through the hospital windows. Peter sat quietly beside May, her hand still warm in his, watching her breathe as the room grew quieter with the late hour.

The door creaked open, but for a moment Peter didn’t look. Nurses had come and gone all evening, and he assumed it was just another routine check.

But when the figure didn’t move further inside, his attention shifted. His eyes finally tracked to the doorway. A man stood there. Tall, sharply dressed in a dark suit. Something in his posture, the way he carried himself, told Peter immediately that he was one of Tony’s men.

The man didn’t speak at first, just studied him briefly. Then, in a calm, measured voice, he said, “Mr. Stark asked me to bring you home.”

Peter’s chest tightened. He knew refusing would be pointless. If he tried, it would only alert Tony, creating a bigger mess. His eyes flicked back to May. As much as he wanted to stay, to remain by her side tonight, he also knew he had no real choice.

He drew a slow breath, squeezed her hand gently one last time, and nodded almost imperceptibly, acknowledging the truth he couldn’t escape.

The car moved through the quiet streets, the city lights streaking past in blurred lines. Peter leaned back against the seat, trying to gather his thoughts, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the driver’s movements. A subtle turn of the head, a slight shift in posture. Too calculated to be casual. The man’s eyes flicked to Peter more often than necessary, scanning, observing.

Peter’s chest tightened. It didn’t take much to realize the truth: he wasn’t just being driven home. The driver had orders, strict ones, to make sure he didn’t slip away. Every possible escape route had been accounted for, every weakness covered.

For the first time since leaving the hospital, Peter felt the weight of his captivity. Not physical, perhaps, but precise, unyielding. He wasn’t trapped by chains, but by careful calculation. And he knew there was no point in resisting.

The ride stretched on longer than Peter expected, the glow of the city fading behind them. Soon, the skyline gave way to quieter streets lined with sprawling estates, each separated by wide gardens and iron gates. The silence out here was different. Thick, deliberate. It pressed against the windows, wrapping the car in a stillness that was both calming and unsettling.

For a moment, Peter almost welcomed it. The constant buzz of New York was gone, replaced by open space and air he could actually breathe. But the quiet also left him too much room to think, and that was far more dangerous.

When the car slowed and finally pulled up, it didn’t enter the private garage. Instead, it stopped right in front of the house. Peter frowned at the break in routine, a small knot tightening in his stomach. But the driver offered no explanation, no movement beyond opening the door for him.

Peter stepped out, his shoes crunching softly against the smooth stone driveway. His gaze lifted to the house. Bathed in warm light, standing tall and unyielding in the still night.

The first time he’d come here, just over a month ago, he had been stunned by it. The quiet grandeur, the polished windows reflecting the world like they belonged to someone untouchable. Back then, it had felt almost magical.

Now, staring at it again, all he could feel was a strange weight in his chest. Awe had given way to something harder to name. Resentment, unease, maybe even fear. Whatever this house was, whatever it meant, it no longer felt like safety. It felt like the gilded walls of a cage.

The front door closed softly behind him, the faint echo disappearing into the vast quiet of the house. Peter moved slowly, his steps muffled against the polished floor, eyes drawn upward to the sweeping staircase ahead. He wanted nothing more than to vanish into the room upstairs, shut the door, and pretend the world outside didn’t exist.

But just as he passed the threshold of the kitchen, a movement caught him off guard. A figure stood in the doorway. An older woman, maybe in her early fifties, with a kind but measured expression. Her posture was polite, her smile gentle, but there was a distance in her eyes that reminded Peter this was still someone who worked for Tony, not for him.

“Mr. Parker,” the woman said warmly, her voice carrying a soft authority. “There’s a meal prepared for you. Would you like me to set it out?”

Peter blinked, caught off guard. The clock in the hall read nearly eleven. He hesitated, his stomach tightening with something that wasn’t quite hunger.

In all the weeks he’d stayed here, the staff had been more like shadows than people. Their presence was felt in fresh linens, polished surfaces, meals that appeared as if from nowhere. But rarely in faces or voices. They slipped through the house like ghosts, efficient and unseen.

To have one of them here, standing plainly before him at this hour, felt strange. Almost unsettling. As if the rules of the house had shifted without warning.

Hunger finally won over hesitation. Peter nodded slightly, not trusting his voice, the surprise still lingering. And in the back of his mind, a thought began to gnaw: if even the house was changing, what else might Tony be quietly rearranging around him?

Within minutes the woman had set out a simple but carefully arranged meal for him at the long dining table.

The first bite reminded him how empty his stomach really was. He hadn’t eaten properly since morning, and as he sat there, each mouthful was both relief and exhaustion. His body ached with every small motion, and the longer he sat, the more he realized how tired he truly was.

By the time he set his fork down, his thoughts were already drifting toward a hot shower and the heavy pull of blankets. All he wanted was to disappear into sleep. But then the thought struck him. His room wasn’t just his. The bed wasn’t just his.

Tony’s presence lingered everywhere in this house, even when he wasn’t visible. Maybe he was in the lab. Maybe in his office. Maybe already waiting upstairs in that shared room Peter didn’t want to step into tonight. Peter couldn’t know for sure, but one truth pressed sharply in his chest: he couldn’t face him. Not now. Not tonight.

His eyes flicked briefly to the woman who had served him, still standing at a polite distance. For a second, the question almost formed on his lips: Where is he? But Peter swallowed it down. He couldn’t ask. Because no matter how kind this woman seemed, she wasn’t neutral. She belonged to Tony. And if Peter showed even the smallest crack in his composure, it might reach the one person he least wanted it to.

So he simply pushed back his chair, murmured a soft thanks, and let the silence swallow the rest.

As he climbed the stairs, Peter’s mind churned restlessly, trying to piece together a plan that made sense. Every step creaked too loudly in the quiet house, reminding him that if Tony was in the bedroom, there would be no way to avoid him.

The moment he walked out, Tony could ask where he was going. And if he dared to gather his things, if he so much as reached for his toothbrush or pajamas, it would be obvious what he was doing. A move to another room wasn’t something he could disguise. Not from Tony, not in this house.

The best-case scenario, he thought grimly, was that Tony wasn’t there at all. That the bedroom was empty and he could slip in, scoop up what he needed, and escape before anyone noticed. That was the version where everything worked out.

But the safest option—the one his gut pushed for—was to abandon the idea of returning to the bedroom altogether. To duck into a guest room at random, curl up under the unfamiliar sheets, and deal with the consequences tomorrow. Except… that left him with nothing. No pajamas. No toothbrush. No clean shirt for the morning. Everything he needed was locked inside the very place he least wanted to go.

The more he thought about it, the clearer the dilemma became: either face Tony, or face the night with nothing.

And yet, wasn’t that exactly what this whole arrangement had become? A choice between two kinds of discomfort.

Peter pushed his hesitation aside and decided he had to enter the room no matter what. He drew in a deep breath and opened the door. His eyes swept across the space at once. The room was empty.

Tony wasn’t there.

The lights were on as usual, illuminating every corner. Even so, the tension in Peter’s shoulders didn’t ease. He stepped in slowly, leaving the door ajar.

Before gathering his things, he wanted to be absolutely sure. No light seeped from beneath the closed bathroom door. Still, he pressed his ear against it, listening. Nothing. He opened it, flicked the switch, and checked. No, no one was there.

Returning to the room, he scanned the space one more time. It would be easy to pack. For a moment he thought, maybe I got lucky tonight.

But then measured, heavy footsteps echoed up the stairs. His breath caught. His body tensed. Who else could it be but Tony?

His heart raced as he froze in the middle of the room. But the figure that appeared in the doorway wasn’t Tony. It was a man in a suit, serious and composed. One of Tony’s men. Not the driver from earlier, but carrying the same formality, the same distance.

The man stopped at the threshold, not stepping inside. His voice was low, neutral: “Mr. Stark wanted me to inform you he won’t be home tonight.”

For a second, Peter just blinked at the man’s words. He won’t be home tonight.
It should’ve been a relief. It was supposed to be.

“Okay,” he muttered, almost automatically. The suited man gave a brief nod and left, his footsteps fading back down the hall.

Silence swallowed the room again.

Peter turned in place, his eyes sweeping over the familiar walls, the bed, the closet. He should pack… shouldn’t he? Or maybe he shouldn’t. He didn’t even know anymore.

What had he been expecting? Tony, standing there with that unreadable calm of his? A confrontation? Or—God, was he actually disappointed? Why hadn’t Tony texted himself, at least? Where was he? What was he doing?

Peter let out a sharp breath and dropped onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, grounding him in a way he hated. His fingers clenched at the blanket.

What the hell am I even thinking? Just a minute ago, he’d been playing cat-and-mouse to avoid him. Now he was… what, jealous? Lonely?

It wasn’t real. None of it was real. Not the engagement, not the promises, not the child growing in some lab. He should remind himself of that. Again and again, until it stuck.

Except… something was real. The way his chest tightened. The way his thoughts spun. The way every line between truth and lie had blurred beyond repair.

So what was this, really? Over already? Just a time, finished and done? Or had he let it become something more… something he couldn’t even name?

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight spilled through the wide windows when Peter finally stirred awake. The other side of the bed was untouched, the sheets still smooth and cold. Tony hadn’t come back. He pushed himself up slowly, his body heavy with sleep, his mind heavier with thoughts he didn’t want to entertain. He tried to school his face into neutrality, but a quiet grumble lived in his chest, impossible to ignore.

When he descended the stairs, the house was already alive in its quiet, ghostlike way. One of the staff appeared, informing him that May would be discharged before noon and brought home. The words lifted a weight off him he hadn’t realized he was still carrying.

Breakfast had been laid out for him, polished silver and steaming plates, though the room felt too large, too silent. He ate anyway, methodically, each bite reminding him how drained he still was.

After breakfast, Peter found himself wandering aimlessly through the house. There was nothing for him to do, nowhere he needed to be. His feet carried him to the living room, where he sank into one of the wide couches. The silence pressed in around him, thick and heavy, and for the first time he let his mind drift.

Spring break. That’s what this was supposed to be. A short pause, a week away from the routine of school, classes, friends. But everything that had happened had pulled him further and further away from that world. He had almost forgotten that it still existed. MIT, Ned, MJ. Those things felt like they belonged to someone else’s life.

He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them again, something on the coffee table caught his attention. A stack of glossy papers, neatly fanned out. He reached forward, pulling one closer.

Wedding brochures. Elegant fonts, smiling couples, white dresses under chandeliers. He picked up another, then another, realizing they all belonged to different organizing companies. His throat went dry.

August. The thought pressed into him like a weight. There was a wedding in August. His wedding.

His fingers traced the edge of one brochure without really meaning to. The smiling couple on the cover looked like they had everything figured out—radiant, in love, perfect. He stared at them for a long moment before setting it down with a short, shaky exhale.

Married. He was getting married. The thought should’ve meant something, stirred excitement, maybe even nerves that came with joy. But none of that was there.

Instead, it felt distant, hollow, like the word didn’t belong to him. He wasn’t walking toward a future he had chosen. He was being carried, pushed by forces bigger than himself. August might as well have been tomorrow, and he didn’t feel like someone preparing for the rest of his life. He felt like someone who had been signed into it.

A strange twist curled in his chest. Half disbelief, half bitter amusement. Married. He almost laughed at how unreal it sounded in his head.

He didn’t even realize how tightly he was holding the papers until the faint creak of the front door carried through the quiet house. The sound jolted him upright.

In a rush, almost guilty, he set the brochures back onto the table, sliding them into a messy little pile as if by burying them he could bury the thoughts too. He didn’t want to look at them anymore. Didn’t want to think about what they meant.

Pushing himself off the couch, he straightened his shoulders and headed for the hallway. Whoever had come in, it didn’t matter. It was better than sitting here, drowning in thoughts that refused to make sense.

By the time Peter reached the entryway, one of the staff had already opened the door. Standing there was Colonel Rhodes.

Peter froze for half a beat. Of all people, he hadn’t expected him. Forcing himself forward, he quickly blurted out, “I thought..uh..I thought maybe May was being brought home already.”

Rhodey’s brows lifted slightly, but he just gave a short nod. “Not yet. I actually came by because… well, I was wondering if Tony was around.”

That twist of unease in Peter’s stomach returned. He shook his head, a little too fast. “I haven’t seen him. Not since yesterday.”

Rhodey studied him for a moment, silent, unreadable. The weight of it pressed against Peter like a physical thing. He tried not to fidget, but the quiet felt endless.

Of course Rhodey didn’t know. He didn’t know this whole engagement was a sham. Didn’t know Tony hadn’t come home. To him, this was just a normal visit to check in on his best friend. But to Peter… every second stretched like it might snap.

Rhodey’s gaze lingered for another moment, and Peter wondered if he was about to press the issue. Instead, the man’s expression softened slightly.

“How’s May holding up?” he asked.

The question knocked some of the tension from Peter’s chest. He nodded quickly, grateful for the shift. “Better. Way better. She actually woke up yesterday.” His voice lifted almost without meaning to. Pride, relief, maybe both.

Rhodey’s lips curved into a small smile. “That’s good news. Really good.”

Peter found himself clutching the edge of the doorframe, almost like he needed the grounding. At least this part was simple. Talking about May didn’t feel like lying.

Peter straightened his shoulders a little and, out of politeness, pushed the door open wider.
“Uh… would you like to come in? May should be home soon, and… maybe you could wait for Tony?”

The moment the words left his mouth, he realized how strange they sounded. Wait. For Tony. As if he hadn’t been doing exactly that since the moment he woke up this morning.

But Rhodey shook his head gently, a soft but resolute smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Thanks, Peter. But it’s fine. I thought maybe I’d catch Tony here. Since he’s not, I won’t keep you.”

Peter nodded quickly. “Of course… I understand.”

That short, empty silence settled between them again. Rhodey looked like he was about to say something else, but then decided against it. He only placed a hand lightly on Peter’s shoulder and took a step back. “Tell May I say hi.”

“Of course. I will.”

As Rhodey turned toward the door and left, Peter drew in a deep breath. What filled his chest was something caught between disappointment and a strange kind of relief.

Time slipped by slowly after Rhodey’s departure. The silence of the house pressed in on Peter, filling every corner like a weight. He wandered restlessly between the living room and the window, checking the street below as if he could will May’s arrival to be sooner.

When the sound finally came, tires crunching over the driveway, it was later than he expected. Not a cab or a regular car, but a hospital-marked vehicle, discreet but clearly prepared for someone who still needed care.

Peter hurried to the door. The staff moved efficiently, practiced in their motions, guiding May with care. She looked fragile, smaller somehow than when she’d been in the hospital bed, wrapped in blankets that made her look like she could disappear inside them.

Peter’s chest tightened, but he forced a smile when her tired eyes flickered toward him.

They carried her into one of the guest suites he hadn’t even realized had been prepared. The room was spacious but warm, the bed already turned down, medical equipment tucked discreetly nearby. Tony must have arranged it in advance.

Peter stood back while they settled her in, hardly daring to move. Every small adjustment of pillows, every clipped instruction between the nurses sounded like the most important thing in the world.

And then, suddenly, it was over. The hospital workers gathered their things, offering Peter polite nods before filing out, leaving him alone in the hush of the room.

He drew the chair close to her bed and sat down, his eyes fixed on May’s face. She was already drifting, lids heavy, breath evening out into something steady and safe.

Peter stayed where he was, listening to that quiet rhythm. The house outside the door felt enormous, but here, here was just them.

Peter carefully reached for May’s hand, slipping his fingers gently into hers. Her eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, heavy-lidded and still groggy, and she gave him a faint, sleepy smile.

His gaze fell to the delicate movement of her finger brushing over his ring. That simple touch—innocent, tender—sent a jolt of tension through him. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The words he needed to say, the story he had yet to share, all tangled up inside him, pressing against his chest.

He felt a sudden weight of guilt, not for her, but for himself. For the secret he carried, for the promises he couldn’t yet fulfill, for the life he had yet to explain.

Finally, Peter could find the strength to speak. “Rest, May. You need to rest. I’ll be here.”

Without waiting for a response, he slowly withdrew his hand. Every step toward the door felt heavy, every breath measured. He didn’t want to leave, but he knew he had to. Giving her rest was more important than lingering in a moment he wasn’t ready to confront.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving the room in quiet, safe darkness, with only the rhythmic rise and fall of May’s chest filling the space.

Peter closed the door to May’s room as quietly as he could, his hand lingering on the knob for a few extra seconds before letting go. The corridor felt heavier than before, the silence pressing down on him with every step. He should’ve felt relief—she was here, safe, and recovering. But instead, his chest still carried a weight he couldn’t shake.

He made his way upstairs, the polished floor under his sneakers muffling his tired movements. Each step reminded him just how drained he was, not just in his body but in his head. Weeks of holding himself together, of pretending he was fine, had stacked up higher than he realized. His mind was fraying at the edges, stretched too thin.

When he reached the bedroom, he hesitated in the doorway. For a second, the idea of being in there felt suffocating. The wide bed, the spotless furniture, the quiet hum of the city far below. It all reminded him of things he didn’t want to think about. But the exhaustion dragging down his limbs didn’t give him a choice.

He slipped inside and let the door fall shut behind him. His eyes went to the bed. It looked too large, too empty. He rubbed at his face, whispering to himself that maybe if he just slept for a little while—just until dinner—he’d wake up with a clearer head. Maybe a couple hours of nothingness would be enough.

Without bothering to change, he sat on the edge of the mattress and finally let his body sink back, stretching out against the sheets. The pillow caught him instantly, cool and grounding. His thoughts kept buzzing, circling, but the more he lay there, the harder it was to keep his eyes open. The weight of the day pressed him down, and he let it. Sleep came quickly, almost like falling into a pool he couldn’t fight.

Peter closed his eyes under the weight of exhaustion, darkness pulling him in quickly. Sleep came faster than he expected.

When he opened his eyes, he didn’t know where he was. It wasn’t anywhere familiar. A cream-colored stone wall, covered in ivy. That was the only clear thing he could see. Everything else was blurred, hidden behind a haze, almost nonexistent.

He didn’t know what he was thinking. But he could feel something: a heavy unrest pressing inside him. Vast, suffocating. Unexplainable.

Then, he felt a presence behind him. Familiar. When he turned, he saw Tony.

And in that moment, the weight in his chest loosened. Was it relief? Or longing? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that Tony’s presence brought a strange comfort.

Tony didn’t say anything. He just looked at him. His gaze steady, intense, yet calm. Peter’s feet moved on their own, carrying him closer. Until there was barely any space left between them.

Tony’s hand lifted. Normally, Peter would have flinched back, maybe even run. But this time, he didn’t. When the hand touched his cheek, Peter let out a deep breath and leaned into it. An unconscious surrender, as if that was where he had always belonged.

His eyes fluttered shut. The unrest melted away, replaced by an odd, quiet peace.

“It’s alright,” Tony whispered.

Peter opened his eyes again, only to find their faces so close their breaths mingled. His heart raced, but there was no fear. Only silence and anticipation.

Then Tony leaned in further. When their lips met, something broke open inside Peter. A flood of emotion too vivid, too real. So real that it felt impossible to believe this was only a dream.

The heat of Tony’s breath fanned against his skin, achingly real. Peter’s hands lifted almost without thought, curling around Tony’s shoulders, pulling him closer, holding on as if letting go meant losing something vital.

The kiss deepened, warmth spreading through him like fire in his veins. He wanted to stay there, frozen in that impossible moment.

But then something shifted. The pressure of lips on his own lingered. The weight of a body beside him was steady, unmoving in a way no dream ever was. The faint rustle of sheets reached his ears.

Peter’s lashes flickered open. Light spilled into his vision, blurry at first. But there he was. Tony. Not a dream, not a mirage. Real. Right there, in the same bed, kissing him.

Peter’s eyes flew open, his chest rising and falling too quickly, lungs burning as if he’d been running. For one suspended moment, he didn’t even know if he was awake. The warmth still lingered against his lips, soft and real, too real to be only a dream. His body froze, every muscle taut.

Then instinct kicked in. His eyes widened sharply, and he jerked back as if he’d touched fire. “What the hell are you doing?” His voice cracked somewhere between anger and disbelief, a little too loud for the quiet of the room.

Tony didn’t even flinch. He was propped halfway against the pillows, his shirt slightly rumpled, expression maddeningly calm. “What does it look like? I came back from work. I’m in my bed, trying to get some rest.”

Peter’s pulse was still hammering in his ears. He pushed himself up, clutching at the sheets as though they might anchor him. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he snapped, his voice shaking with more than just irritation. “Why did you kiss me?”

Tony tilted his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. His tone came light, but there was a glimmer in his eyes Peter couldn’t quite read. “Kiss you? You must’ve been dreaming. I didn’t kiss you.”

Peter’s breath caught. “Don’t–don’t mess with me right now.”

“Mess with you?” Tony finally moved, sitting up straighter. He tugged at the collar of his shirt with deliberate casualness, then smoothed it down as if drawing Peter’s attention on purpose. “You were the one holding onto me like your life depended on it sweetheart.”

Peter’s face went hot, blood rushing to his ears. “I wasn’t–”

“You were.” Tony cut him off, his voice low and playful, almost teasing but with just enough weight to make Peter’s stomach twist. “You had me in a chokehold. At one point, I was honestly wondering if you were trying to kill me or kiss me.”

He let the words hang in the air, heavy and sharp, before adding with a lopsided grin: “Guess you got your answers.”

Peter’s mouth opened, then shut again. He was still feeling that feeling, his palms were definitely held something fiercely. His stomach lurched. Heat surged up his neck. 

Peter’s throat tightened. He looked anywhere but at him, forcing his voice out rough. “Why–” He swallowed hard, then snapped louder than he meant to. “Why were you even here? Why were you next to me in the first place?”

Tony leaned back against the headboard, crossing his arms like he had all the time in the world. “Because this is our bed, genius.”

“That’s not–” Peter shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes as his chest rose and fell too fast. “You could’ve slept anywhere else. You didn’t have to–” His words tripped over themselves, his face burning hotter the more he tried to force them out. “You didn’t have to get in next to me.”

Tony’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite serious either. “Why? Why I can’t sleep next to my fiance?”

“Because this isn’t a real relationship.” Peter’s voice cut through the space, sharper than he intended. His fingers twisted against the sheets as if bracing himself. “This isn’t in the contract.”

He tried for steel, for defiance, but his eyes betrayed him, skittering away the moment the words left his mouth. He couldn’t hold Tony’s gaze. Not now. Not when just days ago they’d been tangled together in this same bed, breathing each other in like there was no world outside those walls.

And now? Now it felt like that fragile something between them had been ripped apart before it even had a name.

Tony said nothing. He didn’t move, didn’t argue. The silence itself felt heavier than any retort could have been.

Peter’s throat ached. He couldn’t look at him. Not when the truth of what they’d been, what they weren’t, lingered like smoke in the air. He turned his head away before his sentence even fully left his lips. Already sliding off the mattress, his feet hit the floor harder than he meant. And he didn’t pause as he strode across the room toward the dressing area.

He shouldn’t have been here. He knew it. He’d known it from the start. From the moment he’d collapsed onto that bed, exhaustion or not, it had been a mistake. Because Tony would always come back here eventually.

Peter yanked a bag from the upper shelf, nearly losing his balance as he dragged it down. The zipper rattled as he jerked it open, and he started shoving clothes inside without looking, without caring if they matched, if they made sense. It didn’t matter. He just needed distance, walls, a locked door. Anything.

His chest tightened as he shoved another shirt into the bag. Maybe if he packed fast enough, if he kept his eyes away from the bed, from the man still sitting there, he could pretend none of this had ever happened.

Peter was so focused on cramming another shirt into the half-zipped bag that he didn’t hear the footsteps. He didn’t notice the shift in the air until a shadow moved over him. By the time his brain registered it, Tony was already there. Standing close, too close, his presence filling the room without a sound.

Peter’s breath caught, and before he could react, Tony’s hand reached out. Not rough, not angry—just steady, almost casual—as he pushed the bag from Peter’s grip. It tumbled to the floor with a muted thud, the clothes spilling out in messy folds.

Peter froze, still clutching a t-shirt in his hands, unable to let it go.

“Where are you going?” Tony’s voice was calm, almost maddeningly so. No heat. No bite. Just a question, low and certain, like he already knew the answer.

Peter’s head snapped up. His chest rose and fell too quickly, words clawing their way out before he could stop them. “Not with you. I’m not sleeping next to you. You can’t make me.” The shirt twisted tighter in his fists, as if fabric could anchor him against the weight of Tony’s eyes.

Tony didn’t argue. Didn’t say anything. He simply looked at him for a moment, unreadable, then turned away.

Peter blinked, stunned, as Tony crossed the room at an unhurried pace. He went straight to his nightstand, the one on his side of the bed, and began gathering his things. Phone. iPad. The worn copy of a book Peter had seen him reading late at night. A slim pair of reading glasses. Each object was collected with methodical precision, one after the other, placed neatly under his arm.

Peter didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He just stood there, watching, the words still burning in his throat but refusing to come out.

Tony never once raised his voice. Never once looked like a man defeated. He just walked to the door, opened it, and stepped through. The soft click of the latch sliding into place behind him felt louder than any slammed door could have been.

Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.

Peter’s jaw clenched as he stared at the abandoned bag on the floor, clothes spilling out like evidence of his own desperation. The shirt slipped from his grip, falling on top of the mess. His chest heaved once, then twice, and before he could stop himself, his foot lashed out.

The bag skidded across the floor with a dull scrape, smacking against the wall before collapsing in on itself.

He stood there, breathing hard in the quiet, the echo of Tony’s departure heavier than any presence could ever be.

Chapter Text

Dinner tasted like nothing.

Peter sat at the long dining table, the plate in front of him barely touched. Fork against porcelain, the sound echoed far too loud in the cavernous silence. There was no sign of Tony. No sudden appearance, no flippant remark about how Peter was sulking. Just the quiet shuffle of staff clearing plates, the ticking of an antique clock on the wall, and his own heartbeat reminding him he was alone.

He tried not to think about it. Tried not to wonder whether Tony had left the house entirely, or if he was somewhere in one of the countless rooms Peter had never even set foot in. The not knowing made it worse. It was easier when Tony was in front of him, easier when they could trade words like blows. Silence, on the other hand, felt impossible to fight.

By the time he climbed the stairs hours later, fatigue sat heavy on his shoulders. He paused at the doorway of the master bedroom, half-expecting Tony to be there despite everything. But the room was still, dark, and undeniably empty.

Peter stepped inside anyway. The faint smell of Tony’s cologne lingered in the air, clinging to the sheets, to the curtains, to the walls. But something else had changed. Subtler, quieter. 

The small clutter that usually marked Tony’s side of the room was gone. The spare watch that always sat on the dresser. The toothbrush left out on the counter in the bathroom. Even some clothes in the dressing room.

It didn’t take a genius to realize what it meant. Tony hadn’t just left the room. He’d moved out of it.

Peter lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, staring at the empty space across from him. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter, that this was what he wanted. Boundaries. Space. Clarity.

But the hollow stretch of mattress beside him said otherwise.

When he finally lay down, sleep came slowly. The silence of the house pressed in like a weight, and for the first time since moving in, the bed felt too big. Too cold.

The days slipped by almost unnoticed, folding into each other until spring break was nothing but a blur behind him. Classes resumed, campus filled with noise and chatter, and life was supposed to go back to normal. At least, that’s what everyone else managed.

Peter told himself the same thing—life goes on—but it didn’t feel true. His own days had narrowed into a loop: mornings spent in rushed silence, afternoons at the university, evenings by May’s side, and nights returning to bed that felt both too large and too empty.

Once, Tony had been the one behind the wheel, cracking comments about professors Peter had never mentioned or poking fun at how many textbooks could fit in his backpack. Now it was always the same driver, suited and unreadable, waiting outside with the car already idling. The rides weren’t long, but they felt endless. Peter couldn’t shake the weight of eyes on him, the sense that every movement was being measured, reported, catalogued.

On campus, friends shared stories of their breaks. Trips home, road adventures, nights out that blurred together in laughter. Peter nodded along, smiled when it seemed right, but added nothing of his own. What was he supposed to say? That he’d spent the past weeks caught between hospital corridors and a penthouse he didn’t understand, playing a role that wasn’t even a role anymore?

By the time he got home, the routine swallowed him again. Check on May, reassure her she is fine, linger by her bed longer than he admitted he needed. Then retreat, study half-heartedly, and try not to think too much about what, or who, was missing.

The rhythm was safe. But it was also suffocating.

It was just past three when Peter finally set his books aside. He’d finished what little studying he could force himself through, packed away his notes, and decided to stretch his legs. The house was quiet, usually so, the kind of hush that made every creak of the floorboards sound louder than it should.

He stepped into the hallway, rubbing at his tired eyes, only to stop short.

The door across from his own opened.

Tony emerged.

For one heartbeat, Peter froze where he stood. Tony didn’t notice him. Or maybe he did and simply chose not to show it. He pulled the door shut with the same careless ease he did everything else, hand lingering on the handle just long enough for Peter to realize exactly which room he’d been in.

May’s.

Peter’s stomach turned over.

Tony didn’t look his way. Didn’t say a word. He adjusted the cuff of his jacket, as if he’d only stepped out of a meeting instead of his fiancé’s guardian’s room, and walked toward the staircase. His footsteps were steady, unhurried, echoing down the hall until they faded.

Peter stood there, caught in that silence, until the soft click of May’s door settling back into its frame pulled him forward.

He crossed the hall, pulse quickening. His hand hovered at the knob for a second too long before he finally pushed it open and slipped inside.

Peter hesitated in the doorway, unsure what he was even bracing for. The sight before him was ordinary, painfully so. May, propped slightly against her pillows, the familiar chair pulled close to her bedside. The same chair he’d spent so many nights in.

Her head turned, and when her eyes found him, her whole face softened. A tired but genuine smile.

Peter crossed the room, trying not to betray the knot twisting in his stomach. His gaze darted over her. Checking without making it obvious. Was she comfortable? Was she in pain? Nothing seemed out of place.

“You’re okay?” he asked quietly, though it came out more like a confirmation than a question.

“I’m fine,” May assured, her smile lingering as if she hadn’t seen him in days instead of just hours.

Peter’s throat tightened. He forced himself to breathe, then said, “I… saw Tony coming out.”

May didn’t stiffen. She didn’t look surprised. She simply nodded. “Yes. He was here.”

That was it.

No explanation. No detail. No trace of the conversation that had happened while he wasn’t there.

Peter’s pulse quickened. His thoughts raced ahead of him, filling in blanks he didn’t want to fill. Why had Tony been here? What did they talk about? Had he told her? Had he told her everything? That the engagement was a lie, a performance, something Peter had only agreed to for her sake?

His lips parted, but no words came. If he asked, if he pressed, it would only raise suspicion. He couldn’t risk that.

So he just stood there, caught between relief that May looked well and the gnawing dread of not knowing what Tony had left behind in his absence.

Peter finally lowered himself into the chair at her side, the same place he’d occupied so many times before. Without a word, May reached for his hand, her fingers wrapping around his. He let her hold on, even squeezed back gently, the quiet between them both heavy and fragile.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the machines and May’s steady breathing. Peter tried to anchor himself in the rhythm, tried to stop his mind from spiraling back to Tony, to the door he had just closed behind him.

Then May’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, absent and tender. Her voice was soft when she broke the silence.

“He’s a good man.”

Peter froze. The words landed in a place he wasn’t prepared for, cutting through the haze of his thoughts. His head lifted before he even realized it, his eyes snapping to her face.

May’s gaze was calm, warm, as if she’d been waiting to say it. “I’m so happy for you.”

Peter’s chest tightened. He swallowed hard, but no reply came. The weight of what she believed pressed down on him.The lie, the act, the thing he couldn’t take back.

Every word echoed in Peter’s mind, cutting through him like a blade. I’m so happy for you.

Happy. For him.

But what Peter felt wasn’t happiness. There was a strange weight in his chest. Seeing the light in May’s eyes made his heart clench. He had dreamed of seeing her like this. Relieved, peaceful, happy. But this happiness was built on a lie.

What did he tell her? he wondered. When Tony had left the room, his face had been unreadable, but Peter knew every word from his mouth was heavy, deliberate, persuasive. If May looked this assured and calm beside him, then Tony must have told her everything.

But what part of everything?

Had he spoken about the contract? The sham engagement? The reality of the baby? The fact that Peter’s consent had never really mattered? Or had he twisted the truth the way he always did, presenting only the pieces that would be accepted, the parts that sounded right?

His throat tightened. He even deceived her.

For a moment, Peter wanted to let go of her hand, to pull away. But he couldn’t. May’s palm was warm, tired but steady. She was his only anchor.

And then Peter realized… the web of lies didn’t just entangle him anymore. It had pulled May in as well. Keeping the truth hidden—for her health, for her peace—had become a necessity. Tony’s cold, logical plan had finally dragged everyone into its orbit.

And that’s when it struck him.

He wasn’t just trapped in Tony’s plan anymore. He was part of it.

By staying quiet, by not correcting May, by letting her believe in the image Tony had painted, Peter was complicit. He hated the thought. He hated how it sat in his chest like a weight, pressing harder every time May’s smile widened.

But what choice did he have? If he tore it all down now, if he confessed that none of it was real, that the engagement was just a deal, that the baby wasn’t a miracle but a consequence of manipulation. He would crush her. He would steal away the very thing she had just regained: peace.

So he stayed silent.

May’s fingers squeezed his, soft but certain. “You deserve this, Peter. Someone who takes care of you. Someone who stands by your side.”

Her words burned. They weren’t true. They were built on lies. But Peter forced himself to nod, to give her the answer she wanted, not the truth clawing inside him.

In that moment, he understood: the lies weren’t just Tony’s anymore. They were his too. And every day that passed, the line between his silence and Tony’s manipulation blurred until Peter couldn’t tell whose web he was really caught in.

Peter forced a small, bitter smile onto his face, hiding the storm of guilt and confusion behind it. He squeezed May’s hand one last time, letting her feel calm and reassured.

Without another word, he stood, careful not to disturb her, and quietly exited the room. The door closed softly behind him, leaving him alone with the weight of all the lies he now carried. And the knowledge that he could never undo them.

Peter headed toward the back door to get some fresh air. As he descended the stairs, a single thought occupied his mind: some clean air and a moment to gather himself. 

As he approached the door, movement inside caught his attention. Peeking from the edge, he saw Tony. Beside him were two people, one man and one woman, holding folders and talking with a focused yet lively energy.

Peter froze for a moment. He couldn’t immediately tell who they werel. At that instant, he halted and tried to remain unseen at the corner of the doorway. He forced himself not to step inside, feeling as if he might be intruding.

His eyes were drawn to Tony’s calm and controlled posture. The way the planners held their folders, the details in their discussion. It all meant nothing to Peter, or perhaps he didn’t want it to. 

Deep down, he felt a mix of curiosity and tension; he had no way of knowing what they were doing or what Tony was saying to them.

Peter momentarily forgot about stepping outside. He simply stood there, silent, trying to remain invisible.

Peter’s gaze met Tony’s across the room. Tony rose from his seat, a practiced, polite smile on his face. One of those expressions that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah, my fiancé is here,” he said, extending his hand slightly, a subtle invitation for Peter to step further inside.

Peter hesitated for a brief moment, fully aware that in front of these people he had to maintain the role of the cheerful, composed fiancé. He took a careful step forward, his posture composed despite the swirl of tension inside him.

As he moved further into the room, the woman and man also stood. They offered their hands in greeting, each handshake formal yet friendly. Peter nodded and shook their hands, keeping his expression neutral, careful not to let any of his inner conflict slip through.

Every gesture was a performance, every smile a mask, yet beneath it all, his thoughts raced, measuring Tony’s words, their shared history, and the complex web they were forced to navigate. All while standing in this artificially cheerful scene.

Just as Peter was about to lower himself into the couch beside Tony, he felt a hand settle against the small of his back. Tony’s hand. The touch was light, almost casual, yet enough to remind him of the role he had to play.

They all sat down together, the atmosphere settling into something faintly formal. Tony leaned back with that practiced ease of his, his voice smooth and confident as he addressed the couple across from them.

“These are our wedding planners,” he explained, his tone carrying just the right amount of warmth and certainty, as if every detail had been carefully planned all along.

Peter kept his eyes on the carpet for a moment, the weight of Tony’s hand lingering in his mind long after it had left his back.

Tony’s hand slid deliberately into his, fingers intertwining with practiced ease. The gesture startled him for just a second. Too intimate, too grounding. But it was also a sharp reminder: the role.

Peter forced the corners of his mouth upward, slipping back into the mask they both knew so well. His expression warmed, almost eager, the picture of a young fiancé caught up in the excitement of wedding plans.

Right across the planners seemed pleased with the display, their smiles widening as if reassured that they were witnessing a couple deeply in love.

One of the planners leaned forward, clasping her hands together with a practiced kind of enthusiasm.

“This wedding is going to be the talk of the year,” she said brightly. “We’re prepared to make sure everything is perfect. Only the very best for the two of you.”

Peter froze for a fraction of a second, his mind blank. His smile didn’t falter, though; he kept it fixed, polite and agreeable, the way he’d learned to in front of strangers. Words felt dangerous. One wrong slip, and everything would unravel.

So he simply nodded, let out a small, uncertain laugh, and glanced at Tony. As always, Tony was the one who carried the conversation effortlessly, his voice smooth and commanding, filling every silence Peter couldn’t. Peter sank back against the cushions, fingers still caught in Tony’s, doing what he did best lately. Pretending.

The planners’ voices flowed in waves. Bright, enthusiastic, rehearsed.

“Summer weddings tend to favor lighter color palettes,” the woman was saying, flipping through a glossy binder. “But with a late-August date, you could lean into warmer tones. Gold accents, deep oranges, even a burgundy if you want contrast. Very striking in photographs.”

Her partner leaned forward, pointing at a different page. “Or, of course, you could keep it classic. White roses, ivory table linens, string lights for the reception. Timeless. No one ever regrets timeless.”

Peter nodded as though he was listening. He wasn’t.

The planners talked endlessly, their voices weaving through locations, color palettes, seasonal flowers, seating charts, lighting choices. One after another, piling on top of each other. It all blurred together for Peter. Every detail sounded at once the same and impossibly different, like a list of things that mattered to everyone but him. His role in the conversation dwindled down to a polite smile and the occasional “That sounds nice” whenever his opinion was asked.

All of it; the flowers, the fabrics, the lights… Blurred into one long thread of sound, words weaving together without meaning. He tried to pin them down, to hold onto something, but his focus slipped every time.

What truly occupied him wasn’t their words at all. It was Tony.

Tony’s hand had been on his from the moment they sat down, fingers threaded casually, almost carelessly, yet not at all. His thumb was moving, tracing across his knuckles, slow, unhurried, like it had all the time in the world.

A tiny stroke that Peter couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard he tried to keep his gaze on the planners. Tony looked perfectly absorbed in the meeting, charming and focused, as though he wasn’t silently undoing Peter’s composure with the smallest touches.

“And for venues,” the woman continued, “there are three we’d recommend. The gardens at the Southampton estate, if you want something open-air. A beachfront property in Montauk, very secluded, very elegant. Or, of course, Stark Tower itself. Modern, metropolitan, but still grand. People would remember that.”

Peter swallowed. “That… sounds nice.”

The words came out hollow, automatic. He didn’t even know which option he was agreeing to. His smile felt glued in place.

Tony hadn’t said a word, but Peter could sense him. Solid, present, every shift of his body impossible to ignore. When Tony finally leaned back, breaking their joined hands, Peter thought, naively, that it was over. That maybe he’d be able to listen again.

Relief came quickly and disappeared just as fast. A moment later, he felt fingers ghosting along the line of his spine, slow, deliberate, hidden from view.The pressure against his back. Subtle at first, fingertips grazing the curve of his spine. The warmth seared through the thin fabric of his tshirt, and Peter’s thoughts scrambled. He shifted, trying to disguise the way his shoulders stiffened, but Tony didn’t stop.

Peter’s shoulders went rigid, but Tony kept on, an absent stroke like he wasn’t even aware of what he was doing. Except he was. He had to be.

“And for catering,” the male planner was saying now, flipping open another folder, “you’ll want to decide between plated or buffet-style. Buffet can feel casual, but plated—”

Peter’s skin burned. He shifted on the couch, hoping to shake the sensation away, but Tony only drew slow circles between his shoulder blades. It was maddening. He couldn’t hear the words anymore, just tones, meaningless syllables wrapping around him while every nerve in his body tuned itself to the weight of Tony’s touch.

“And the music,” the woman chimed in. “Live band, or DJ? Or both. Many couples choose both. Band for the ceremony, DJ for the reception—”

And when Peter sank back into the couch himself, hoping to ground his racing mind, it only got worse. Tony’s hand slipped even lower. Over his thigh this time, fingertips brushing just above his knee. He froze. His pulse thundered.

He didn’t move, didn’t dare, not with two strangers sitting across from them, smiling brightly, believing in the performance. He couldn’t look at Tony. He couldn’t let himself.

Tony’s hand slipped lower, without warning, they drifted inward. His breath caught, and for a moment he thought he might actually gasp. Instead, he forced another smile, thin and shaky, pretending to study the planners’ binder as though he cared about fonts and color schemes. 

He couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t say anything. Not here. Not with people watching. So he sat frozen in place, smiling as if nothing at all was happening, while Tony orchestrated every second of the meeting as though this were perfectly normal.

By the time the meeting ended, nothing concrete had been decided. No venues booked, no menu chosen, no music settled on. 

The planners didn’t seem worried. “That’s perfectly normal,” they assured, closing their folders. “Most couples don’t make decisions in the first session. You’ve got plenty of time.”

Peter only nodded again, heart still pounding. He didn’t believe them.

Chapter Text

It was mid-March, the kind of month that felt suspended between winter’s last chill and spring’s quiet promises. On paper, the timeline looked deceptively simple: the baby would arrive in June, the wedding in August. 

Just words and dates inked on calendars, marked on planners, spoken aloud in hushed conversations with strangers in designer suits. But to Peter, each passing day felt heavy, stretched thin, as though time itself was deliberately slowing to remind him of what waited at the end of it.

Dinners blurred into long evenings with wedding planners, endless decisions about flowers, colors, venues. None of which Peter cared for or even remembered after they were said. He nodded, smiled, and let Tony’s voice fill the room, playing his part whenever an expectant pair of eyes turned toward him. 

“Beautiful,” he would say, or “That sounds perfect,” though the words left his mouth hollow. More than once, he caught himself staring not at the binders of ideas or the vision boards, but at Tony’s hand curled loosely around his, thumb brushing over his skin as if absentmindedly. It was the only thing that felt real, and therefore the most distracting.

Meanwhile, the baby remained a carefully guarded secret. Outside their walls, the world only saw a headline-perfect engagement between a billionaire and his too-young fiancé. Inside, Peter could feel the weight of the lie pressing down harder with each week, the unspoken truth threading through every smile, every staged photograph. The thought that May —sweet, recovering May— had been given the same story made his stomach twist in ways he couldn’t voice.

University, at least, offered the illusion of normalcy. Peter went to lectures, studied in the library, chatted briefly with classmates about exams and projects. He sat in crowded lecture halls, scribbling notes and pretending the conversations around him mattered. But it was different now. 

No Tony dropping him off, no warm banter in the car. Instead, it was the chauffeur, polite but watchful, a reminder that he was being observed every moment. It wasn’t freedom. It was a spotlight he couldn’t escape, one that left him prickling with discomfort as if eyes followed him even after he stepped out onto campus grounds.

May’s recovery brought a fragile hope into the house. Weeks of physical therapy allowed her to slowly move on her own again, her body adjusting after months of stillness. The first time she walked across the room without help, Peter nearly cried, though he swallowed it down and smiled instead. 

Tony had tried to arrange for her a new apartment, something closer to her therapy center, something he thought would be easier for her. But May, stubborn as ever, refused. She wanted her old home back, the place she’d shared with Peter before everything spun into chaos. And so she returned to it, leaving Peter with the stark realization of just how large and quiet the new house felt when it was only him inside.

The loneliness crept in at odd hours. Late at night, early in the morning, between classes. He would step into the master bedroom and be struck again by the emptiness. Tony’s things weren’t there anymore; they hadn’t been for weeks. The room that once smelled faintly of cologne and expensive coffee now smelled only of detergent and stillness. 

Tony slept in one of the guest rooms, tucked away in some other corner of the house, his presence reduced to distant footsteps in the hallway or the faint hum of his voice through a closed door.

And so the weeks bled into months. March became April, April edged into May, and every date on the calendar drew them closer to something Peter could neither stop nor prepare himself for. 

Some mornings he woke with his chest tight, not from nightmares but from the silence itself. Other nights he would sit awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how a house full of people, of staff, of schedules and plans, could still feel so impossibly empty.

And at last, the thing he had been dreading arrived.

He had known all along that it would be June 4th. Tony had told him weeks ago, matter-of-factly, as if penciling it onto a calendar made it more manageable. But Peter had ignored it, shoved the thought into the farthest corner of his mind, pretending the day didn’t exist. Pretending it would somehow never come.

He had never gone back to the hospital after that first time. Not once. He told himself it was easier that way, cleaner, less painful. But in truth, the thought of it made his chest tighten, made his stomach twist with something ugly and sharp. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look at the baby again and feel all those things, things he had no right to feel, rise up inside him.

Tony, on the other hand, went often. Peter was sure of it. Tony never said it outright, but Peter could tell. Sometimes, in passing, when they crossed paths at the house, Tony would casually offer, “I’m heading to the hospital. You want to come?” The question always delivered with that light, almost careless tone, as if Tony didn’t care one way or the other. But Peter knew better. And every time, he’d refused, muttered something about schoolwork or being tired.

Even the chauffeur knew. On certain mornings, after class, the driver would glance at him in the rearview mirror and ask if he’d like to be dropped at the hospital with Mr. Stark. The words alone made Peter’s pulse spike, his palms sweat. He always shook his head quickly, voice tight, and asked to go straight home.

He didn’t know how often Tony went, but he could guess. Tony had never been a man to do things halfway. And if he had decided to show up for that baby, then Peter knew he was there as often as time allowed. The thought left him unsettled, restless. Not because he doubted Tony’s intentions, but because he couldn’t stop imagining what it looked like. Tony sitting beside the pod, talking in that low voice of his, maybe even smiling.

And now June 4th was here. The date he had shoved away for months. The date that had arrived anyway, whether he was ready or not.

The ride to the hospital felt longer than it should have been. The air in the car was thick, heavy with everything left unsaid. Peter sat stiffly against the door, his backpack at his feet, watching the blur of the city roll by. 

Beside him, Tony was silent too. No music, no witty remarks, not even the distraction of a phone in his hand. Just silence. A silence that pressed against Peter’s chest until every breath felt measured.

By the time they arrived, Peter’s nerves were strung so tight that even the fluorescent lights of the hospital seemed too bright, too harsh. He followed Tony through the automatic doors, their footsteps echoing in unison but feeling worlds apart.

Bruce was already there, tucked away in the lab with the other doctors, handling the details Peter didn’t dare ask about. That left Peter and Tony in the corridor outside, a long stretch of white walls and rows of hard-backed chairs.

Peter sat down, his knees bouncing despite himself. He tried to appear calm, tried to force his body into stillness, but his fingers wouldn’t stop tapping against his leg. Every time a nurse passed, every time a door opened down the hall, his chest clenched as though it might be the moment.

Tony didn’t sit. He moved. Back and forth, from one end of the corridor to the other, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Every few steps he’d stop, glance toward the lab doors, then resume pacing. His jaw was tight, his shoulders set, but the rhythm of his steps betrayed him. Faster on the return, slower when he turned again.

Peter’s eyes followed him once, then quickly dropped to the floor. The movement only made his own restlessness worse. At least Peter could pretend, sitting there. At least he could trick himself into thinking he wasn’t unraveling inside. Tony didn’t even try. He wore his tension openly, like armor made of impatience and worry.

Neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the hum of the hospital around them. And somehow, that silence said more than any words could.

Peter sat stiffly in the chair, eyes fixed on the pale linoleum floor, but he wasn’t really seeing it. The corridor felt too bright, too white, too endless. The fluorescent buzz above his head dug into his skull, each hum louder than the last. The sterile smell of antiseptic clung to his lungs, and suddenly he was sixteen again. Trapped, helpless, watching machines beep while May lay motionless.

His chest grew tight. He tried to swallow, but his throat refused to cooperate. His hands trembled where they rested on his knees, then curled into fists, then back again. The walls seemed closer than they were a moment ago. The weight in his chest pressed harder, faster.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But the harder he tried, the less air seemed to make it through.

He didn’t even notice when his shoulders hunched forward, when his elbows dug into his thighs. All he could do was bury his face in his palms, shutting it all out, hoping darkness might be easier than the unbearable brightness pressing in. A raw sting built behind his eyes. He clenched his jaw against it, but it wasn’t enough. His breath hitched, shallow and unsteady.

From the edge of his vision, movement stopped. The measured footsteps pacing the corridor went silent. Then there was a shadow, close, too close.

Peter flinched when warmth ghosted over his hands. Strong fingers closed gently around his wrists, not forcing, just steady. And then, slowly, deliberately, Tony drew his hands down from his face.

Peter blinked hard against the sting, lashes wet. He hadn’t realized how badly he was shaking until Tony’s hold steadied him.

When Tony’s hand slid upward, fingers brushing through his hair, Peter’s breath stuttered again. But this time for a different reason. The touch was light, grounding, coaxing his head to lift.

And when he did, Tony was already there, crouched in front of him, close enough that Peter could see the faint lines etched by sleepless nights, the tired steadiness in his eyes. No words, no sarcastic bite. Just silent, unwavering presence.

For a beat, the corridor existed only in the sound of Peter’s shaky breaths and the quiet steadiness of Tony’s presence in front of him. Neither of them moved. Neither spoke.

Then soft footsteps broke the fragile silence. A nurse appeared at the end of the hallway, her shoes clicking lightly against the floor. She paused when she saw them. Tony crouched in front of Peter, Peter still half-folded in on himself, his hands loosely caught between Tony’s.

Her voice, though gentle, cut through the air like glass shattering. “Mr. Stark? They’re ready for you.”

Tony’s head turned just slightly, his eyes flicking to her with that professional, unreadable mask Peter had seen a hundred times before. The shift was so fast it was almost jarring. One second grounding, the next composed, as if nothing had happened.

He let go of Peter’s hands with deliberate care, as though prying himself loose without leaving marks. Then he straightened, smoothing down his jacket, the faintest sigh escaping before he tucked it away behind his usual steel.

The nurse waited.

Peter blinked at the floor, chest still tight, trying to convince himself he hadn’t imagined the last thirty seconds.

Tony didn’t follow the nurse right away. Instead, he hesitated. Something rare enough on its own. His hand lingered at his side, flexing once as though he were weighing the choice. Then, almost casually, he glanced back at Peter.

“Come on, kid,” he said quietly. Not sharp, not commanding. Just… steady.

Peter’s head shot up, his stomach tightening. For a moment he thought he’d misheard. “What?”

Tony met his eyes, expression unreadable but firm. “You should be there too.”

The nurse looked uncertain, clearly not expecting to guide in two people, but she didn’t protest. She only nodded once and stepped back to lead the way.

Peter’s heart pounded against his ribs. His first instinct was to refuse. To stay rooted to the plastic chair and let Tony walk away, to avoid the room at all costs. He wasn’t supposed to be part of this. Not really. And yet…

His legs carried him up before his brain could talk him out of it.

They followed the nurse down the hall, Tony a step ahead, Peter a little behind. Every stride felt heavier, as if the walls themselves pressed closer the nearer they got. The faint sounds. Machines, hushed voices, the soft cry of a newborn somewhere, made Peter’s chest tighten all over again.

The nurse opened the door gently, ushering them in.

Peter froze on the threshold.

The room wasn’t like the sterile hospital corridors he remembered. It was softer, quieter. In the center, Bruce was there, carefully checking monitors with the steady patience only he could manage. And then..there, against white blankets and pale walls, was the source of every knot in Peter’s chest.

A tiny bundle, impossibly small, wrapped in fabric too big for it, with the faintest sound of breathing.

The baby.

Peter’s throat went dry.

Tony had already moved closer, his frame blocking part of Peter’s view. For a second, Peter thought he’d been forgotten again, that Tony would take the whole moment for himself, as always. But then Tony glanced over his shoulder, just once, and his voice dropped to something almost foreign.

“…Come closer.”

Peter hesitated, his body stiff, yet his feet carried him a small step closer. Not all the way, but enough to shrink the distance between him and Tony, enough to let him glimpse the tiny life resting in the blankets. His chest tightened with each shallow breath.

Tony crouched slightly, keeping one hand near the baby and the other brushing a stray lock of hair from his own forehead. His voice was soft but carried that familiar edge of mischief.

“Look at him,” Tony said, nodding toward the infant. “He’s got your eyes.”

Peter blinked, a laugh threatening to escape. But it caught in his throat. He shook his head. “You’re joking,” he said, though part of him already felt that it wasn’t entirely a joke.

Tony’s gaze met his, steady and unflinching. “I’m not. Look closer. Tell me you don’t see it.”

Peter leaned slightly, careful, almost afraid to fully commit. The baby’s tiny face was serene under the hospital lights. For the briefest moment, his mind faltered. Was it really him in those small features? He caught himself staring a fraction too long, then jerked his gaze back to Tony, as if admitting the resemblance would somehow be dangerous.

“I… maybe,” he murmured, almost to himself, uncertainty threading his voice.

Tony only smiled, that mix of warmth and teasing that could disarm him completely, and Peter felt the strange tug of both worry and awe. He was here, and yet everything about the situation —the responsibility, the surprise, the raw emotions— kept him tethered between fascination and fear.

Peter was slowly shifting his weight onto his heels, weighing the words he was about to speak. He was preparing to say something sincere; perhaps he would confess his genuine feelings to Tony.

Just then, the door swung open from behind, abruptly. Peter flinched, his gaze snapping away from the baby. Stepping into the room… Howard Stark. Peter’s eyes widened; he hadn’t expected him to be here.

Tony’s eyes sharpened, stern and warning. But Howard, in his usual unconcerned manner, walked in without glancing at the tension, hands in his pockets, as if the charged atmosphere hadn’t even existed.

Chapter Text

Peter’s chest tightened as if the air had thickened around him. He couldn’t move at first, just stood there frozen, eyes flicking between Tony and the man who had just entered. Howard Stark.

Hands in his pockets, his stride slow and deliberate, Howard carried himself as if he owned not just the room but every person inside it. The weight of his presence pressed down on Peter’s chest like a stone.

And then Howard spoke, his tone calm, approving, the words slicing through the silence, “I knew this was a good idea.”

Peter’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t even fully understand why those words hit him so hard, but suddenly everything clicked into place. The wedding, the baby, the suffocating role he had been shoved into. It wasn’t just Tony’s plan. It wasn’t even really Tony’s choice.

It was Howard’s.

Peter’s gaze snapped back to Tony. He searched his face for denial, for resistance, for anything that might prove him wrong. But Tony didn’t speak. His jaw was tight, his eyes sharp, but there was nothing. No protest, no rejection, no defense.

And that silence was louder than Howard’s words.

Peter felt something hot flare in his chest. Anger, betrayal, disappointment, all tangled together. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out every other sound. He wanted Tony to say something, anything, to push back. But Tony stood still.

Howard, meanwhile, was watching them both with a look Peter couldn’t stand. Pride. A faint, satisfied smile curved his lips, as if this entire scene was a testament to his control. As if he knew exactly what Peter was realizing in this moment. And he was proud of it.

Peter’s stomach turned. Howard wasn’t just aware of the game. He was enjoying it. He knew that between them, something fragile had been shattered, and he was smiling like it was exactly what he wanted.

Peter’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. He could feel the burn of betrayal eating at him, sharp and undeniable. It was never about me. He was never choosing me. He was always choosing him.

His eyes locked on Tony’s once more, pleading, demanding, Do something. Say something.
But Tony’s silence stretched on, unbearable, deafening.

Tony… Tony had let it happen.

Peter’s pulse pounded in his ears, a deafening rhythm that matched the chaos in his chest. His mind screamed for something to say, something to do, but his body made the decision before he did. His hand slid back, fingers brushing wood until they curled tightly around the edge of the crib.

The baby shifted, a soft sound leaving his tiny mouth. Peter froze, staring down at the boy’s fragile face. For weeks he had forced himself to feel nothing, to see nothing, to build walls around every thought of him. But now, those walls cracked wide open.

This was a child brought into the world under someone else’s control, someone else’s agenda. A boy who would grow up with a shadow already hanging over him.

Not if I can help it.

The thought surged through Peter with the force of instinct, raw and unfiltered. His chest burned with it. Protectiveness. Anger. Fear. Love. All tangled together until it was unbearable.

Howard’s voice kept droning in the background, words dripping with self-satisfaction. Peter barely heard them. His gaze lifted, locking on Tony. He didn’t look at Howard. He couldn’t. His focus was pinned to the man who had allowed this, the man who hadn’t fought back.

Tony’s face was drawn tight, unreadable, but Peter saw it now. Saw the hesitation, the silence, the weight of obedience. The truth hit him harder than any blow ever could.

And the words fell out, low, raw, more a cut than a confession,

“You’re just like your father.”

The room stilled. The words hung in the air, heavy as iron, impossible to take back.

Howard’s smile widened, as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along. Tony’s face flickered. Shock, denial, pain, something darker. All gone in an instant, smoothed into practiced neutrality.

But Peter saw it. He saw all of it.

His grip on the crib tightened, knuckles white. He had no plan, no escape, just the crushing realization that everything he thought he was fighting against had already won.

A slow heat rose in Peter’s chest and then steadied into cold resolve. He swallowed once, the movement loud in the small room, and let the feeling settle into words.

“This is his life,” he said, voice low but steady. He didn’t shout; he didn’t need to. The room angled toward him as if the air itself had turned to listen. “He has my blood in him. I will not let anything happen.”

Howard’s smile didn’t falter. At least not immediately. “Is that meant to be a threat, kid?” he drawled, amused, as if this were a recital and not a reckoning.

Peter’s laugh was humorless. “Not a threat.” He stepped closer, not so near that he intruded on the baby’s space, but close enough that the small boy’s profile filled his vision. “A promise. I will not let you—” he looked at Howard, then at Tony, the address widening to include them both, “—use him. I won’t let you make his life into your proof or your showpiece. You don’t get to decide what he becomes because you paid for the lab or because you can sign a check.”

Howard’s mouth tightened, amusement cracking into irritation.

Tony’s eyes were on Peter now, and for the first time there was no calm armor to hide behind. Only a fragile, pained tension. He opened his mouth once, as if to deny it, to say that Peter did not understand, that things were more complicated, that he had reasons. But the sound never came. His lips pressed together, then quivered, and he looked away.

Peter had expected resistance. An argument, legal threats, a scoffing dismissal. Instead, Howard’s face grew colder; for the first time his smile seemed forced. He straightened, hands going deeper into his pockets, and said in a tone stripped of its earlier casualness, “You’re getting dramatic, Peter.”

“No,” Peter replied. The word was small and absolute. He felt as if some switch had been thrown inside him; the boy’s breath under the blanket was the clearest bell, and it called something primal and immovable in him. “I’m being honest. This is his life. He’s not an object. He’s not leverage. If you think you can reorder him like a ledger entry, you’re wrong.”

There was a long, small silence, the kind that stretches and becomes dense. 

Howard’s jaw worked. He opened his mouth, closed it. For a beat he looked like a man considering whether to flatten the protest with ridicule or to meet it for what it was. Then he laughed. Too bright, too quick. “How touching,” he said, the edge in it unmistakable. “Suddenly we’re all sentimental.”

Peter did not back down. His hand remained on the crib, as if anchored there. He felt the heat of it under his palm spread into his forearm, settle into his bones.

“This isn’t sentiment,” he said. “It’s responsibility. I didn’t plan any of this. I didn’t sign up for whatever you’ve decided this should be. But I will not stand by while you turn his life into an exhibit. Not for you, not for anyone.”

Tony’s shoulders moved as if he were fighting a physical restraining force. His voice finally came. Small, raw, lacking the barbed polish it usually carried. “Peter—” he began.

Peter held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it,” he said. “Save whatever words you have for later. Right now, I’m telling you: you are not writing his fate. Do you hear me?” The question wasn’t rhetorical. It landed between them like a challenge.

Tony’s face crumpled for a fraction of a second, the mask slipping to show exhaustion and something like shame. He looked to Howard, then at Peter, and then down at the infant with a complexity Peter couldn’t read.

Howard, finally regaining composure, inclined his head slightly, not in concession but in calculation. “We’ll talk about this,” he said. “Later.”

Peter let the words hang in the air, felt the heat of anger and fear and fierce protectiveness churn. He leaned closer, lowering his voice so the room could not miss the promise he was making. For the baby, for himself. “There is no later, Mr. Stark. This boy’s life is not yours to gamble with in the meantime.”

The room shifted again: no shouted blows, no immediate resolution. Just the aftershock of Peter’s certainty, the sound of the world rearranging itself around an unplanned, irrevocable truth.

He stood there with his hand on the crib, feeling the weight of it—the pact, the vow—settle in. It was not a plan yet. It wasn’t a strategy. It was one human being staking a claim in the only honest way he knew how: by refusing to let someone else shape an innocent life for their own ends.

And in that silence, with the baby’s breath the metronome of the moment, Peter felt something change. The future was suddenly not entirely for Howard to map. It would be messy. It would be dangerous. But it was no longer only theirs.

Peter’s chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, the echo of his words still vibrating in the air. You are not writing his fate. Do you hear me? The silence that followed pressed down heavier than any argument would have. No rebuttal, no scoffing dismissal. Just a wall of stillness that refused to crack.

He turned back toward the crib. The boy stirred faintly, lips pursing before falling slack again, small fists curling against the blanket. Peter let out a shaky exhale. His hand lingered near the edge of the crib, close enough to feel the warmth radiating upward. That tiny body seemed more real, more urgent than the two silent figures at his back.

He couldn’t bear to look at them right now. Not Howard’s satisfaction, not Tony’s silence. So he did the only thing that felt possible: he gave them his back. He angled his shoulders toward the infant, every muscle screaming with tension, but his voice low and even as he whispered down into the crib, “It’s okay. I’m here.”

The room shifted. A sound behind him; shoes scuffing against the floor, the subtle rustle of fabric. One pair of footsteps, then another. A door easing open. He didn’t turn. He couldn’t.

The door clicked shut.

For a moment he thought Howard must have left, retreating with that smug smile intact. He expected Tony to remain, maybe to defend himself or to argue, to say something. But the silence stretched, heavier now, and when Peter finally glanced over his shoulder, the space was empty.

Both of them were gone.

Peter blinked once, his throat tightening with something sharp and unexpected. The room felt impossibly large now, stripped of its tension, leaving only him and the fragile rhythm of a newborn’s breath. For the first time, he was alone with the baby. No calculated glances, no hovering expectations, no voices laying out futures like blueprints.

Just them.

Peter lowered himself into the chair beside the crib, the same feeling like the chair where he’d once sat by May’s bed through nights that never seemed to end. The wood creaked softly under his weight. His fingers reached out, trembling slightly, brushing the edge of the blanket.

“It’s just us now,” he murmured. The words surprised him. They weren’t planned, weren’t filtered. They spilled out of the knot in his chest, quiet but certain.

The baby stirred again, eyes fluttering but not opening. The smallest sound, a sigh, filled the air between them.

Peter let out his own breath, slower this time, and leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees. The weight of everything. Howard’s schemes, Tony’s silence, the lies and arrangements. All of it pressed at the back of his skull. But here, now, none of that reached the small circle around the crib.

Here, he could believe for a fleeting moment that the only thing that mattered was keeping this tiny boy safe.

Chapter Text

Peter hadn’t realized how long he had been alone with the baby until the woman appeared. She moved with a practiced ease, as if she had been meant to be there all along. The way she held the infant, the confidence in her touch. It spoke of years, decades even, of experience. 

She mentioned, almost casually, that she had cared for the children of people Peter had only ever seen on the news, the kind of families whose names carried weight. That alone was enough to tell him Tony had chosen her. And once again, Peter was left to simply accept it.

Before he could fully process it, Peter found himself no longer at the mansion but in Central Park Tower. The shift had happened seamlessly, as if it had been inevitable. 

He hadn’t asked the driver why, hadn’t demanded to be taken elsewhere. Even if he had, he doubted it would have mattered. This was Tony’s decision. His word still carried more authority than Peter’s silence ever could.

What stunned him most wasn’t the move itself, but what awaited him inside. The baby’s room was already complete. Walls painted, a crib perfectly assembled, tiny clothes folded neatly in drawers, even toys waiting as though someone had predicted every need before it arose. 

It was flawless, too flawless, put together in the span of hours while Peter was still standing in that sterile hospital corridor. He had no idea how Tony managed it all so quickly. Maybe he didn’t want to know.

All Peter knew was that, once again, the ground had shifted beneath his feet. He was living in a world arranged for him, not with him. And every time he tried to find steady footing, he was reminded that he hadn’t been asked, only placed.

The baby had long since fallen asleep, his soft breathing the only sound in the quiet room. But Peter lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the glow of the city bleeding faintly through the curtains. 

He didn’t know what exactly he was waiting for. A call, maybe. A knock on the door. Some sign that Tony would show up, or at least acknowledge what had happened today. But the silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, and the minutes spilled into hours.

Earlier in the evening, Peter had finally noticed it. His things. Not just his backpack or the usual clothes he carried around, but real belongings. Books, pieces of tech he tinkered with, old hoodies he thought were still in his closet at the mansion. 

All of it had somehow been moved here, arranged neatly as if it had always belonged. He hadn’t even noticed the quiet relocation until he reached for something familiar and realized it was already waiting for him.

At first, he tried to convince himself it was thoughtful. He had once said, weeks ago, that he preferred this apartment to the echoing halls of the mansion. It had felt smaller, warmer, closer to the world he actually knew. Maybe Tony had remembered that. Maybe that was why he had chosen this place. 

For a flicker of a second, Peter almost let himself believe it, that Tony had done this because he cared about what Peter wanted. That he had been paying attention. That there was still something almost… caring about the gesture.

But the thought didn’t last. He shoved it away, refusing to hold onto it. Because if Tony had really cared, if this had been about Peter, then Tony would be here too.

Instead, the apartment was spotless, prepared, stocked for the baby and for Peter. And yet, nothing of Tony’s. 

No scattered papers, no clothes in the closet, no half-finished gadgets lying around like he always left at the mansion. This place wasn’t shared. It wasn’t home for both of them. It was a place Tony had prepared for them, Peter and the baby, while deliberately leaving himself out of it.

The realization sank in slowly, heavy like a stone at the bottom of his chest.

He’s pushing us out of his life.

The thought repeated itself like a pulse. With every glance around the too-perfect apartment, Peter only saw proof of it. This wasn’t Tony making space for them. This was Tony creating distance, drawing a line, keeping himself free of the mess he had left Peter holding.

More than once, Peter picked up his phone. His thumb hovered over Tony’s name in his contacts, the screen bright in the dim room. He thought about calling, about demanding an explanation, about asking if he was ever going to show up. 

He even typed out a message once, “Are you coming tonight?”, but he erased it before hitting send. Because he already knew the answer.

So instead, he stayed awake, staring into the dark, listening to the baby’s breathing, waiting for something that would never come.

The days blurred together in the apartment, each one spilling into the next without much to distinguish them. Peter woke, he fed the baby when the timing lined up, he watched the old woman—calm, practiced, efficient—handle everything else with an ease that made him feel clumsy in comparison.

Most of the time, the baby didn’t do much at all. A soft cry here, a tiny stretch there, his hands curling and uncurling like he was still trying to understand they were his. 

The rest was sleep, long stretches of silence broken only by the occasional whimper or restless shifting. For hours at a time, the baby might as well have been part of the furniture, so still and small that Peter sometimes caught himself staring just to make sure he was breathing.

Doctors came and went in quiet rotations, checking vitals, weighing, scribbling notes on clipboards. They smiled politely at Peter, spoke directly to the nanny, and left just as quickly. It struck him how routine it all felt to them. 

This fragile, monumental thing in his life was, to them, only another stop in their day.

No one else visited. No friends, no family, not even Tony. The apartment felt sealed off, high above the city but removed from it entirely, as if they were tucked away in a glass box. 

Central Park Tower was tall, gleaming, impenetrable. Yet inside, Peter felt small, restless, and increasingly isolated.

He didn’t go out. He told himself it was because the baby couldn’t, not yet, not safely. But the truth was that he didn’t feel like he could either. 

What was out there, anyway? Library? His classmates who thought he was spending his summer somewhere normal? Oh wait, no. Of course they’re thinking he is so busy planning his “extravagant” wedding.

The world kept moving, but Peter sat still, pinned to the apartment by the weight of responsibility that wasn’t even fully his.

Sometimes he tried to help more than the nanny let him. He’d reach for the bottles, or try to rock the baby when he fussed. She’d allow it, patient and polite, but always eventually step in, smoothing over what he had done clumsily, setting things right. 

Her years of experience were obvious in everything she touched. She never made him feel unwelcome, but Peter couldn’t shake the gnawing sense that he was unnecessary. That she could manage just fine without him.

The hours stretched on, long and uneventful. Peter sat, he watched, he thought. Too much, maybe.

The baby didn’t laugh. Didn’t recognize him yet. Didn’t give him the kind of moments he kept hoping for. Some sign that he mattered in this new life. And Tony, Tony didn’t come.

So the days stacked one atop the other like a weight pressing down. Quiet, uneventful, suffocating.

It was past three, maybe closer to four, when Peter gave up pretending he might fall asleep. The apartment was quiet, too quiet. The kind of silence that made every small sound echo, the hum of the refrigerator down the hall, the faint rustle of the city outside.

The nanny was asleep, the baby was asleep. Even the machines that sometimes clicked or buzzed during the day were stilled.

Peter hadn’t told her, or the doctors who dropped in every now and then, that he hadn’t slept properly in days. He didn’t want the worried looks, didn’t want the questions. “I’m fine” was easier. Always easier.

Now he found himself on the staircase landing between the second and first floors, his back against the wall, knees bent, arms folded over them. The glass wall stretched up the side of the tower, a floor-to-ceiling sheet that turned the whole corner into a panoramic view of the city below.

New York glittered beneath him like a field of broken stars, headlights weaving through darkened avenues, skyscrapers pulsing faintly against the horizon. He watched the lights shift and thought about how far away everything felt. 

Even though the city was right there. Loud, alive, impossibly close. He was sealed off from it, cocooned in steel and glass.

He pressed his forehead against his arm, then turned to look again. The view didn’t change, but something about it always made him pause. 

Maybe it was the way the city never stopped moving while he sat frozen. Maybe it was the reminder that he wasn’t out there anymore. That his life was here now, in these quiet, airless rooms, with a baby who didn’t know his name and a man who wasn’t showing up.

The night stretched thin. Every minute felt doubled, then doubled again. Peter sat there, eyes stinging from exhaustion, chest heavy with things he couldn’t untangle.

Peter’s gaze had been drifting aimlessly over the skyline, following the scatter of traffic like fireflies, when something tugged at his focus. Not the city. Closer.

He blinked, leaned just slightly toward the glass. Down below, one floor beneath him, the terrace stretched wide and dark. During the day it was almost blinding with light. Stone tiles gleaming, pale furniture scattered across the space, the city roaring just beyond the railings. But now, with the terrace lights off, it looked more like an abandoned stage.

Almost.

Because someone was standing there.

Peter stilled, breath caught before he realized. The figure wasn’t moving, wasn’t leaning on the railing, wasn’t doing much of anything. Just standing, back turned, shoulders squared against the faint outline of the city behind them. 

From his angle on the stair landing, Peter could see the full spread of the terrace, every chair and table empty. Except for that lone silhouette at the edge.

It wasn’t a trick of the shadows. He was sure.

Someone was there.

The longer he stared, the sharper the outline became: the line of a jacket caught in the faint city glow, the stillness of someone lost in their own head, completely unmoved by the cold or the hour.

A strange unease crawled up Peter’s spine.

It didn’t take him long to know.

The shape, the posture. It was Tony. Even from behind, Peter would have recognized him anywhere.

What sealed it, though, wasn’t his outline. It was the faint curl of smoke drifting upward, carried toward the night sky by the soft city breeze. White wisps, barely visible, and yet impossible to miss against the backdrop of glass and steel.

Peter’s stomach knotted.

He hadn’t seen Tony smoke in. God, had he ever seen him smoke? Maybe glimpses, jokes about it, stories muttered by people who’d known him longer. But here it was, undeniable. Cigarette burning low between his fingers, glow flaring every time he drew in a breath.

What unsettled Peter wasn’t just the sight. It was the thought: How long had he been there?

Had Tony slipped past while Peter was pacing his room upstairs? Had he been out there the whole night, alone on the terrace, waiting for nothing but the city to answer him? How many hours had passed before Peter even noticed?

The questions crowded Peter’s mind, but his body didn’t move.

He just… stayed.

Frozen at the top of the stairs, half in shadow, half in the dull reflection of the glass wall. Watching.

Tony didn’t turn. Didn’t look up, didn’t twitch at the sense of eyes on him. He was still as stone, save for the slow, almost mechanical rhythm of raising the cigarette to his lips, holding the smoke, then releasing it into the air like it meant nothing. Like he meant nothing.

Peter couldn’t look away. His chest tightened at the thought of how invisible Tony had managed to make himself. Slipping around, hiding right there in plain sight.

And all Peter could do was stand there, silently, watching the back of the man who had turned his whole life upside down.

Peter didn’t know how long he stood there. Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into what felt like hours. The only movement came from the slow lift of Tony’s hand, the faint glow of the cigarette, the smoke dissolving into the dark.

At some point, Peter realized he couldn’t keep watching from the shadows. His legs moved before his brain caught up, carrying him down the last set of stairs, toward the glass door that opened onto the terrace.

His hand touched the handle. Cold metal against a warm palm. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, his reflection staring back at him in the dark glass. Tired eyes, messy hair, a boy who wasn’t sure he belonged here at all.

And then he pulled.

The quiet click of the door unlocking sliced through the stillness. The heavy pane gave way with a soft push, spilling the muted hum of the city louder into the air.

Tony didn’t turn right away. He didn’t flinch. He just exhaled another trail of smoke, watching it vanish before finally shifting his head, just enough that Peter knew he’d been noticed.

The distance between them wasn’t much, a handful of steps, but it felt like a gulf. The night pressed down on both of them, the unspoken words hanging thicker than the smoke in the air.

Peter stood there at the threshold, his fingers tightening on the edge of the doorframe. For a moment, neither spoke. Neither moved. The silence stretched taut, aching, almost unbearable.

And then, without a word, Peter stepped fully onto the terrace.

The door eased shut behind him with a hollow thud, sealing them in together under the vast New York skyline.

Chapter Text

Peter stood frozen at the doorway, the faint outline of Tony’s back framed against the dark city sky. He should’ve turned around, gone back upstairs, pretended he hadn’t seen him.

But the sight of the small glass ashtray perched on the railing stopped him cold. It was full. Not one or two, but several crushed cigarette butts. 

Enough to tell Peter Tony had been out here for hours.

His chest tightened. Hours. Alone. Smoking one after another. How had he never noticed? How had Tony managed to vanish like this, right under his nose?

Before he could stop himself, Peter pushed the door fully open. The faint click broke the silence, but Tony didn’t turn around. The smoke curled upward in lazy ribbons, carried away by the wind.

Peter walked forward, slow but deliberate, his eyes flicking down at the small table by Tony’s side. The half-empty pack of cigarettes. A lighter resting beside it. Without a word, without asking, he reached out, took both, and turned away.

Tony’s posture shifted. Just slightly. Not surprise, not objection, but something sharper, unreadable. He didn’t say a thing.

Peter crossed to the lounge area, his steps heavy against the stone tiles. He dropped down onto the cushions, the night air biting at his skin. 

With shaky fingers, he slid a cigarette free from the pack, placed it between his lips, and flicked the lighter.

Nothing. The wind caught the flame immediately. He tried again. And again. 

The sparks flared, died, flared, died. Each tiny sound seemed to echo in the silence, more frustrating, more humiliating. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t give up.

The fourth time, he was almost snarling under his breath when a shadow fell across him. A hand reached down, smooth, steady, confident.

Tony plucked the cigarette from Peter’s mouth, as casually as if it had been his all along. He drew on his own, the tip glowing bright red, smoke curling from his lips. 

He slipped Peter’s cigarette back between his lips and brought the ember to its tip. For one brief second, Peter could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, could feel the heat of his breath mingling with the cold night air. 

Tony was exhaling smoke into the sky as though nothing had happened. Peter sat frozen, the lit cigarette trembling slightly between his fingers, his heart pounding loud enough to drown out the city below.

The smoke hit his throat like a sharp, acrid gust.  God, this is awful, he thought, waving his hand to clear the taste from his mouth. Why do people do this?

He tried again, a bit more carefully, the ember glowing stubbornly against the wind. Each inhalation burned, bitter and strange, but somehow… he kept going. 

Maybe it was the absurdity of being here on Tony’s terrace at three in the morning, watching the city stretch out below, or maybe it was the sheer need to do something, anything, that wasn’t just thinking.

Peter let the smoke curl around him, letting the moment stretch. He focused on the taste, the harshness, the unusual warmth that somehow steadied his nerves. 

For the first time in hours, he wasn’t thinking about the baby, or the earlier tension with Tony, or how their lives had twisted into this complicated mess. He was just… here.

And then, a shadow fell across him. A hand—firm, steady—plucked the cigarette from his lips. Peter froze, staring at Tony’s back silhouetted against the city lights.

Peter froze as Tony’s hand gently plucked the cigarette from his lips. Before he could react, Tony flicked his own spent cigarette into the ashtray on the low table in front of Peter’s chair, then took Peter’s cigarette between his fingers. 

With a practiced ease, he brought it to his lips and inhaled, the smoke curling up into the night air.

Peter’s chest tightened. Part of him wanted to scowl, to pull back and feel affronted at Tony’s intrusion, but another, quieter part of him felt a surge of relief. 

Relief that Tony was here. Relief that he was close. No actually, relief that he picked that up damn cigarette. It was awful. 

He clenched his jaw, forcing a sharp exhale of air through his nose, pretending to be annoyed while his eyes betrayed the truth: he was glad.

“That’s rudeness,” Peter muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His voice was low, almost too low, as though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be heard.

If Tony heard, he didn’t show it. He remained standing, half-turned toward the skyline, the city lights catching the lines of his face. He looked carved out of shadow and steel, his posture deceptively casual, one hand resting in his pocket, the other lifting the cigarette to his lips.

From where Peter sat, it almost felt like he wasn’t even part of Tony’s world. The man didn’t look at him, didn’t acknowledge him. He was just there, a figure against the endless sprawl of New York.

Peter leaned back in his chair, fingers tightening against the armrest. There were a thousand things he wanted to say. 

Accusations, confessions, demands. But every time a word pushed to the tip of his tongue, it crumbled. He had no idea where to begin.

Silence stretched, long and uncomfortable. Peter hated it, hated that he didn’t know how to break it, hated that Tony seemed so at ease with it.

Minutes dragged on in silence, each one heavier than the last. The city stretched endlessly before them, but neither spoke. Peter shifted once, then stilled again, unwilling to give away just how restless he felt.

Tony didn’t move. The glowing tip of his cigarette flared, dimmed, flared again. His only sign of life. He looked as though he could stay there forever, rooted in the quiet.

Peter clenched his jaw. He told himself he didn’t care if Tony never looked at him, never spoke to him. But the weight of the silence pressed down on him until it was almost unbearable.

And then, just when Peter had nearly convinced himself that no words would ever come, Tony’s voice cut through the night. Low, flat, stripped of anything warm:

“Get inside. It’s cold.”

No glance. No gesture. Just the words, tossed into the air like an afterthought.

Peter’s lips curved, though it wasn’t quite a smile. His voice, quiet but edged, slipped into the night.

“Look who’s saying.”

He didn’t even need to look at Tony to imagine the flicker of reaction. The way the words made it clear he knew. Hours. He knew Tony had been standing out there for hours.

For a moment, there was nothing. The city’s hum filled the silence, distant and uncaring. Peter almost thought Tony wouldn’t reply at all.

Then, low and clipped, the words came. Sharper than the wind.

“Get inside, Peter.”

Peter stayed frozen for a moment after Tony’s words cut the air. Get inside, Peter. The weight behind them pressed against his chest, and he wasn’t sure if it was anger or the urge to finally do something that made his pulse hammer so violently.

He shifted, half-rising from the chair, but instead of stepping away like his body had intended, his legs propelled him forward. His hands pushed against the backrest, and in a sudden, reckless motion, he launched himself over the lounge straight toward Tony.

It was ridiculous, senseless even. He didn’t know what he meant to do once he landed. Tackle him? Shove him? Maybe just make Tony finally react to him. Anything but that maddening calm, that unshakable wall.

But Tony didn’t even flinch. He’d been watching the city, his profile outlined by the faint glow of distant lights, and yet it was as if he’d been expecting this exact moment all along.

In one smooth movement, he flicked the remainder of his cigarette into the ashtray without even looking, his hand shooting out just as Peter collided with him. With practiced ease, Tony’s arm slid low, hooking behind Peter’s knees.

The world tilted.

Peter’s breath caught as his feet were swept from under him, his body yanked against Tony’s chest like he weighed nothing at all. The motion was seamless, almost casual. Like Tony had done this before, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Peter’s arms flailed for balance, his heart racing with shock and humiliation. “What the—”

But Tony didn’t answer. He didn’t smirk or taunt, didn’t even spare him a glance. His expression remained unreadable, eyes fixed ahead as if Peter were nothing more than a detail in the way.

And then, without ceremony, Tony started walking toward the terrace doors. One arm secure beneath Peter’s thighs, the other already threw the cigarette away, steady and immovable.

Peter’s stomach twisted. He wanted to be angry, furious. Even that Tony had so easily neutralized his outburst, turned it into nothing. Yet beneath the anger was something he couldn’t name. Something shamefully close to relief.

The terrace door shut behind them with a muted click, sealing the night outside. As soon as Tony’s shoes hit the polished floor, he lowered Peter back onto his feet.

Peter’s struggles faltered, dying out almost instantly once his sneakers touched solid ground. His breath came in short bursts, chest heaving. Not from the effort, but from the sheer futility of it all. Because he hadn’t moved Tony an inch. Not once.

For a second, there was silence. Just Peter catching his breath, Tony’s face carved in shadow by the dim light of the penthouse hall.

And then Tony moved.

No hesitation, no pause. He simply turned, coat shifting around his frame as he strode forward. Past the armchairs, past the wide glass, toward the elevator at the far end of the apartment. His steps were steady, deliberate, every line of his body telegraphing his intent.

Peter knew immediately. He didn’t need Tony to say it. He could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, in the merciless pace of his stride. Tony was leaving.

Something inside him snapped.

Before he realized what he was doing, Peter lunged forward, his hand shooting out and seizing the sleeve of Tony’s jacket. His fingers clamped down tight. So tight the fabric twisted under his grip, his knuckles straining white with the effort.

“Don’t.”

The word ripped out of him raw, almost broken, barely more than a gasp. His entire weight leaned into the pull, as if the force of his desperation alone could anchor Tony in place.

“You can’t—” his voice cracked, trembling but fierce, “you can’t just walk away.”

Tony halted mid-step, but he didn’t turn. He stood there, tall and unyielding, the only movement the faint rise and fall of his shoulders.

Peter’s heart hammered against his ribs, terrified of the silence, of what it meant. He could feel his grip trembling on the man’s arm, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t.

Peter whispered, the word spilling out before he could stop it. “You can’t leave. Not now.”

Tony stopped. The fabric of his jacket, caught in Peter’s fist, felt as if it had gone rigid. Like even the air between them had stilled. For a few seconds, the only sound was Peter’s own heartbeat hammering in his ears.

Then Tony slowly turned his head.

Peter swallowed hard without even realizing it. Because what he saw on Tony’s face wasn’t the familiar mask he’d grown used to. 

The sharpness in his eyes was still there, yes, but beneath it… something else lingered. 

Was it exhaustion? Disappointment? Maybe even hurt. Peter couldn’t tell for sure. But whatever it was, the weight of it nearly buckled his knees.

Tony’s lips curved, not into a smile, but into something thinner, edged with mockery. Like a blade hidden in plain sight.

“I thought you wanted me gone,” he said, his voice carrying that half-mocking, half-bitter lilt.

Peter’s heart lurched. Because it didn’t take long to realize what Tony meant. Back at the hospital, in front of Howard, his words had cut like glass. 

The sentence still lodged in his throat like a stone. Back then, he had spoken with conviction. But now, echoing from Tony’s mouth, the weight of it pressed down until it was almost suffocating.

Peter’s fingers didn’t loosen from Tony’s jacket. If anything, they clutched tighter, as if that grip could undo the distance his words had carved between them.

Peter didn't falter. Not this time. The grip he had on Tony’s jacket was steady, his arm firm, his gaze unwavering as he looked up at him. His chest rose and fell too quickly, but he didn’t look away from Tony. 

There was no weight pressing him down, no crushing force the way it had been at the hospital. Instead, there was fire in his lungs. The words came out rough at first, but each one built on the last, gathering force.

“You can’t just walk away like this,” he said, his voice low but steady, vibrating with the strain of holding it all in. “You chose this, Tony. You chose to have a baby. You don’t get to vanish when it gets hard. You can’t just disappear.”

His chest rose and fell quickly, his voice trembling. Not from weakness, but from the sheer weight of keeping it contained. Tony’s expression didn’t flicker, but Peter pressed on, words spilling out faster, sharper.

“He doesn’t even have a name yet. Can you believe that?” Peter’s throat tightened, but he forced the words out. “Your son, our son, and he’s lying in that room with no name, like he doesn’t even exist. Like he’s some… some detail you forgot to check off a list. Do you have any idea what that feels like? You’re standing here like you’ve got the world figured out, but you don’t even realize the most basic thing.”

His voice cracked on the last syllable, but he didn’t back down.

“I’ve been here,” Peter said, his fingers digging into Tony’s sleeve as if to anchor him there. “I’ve stayed, through every sleepless night, through every doctor coming in and out asking me questions I don’t know how to answer. Every single time, I’m the one standing there while you—” He broke off, shaking his head, almost laughing bitterly. 

“You think you can just leave it all behind. But you can’t, Tony. You don’t get to do that. Not now. Not ever.”

His fingers curled tighter into Tony’s jacket, knuckles paling with the force of it. His eyes didn’t waver, though his throat burned with the effort of speaking the truth out loud.

“You don’t see it, Tony. You don’t see what’s happening right in front of you. And maybe you don’t want to. But I do. I’m the one standing here when you’re not. I’m the one who hears the silence when the doctors leave. I’m the one who has to look at him. This little life you brought into the world. And realize he doesn’t even have a name. And you think you can just… walk away?”

Tony just stood there. The vast living room was dark, the lights off, leaving only the glow of New York pouring through the towering, curtainless windows. The city’s restless brilliance painted the room in fractured shadows, sharp lines cutting across Tony’s features. 

He stood in the middle of the space, and Peter. Still clutching onto his sleeve. Stood with him, both framed by the silent glow of the skyline.

Peter thought he wouldn’t say anything at all. He had let his anger spill out, all the questions and frustrations that had been caged in him for days.

And Tony… Tony just stood there, quiet, impenetrable, as if the weight of Peter’s words slid right off him. To Peter, the silence felt like a wall. Too solid to climb, too thick to see beyond.

And yet, there were cracks. Small flickers in Tony’s face. The faintest parting of his lips, the hesitation in his jaw. He closed his eyes tightly for a brief moment, then opened them again. 

That was all it took for Peter to understand. Tony had thought about saying something, had weighed the words in his mind, and decided against them.

In the dim, shifting light, Tony let out a long breath. His shoulders sagged slightly, his gaze dipped toward the floor before returning to Peter. 

When he finally spoke, there was no sharpness, no fire. Just something that sounded almost like surrender, or exhaustion.

“What do you want, Peter?”

Peter stared at him for a long moment, Tony’s question still hanging in the air. What do you want, Peter? The silence between them was suffocating, heavy with things unsaid.

And then, something shifted.

Peter’s expression softened in a way that Tony didn’t expect. The sharp edges of anger and hurt melted, replaced by something quieter, almost serene.

A small, disarming smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Gentle, genuine, and utterly unexpected.

His grip on Tony’s sleeve loosened, fingers trailing down until instead of clutching, they smoothed lightly over his arm in a slow, deliberate caress. Tony’s brows furrowed slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes, but he didn’t pull away.

Peter took a step closer, closing the distance between them. His heart hammered in his chest, yet his movements were calm, certain. 

Without a word, he leaned in and pressed his lips to Tony’s. Soft, brief, but unshakably real.

Tony didn’t move, didn’t push him away either. His stillness wasn’t rejection; it was permission.

When Peter drew back just slightly, it wasn’t to create space but to bury his face against Tony’s neck, arms sliding around him in a desperate, clinging embrace. 

He held on tightly, as though anchoring himself, as though letting go might undo everything.

Tony’s breath caught. For a second, he stood frozen. And then, almost cautiously, his hand moved. Resting at Peter’s waist, steadying him, grounding him. 

He didn’t resist. He didn’t retreat. He simply held him there, letting the silence of the moment swallow them whole.

Peter pulled away slowly. His lips lingered against Tony’s skin for one last second before his head turned, his body shifting slightly in Tony’s hold. Like something, just at the edge of his vision, had caught his attention.

His arms loosened from around Tony’s neck, not with reluctance, but with distraction. His gaze slid past Tony’s shoulder, locking onto something in the dimly lit space beyond.

Tony, instinctively attuned to the change, followed the movement. His eyes narrowed as he tracked Peter’s line of sight, his own attention dragged to the same spot.

For a moment, they were no longer wrapped in each other, but united by the sudden focus on whatever had stolen Peter’s attention. 

The silence between them sharpened, taut and expectant. Something had shifted in the room, in them, in the night itself.

Both eyes drifted away, narrowing toward the end of the staircase.

There, half-hidden in the shadows, stood the nanny. 

She had clearly witnessed more than they realised, but her expression gave nothing away. With the faintest dip of her head, she acknowledged them, polite and wordless, before turning toward the kitchen. 

Her footsteps faded into the silence, leaving the room once again to the two of them.

When Tony’s head turned back, he found Peter already watching him.

The boy’s expression had shifted entirely. The moment of fragility, the hesitation has gone. In its place sat a sharp, almost mischievous grin.

Peter’s hands tightened on the fabric of Tony’s jacket. He leaned closer, his breath brushing near Tony as his voice slipped out in a quiet, cutting whisper:

“The game’s just begun, Stark.”

Chapter Text

It’s been hours since Tony had gone. The penthouse still carried the silence of the night before. Peter was laying in bed, just waking up, with the baby nestled against him.

Was he smiling? Peter couldn’t tell. Could babies even smile this early? He had no idea, but he hoped, unlike him, that the baby had passed a peaceful night.

James, Peter thought. It was such a simple name. Maybe he could call him Jam as a nickname. 

That was his right. He deserved a name, and Peter wasn’t about to let him carry something stamped with the Stark legacy.

Ben had to be there too. It couldn’t possibly be Howard, could it? And the baby had to carry Peter’s surname as well. Ben and his family’s last gift to him couldn’t just vanish into nothing.

James Ben Parker-Stark.

Yes, that sounded right.

The baby stirred, his tiny lips curling upward again in what looked almost like a smile. Peter let out a soft laugh, his voice low, almost a whisper.

“Do you like it?” he asked, eyes warm as they lingered on the fragile face before him. “James Ben Parker-Stark… Is that good enough for you?”

The knock at the door was firm but not rushed. Peter was just slipping out of bed, cradling the baby carefully in his arms. 

When he opened the door, Happy stood there. Solid as always, with that familiar mixture of warmth and unshakable professionalism.

Happy’s eyes, almost unconsciously, fell straight to the bundle in Peter’s arms. There was no mistaking the softening of his features, though his posture remained steady.

“Tony wanted me to give you this,” Happy said, handing over a thin folder.

Peter shifted the baby in one arm, taking the file with the other. The weight of it didn’t matter; nothing in it could unsteady him now. Not anymore.

Then Happy’s chin tilted toward the baby. His voice, quieter this time, carried something more personal.

“May I hold him?”

For a second, Peter just watched him, the corner of his lips lifting. The heaviness he had carried for weeks, months, felt lighter now. 

He wasn’t drowning anymore. He wasn’t afraid. He knew he had his own way forward, and he wasn’t playing by anyone else’s rules.

“Yeah,” Peter said softly, smiling as he carefully passed the baby into Happy’s arms. “Of course.”

Peter stepped out of the bedroom, the folder pressed under his arm. As he turned, he caught sight of the nanny entering, her gentle smile directed at Happy, who was still cradling the baby with surprising ease. For a brief moment, Peter lingered. Watching the three of them together. But then he moved on, leaving the room behind.

The corridor stretched ahead as he made his way toward the stairs. Curiosity tugged at him, subtle at first, then stronger. By the time he reached the first landing, he couldn’t resist anymore. He flipped the folder open.

A handful of documents stared back at him, crisp and neatly stacked. Contracts, schedules. He didn’t even bother to register the details. What stopped him was a small handwritten note, clipped to the top page.

“Write what you want.”

Peter froze for a second, eyes narrowing as the words sank in.

The papers weren’t just any papers. As Peter scanned the top page, recognition flickered across his face. This was the contract. The same set of rules that had tied him down from the very beginning. Only this time, it wasn’t finalized. Blank spaces, empty clauses, waiting to be filled.

For the first time in months, Peter felt something shift inside him. A subtle spark, small but undeniable: control. He wasn’t cornered anymore, wasn’t forced to simply nod along to someone else’s terms.

A quiet laugh escaped him, almost a scoff. “So this is it, huh?” he whispered under his breath.

By the time he reached the dining table, the decision had already taken root. He pulled out a chair, sat down, and slid the first page free from the stack. The papers landed on the polished surface with a soft slap.

He reached for a pen lying nearby, twirling it once between his fingers before pressing the tip to the paper. His lips curved in the faintest smile as he began to write.

The pen scratched across the page, steady and deliberate. Peter’s expression gave nothing away. No smirk, no frown. Only focus. 

Whatever words were flowing onto the paper, they were his, and his alone.

When he finally leaned back, he let out a long breath, the pen slipping from his fingers to rest on the table. The first page, now filled with sharp ink strokes, sat separate from the rest of the stack. A silent declaration.

Time shifted quietly around him. From the upper floor came the muffled sound of voices. Happy’s low tone, the nanny’s lighter one, and the soft babble of the baby. Their footsteps followed, descending the stairs together.

By the time they reached the lower level, Peter had already stacked the papers neatly and placed the pen atop them. He didn’t look up as they passed, but the faintest glimmer in his eyes made it clear: something had changed.

The caretaker carried the baby toward the kitchen, her steps light, the child’s faint sounds trailing after her.

Happy lingered behind, his usual guarded expression softened into something Peter hadn’t seen before. When he finally came closer, his voice was low, almost hesitant.

“Never thought I’d live to hold Tony Stark’s baby in my arms,” he said, a strange kind of awe in his tone.

Peter couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. For once, it wasn’t forced.

He lifted the folder from the table, held it for a moment, and then extended it back toward Happy.

Happy nodded once and turned to leave, the folder now tucked under his arm. His heavy steps echoed softly across the polished floor as he made his way toward the exit.

“..Oh, and one more thing,” Peter called after him, like it had only just occurred to him.

Happy paused mid-stride and glanced back.

“Could you arrange a car for us this afternoon?”

For a moment, his brow furrowed. Tony hadn’t said anything about this. He hesitated just long enough for the silence to feel noticeable, then gave a short nod.

“…Sure.”

He turned and walked away, though the slight flicker of surprise on his face lingered in Peter’s mind.

Peter exhaled slowly, a quiet satisfaction settling in his chest.

The day had stretched long, and by the time they were back at the main house, the sun was already dipping low, flooding the sky with a soft orange haze. The hours in between had blurred away, replaced now by a stillness that seemed to belong only to this room.

Peter lay stretched out across the wide bed in the main bedroom, James nestled against his chest. The baby’s tiny breaths rose and fell in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. 

Every now and then, James shifted slightly, his small hand brushing against Peter’s tshirt before settling again.

Peter stared up at the ceiling, his arm curled protectively around the infant. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been lying like that. Minutes, maybe hours. It didn’t matter. 

For the first time in days, he wasn’t thinking about Tony, or Howard, or the looming weight of everything else. It was just him and James, suspended in a quiet moment that almost felt normal.

The silence was so complete that Peter caught himself whispering, barely audible even to his own ears:

“You like it here, huh?”

James gave a small noise in response. Something between a sigh and a whimper. Peter smiled faintly, pressing his chin gently against the baby’s soft hair.

Dinner had come and gone, quiet and strangely hollow. The long table in the main dining room had felt too big, the silence too heavy. Tony’s seat remained untouched, and though Peter pretended not to notice, the absence was sharp enough to sting. He kept his eyes down, more focused on coaxing James into small sips of warm formula than on the empty space across the table.

Later, after the dishes had been cleared and the house slipped into its usual hush, Peter found himself in James’s new room. It was freshly arranged, clearly touched by someone’s hands in a rush. Crib against the far wall, dresser tucked neatly beneath the window, soft curtains that muted the city glow outside. Still, something about it felt unfinished.

Peter moved quietly through the space, shifting things, straightening blankets, folding tiny clothes that had yet to be worn. He wasn’t sure if he was doing it for James, or for himself. Every adjustment, every choice was his way of making this room theirs. Not Howard’s, not Tony’s. His.

By the time the city outside had sunk deep into night, Peter finally pulled back. James was already fast asleep, his tiny chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. 

Peter lingered by the crib, watching for longer than he meant to, before finally retreating toward his own room.

The house was quiet, almost unbearably so. His thoughts had begun to drift, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to sink into sleep.

A faint, deliberate tap-tap at the door pulled him from the edge of slumber. His eyes cracked open, adjusting to the dim glow of the room. 

The door creaked slowly, opening just enough to reveal a figure lingering in the threshold. One of Tony’s aides, silent and efficient, standing firmly but not stepping inside.

“Mr. Stark is waiting for you in the lab,” the man said, his voice low, measured, leaving no room for argument.

Peter blinked, sitting up slowly, the soft fabric of the blanket rustling beneath him. “Now?” he asked, though he already knew it wasn’t a question.

The aide nodded once and remained there, motionless, until Peter swung his legs over the side of the bed and made his way to the door.

The house was quiet. With a deep breath, he followed the aide out of the bedroom, every step measured, his mind already bracing for whatever awaited in the lab.

The aide led him through the sleek hallways of the house. The soft hum of the lights overhead echoed faintly against the polished floors. Peter’s slippers clicked lightly as he walked, each step amplifying his awareness of being fully awake, fully alert, and still fully sleepy.

At the far end, they approached the elevator. The aide pressed the button and stepped aside, motioning for Peter to enter first. The doors slid shut with a whisper, enclosing them in the softly lit cabin. 

Peter leaned slightly against the wall, his thoughts racing. What could Tony want at this hour? Why now?

The elevator descended smoothly, a quiet mechanical whir filling the space between them. Peter’s eyes flicked to the aide, who remained expressionless, hands clasped behind his back, silent and unyielding.

Finally, the doors opened to the lab floor. The cool, sterile light spilled over the polished surfaces, the faint scent of metal and electronics hanging in the air. The aide stopped a few steps back, allowing Peter to step forward. With a soft nod, he gestured toward the lab door.

Peter’s hand hovered over the handle for a brief moment, steeling himself. Then, with a slow inhale, he pushed it open, revealing the lab beyond and whatever Tony was waiting to confront him with.

The lab was quiet except for the faint hum of equipment. Tony was sitting at his workbench, focused on the small, intricate device in front of him. When the lab door opened, he glanced up, his eyes briefly meeting Peter’s.

With a subtle nod, he acknowledged the aide, who immediately understood and quietly stepped back toward the elevator. Peter took a measured step forward, his gaze fixed on Tony, aware of the tension in the air but determined to remain composed.

Tony didn’t say a word, simply returning his attention to the workbench for a moment before looking back at Peter, inviting him to approach without a single motion. Peter advanced into the lab, every step deliberate, the space between them charged with the weight of unspoken words.

Peter moved toward the lab’s central table and chose the chair opposite Tony’s workbench. He sat down, crossing one leg over the other, an effortless, almost casual posture despite the late hour and his own lingering fatigue. His eyes followed Tony as he worked, but there was no rush in Peter’s movements. He was content to wait, letting the rhythm of the lab fill the silence.

Tony, focused on his task, didn’t immediately acknowledge Peter’s presence. Every small adjustment, every precise movement, seemed to Peter like a deliberate dance he had no choice but to observe. 

Finally, after what felt like both an eternity and a moment, Tony set the tool aside, leaned back slightly, and returned to the stack of papers and files on the desk. His gaze flicked toward Peter, silently signaling that he was ready to continue.

Tony shuffled through the stack of papers in front of him, carefully turning each page as if reading for the first time, though Peter knew he had already glanced at every word. 

Peter watched quietly, a faint, controlled calm on his face, fully aware that his serene demeanor was part of the performance. Letting him think he was making Peter nervous, when in fact, Peter had meticulously planned every line he had written.

Minutes stretched, the only sounds in the lab were the soft rustle of paper and the distant hum of equipment. Tony finally set the last page down, lifted his head, his eyes lifting to meet Peter’s. 

“Is that all?” he asked, his tone even but carrying the weight of the question.

Peter gave a small nod, a simple confirmation. Without a word, Tony reached for his pen and signed his name. Then, pushing the papers slightly toward him, he indicated that it was his turn to add his signature.

Peter’s heart quietly raced with satisfaction. This was the moment he had planned, the proof that his strategy had worked perfectly. Yet outwardly, he remained still, expression neutral.

The pen set down. The papers completed. Tony looked at Peter, expecting some reaction. But there was none. Inside, Peter felt a surge of triumph, a private victory, knowing that every single item he had written had been accepted without objection.

It was done. The new agreement, each clause touched by his own hand.

A few seconds of silence passed as they exchanged glances. Peter stood up, not in the mood for handshakes. “I hope this is truly over,” he said, a subtle signal that he intended to retreat to his room.

Tony, still seated at the desk, gestured toward the door with a hand, indicating Peter could leave. But before Peter could take a step, Tony’s voice reached him.

“I didn’t put it in the contract, but security has been upgraded. The guards are more active now, both outside and inside the house.”

It was obvious enough already. Peter didn’t quite understand what he meant.

With Tony’s words lingering, Peter turned toward him, and his eyes fell on Tony’s relaxed stance, the way his eyes were settled into his shorts. Was he jealous? No. He was merely looking for an excuse to impose limits.

The contract was signed. Who would’ve care?

Ignoring Tony’s words, he walked toward the lab door. The man who had accompanied him this far was still there.

Before closing the door, Peter turned back to Tony and offered the most genuine, mischievous smile he had.

Chapter Text

Sunlight spilled across the wide garden, warm and bright. A pale blue blanket had been spread out on the grass, and Peter lay stretched across it, one arm propped behind his head. Beside him, James lay on his back too, small fists curling and uncurling as he babbled at the sky.

Peter chuckled softly. “You like the sun, huh? Yeah, me too.”

He reached over, brushing his fingers across the baby’s stomach, earning a gurgle in return. The sound felt disarming, like it cracked open something lighter inside him.

But as he lay back against the blanket, his eyes flicked—casual, unhurried—toward the far end of the lawn. Two of the guards Tony had mentioned stood at their posts, distant but watchful. 

Peter let his gaze linger for only a second, then turned it skyward, as if he hadn’t noticed at all.

He laughed softly at something James did, rolling the baby gently onto his side, but his attention betrayed him in subtle ways. Every so often, his eyes strayed toward the house. Toward the windows on the second floor, the faint gleam of glass catching sunlight. 

If Tony was behind one of them, Peter couldn’t tell. But the thought made his lips twitch into a secret smile.

James cooed again, and Peter whispered down to him, “Don’t worry, buddy. We’re good. We’re better than good.”

The house had long since quieted down after dinner, a heavy hush resting in its halls. Peter sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand. One last glance at the screen, one message sent, and then he placed it on the nightstand.

Silence followed. Minutes slipped by. Peter leaned back, stretching, listening for footsteps. None came. Not yet.

Then, the faintest sound. The click of a door latch. His door. A slow, deliberate push against the frame. Peter didn’t move, though a small curve of satisfaction touched his lips. A beat later, another sound: the opening of the bathroom door.

The bathroom light spilled in, brushing across polished white marble and glass. Steam curled lazily in the air, carrying the clean scent of soap and warm water. Peter was sitting reclined in the deep marble tub, bubbles clinging to his chest, his arms draped carelessly along the sides. His hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands.

Tony appeared in the doorway, silent, shoulders squared as if he had expected… something else. His expression was smooth, unreadable, too smooth, but his eyes betrayed him, a flicker of curiosity, of something like unease softened by fascination.

Peter met his gaze, calm as still water. He didn’t smile, didn’t tease, not yet. His voice was steady, low, carrying just enough weight to leave no room for refusal.

“Give me a massage.”

The words hung there, bold and unshaken.

Tony’s footsteps broke the quiet, measured taps against the marble floor. The sound echoed against the glossy tiles, each one sharper than the last. He approached the tub, his shadow stretching across the steam.

Peter shifted slightly in the water, lifting one knee, letting the foam ripple. His eyes followed Tony’s every move, noting the subtle tension in the man’s jaw, the faint exhale that gave away thoughts better left unsaid.

For a moment, nothing moved but the bubbles dissolving in slow patterns. The bathroom felt too pristine, too heavy with silence, like the marble itself was listening.

And then Tony stopped just behind him, close enough that Peter could sense the warmth radiating off his body. Close enough that when Tony’s hand finally brushed against his shoulder, the touch was firmer than expected. Testing, deliberate.

Peter let his eyes fall shut, not in surrender, but in victory.

The silence stretched, thick and strange, broken only by the soft glide of Tony’s hands across Peter’s shoulders. His touch was firm, practiced, but the quiet around them turned every small shift into something loaded. The marble walls carried the faintest echoes. The slide of skin, the muted splash of water when Peter shifted, the steady rhythm of Tony’s breathing.

Peter kept his eyes closed, head tilted as though the world outside this silence no longer existed. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He let the stillness linger, aware of how unnatural it must have felt to Tony to stand here, to touch him like this, without a word.

Finally, Tony’s voice cut through, low, restrained, “So this was it? This was the point?”

Peter’s lashes lifted, eyes opening, but he didn’t turn. He stayed exactly where he was, his expression unreadable, gaze fixed on the water while Tony’s hands continued their slow, steady work along his neck and shoulders.

“Yes,” Peter said simply, his tone carrying a teasing edge. “Didn’t like it?”

The question hung between them, taunting in its simplicity.

Before Tony could respond, Peter added, his voice smooth, deliberate, “In the contract you signed, it says you’re obligated to provide me comfort. Anytime, any way I want.”

His words dripped like honey, calm but sharp, echoing against the steam-filled room. Tony didn’t stop. His fingers pressed deeper into the tense lines of Peter’s shoulders, his silence more telling than any answer.

Peter closed his eyes again, hiding the faint, victorious smile tugging at his lips.

The silence lingered until Tony’s hands finally stilled. A last firm press at Peter’s shoulders, then the weight of his touch lifted. His hands slipped away, leaving behind the faint warmth of contact, and for a moment the absence felt louder than his presence had.

Peter didn’t open his eyes. He just let out a breath, the corners of his mouth curling into a deceptively sweet smile. “Thanks,” he murmured, as if nothing unusual had happened at all.

Tony straightened, his expression unreadable but edged with something dry, sharp. His voice came low, serious, with just the faintest bite of mockery beneath it, “As you wish, your grace.”

Tony’s voice lingered in the marble bathroom, low and dry, before it melted into silence.
Peter, eyes still closed, waited for the sound of his footsteps retreating toward the door. But nothing came.

The stillness stretched on, too long to ignore. The faint dripping of water from the faucet, the muted hum of the city far beyond the tall windows. Those were the only sounds filling the room. Tony remained, unmoving.

Finally, Peter’s lashes parted. Through the faint steam rising from the bath, he could see Tony’s silhouette still there, framed against the dark wood of the doorway. Watching. Waiting.

Peter’s lips curved faintly, though not with warmth, more with a weary, teasing defiance. He shifted slightly in the tub, the water rippling around him.

“That’s enough,” he said at last, his tone dismissive, soft yet clear. It was a command in the shape of casual courtesy, the kind of line that should have ended the night.

But Tony didn’t move.

Instead, after a long breath, his voice cut through the steam, low and almost hoarse, carrying weight that felt more personal than he’d intended to show, “Why are you keeping my son from me?”

Peter’s head snapped toward him, surprise flashing only for an instant before being carefully tucked away. He held Tony’s gaze, sharp and unyielding, before answering with calm precision,

“I’m not keeping him from you. You can see us as easily as you like, this house is full of windows, and you’ve filled it with men who watch every door.” He lifted a damp hand slightly above the water’s surface, a faint gesture of control. “All I asked was that you don’t approach him without my permission.”

His eyes narrowed, his words slow and deliberate, biting at the edges of the silence. “And you signed that, didn’t you?”

The echo of his question lingered between the marble walls and the thin veil of steam, daring Tony to break the fragile balance of the room.

Tony said nothing. He stood there, rooted in place, the steam curling faintly around his shoulders like it was trying to blur him into the walls. His silence pressed heavy against the tiled room, but Peter didn’t flinch.

“Yet you’re here,” Peter continued, his voice smooth, unyielding. “Acting like you care about him now… but you waited all this time instead of coming to see him.”

For a moment, it seemed Tony might answer. Hs jaw shifted, his eyes flickered, the faintest breath caught in his chest. But no words came.

Instead, he turned.
Without another sound, he left the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

Peter sank back into the tub, the water lapping softly against porcelain as the silence reclaimed the room.

The night had deepened. The house lay in silence, the kind that pressed too hard against the chest, thick and restless. Peter lay awake in his bed, the ceiling lost to darkness above him. His eyes refused to close, his mind refused to still. Something gnawed at him.

With a sudden shift, he sat up. The sheets whispered against his skin as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He didn’t think, he just moved. Out of the bedroom, into the hall, his bare feet silent against the polished floor as he hurried toward James’s room.

The door creaked faintly as he pushed it open. His chest tightened, then eased. James was there, small and peaceful in the dim glow of the nightlight, chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

Peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Still, the unease didn’t leave him. He crossed the room, leaned over the crib, and without hesitation lifted James into his arms. The baby stirred but didn’t wake, head nestling against Peter’s shoulder.

On his way back down the hall, Peter froze. At the far end, one of Tony’s men was making his rounds, the soft gleam of the corridor lights catching on the barrel of his holstered weapon. The man glanced up briefly, acknowledging Peter with a silent nod before continuing down the opposite way.

Peter tightened his hold on James and walked on, refusing to slow. Back in his room, he slid under the sheets, settling the baby close against him. Only then did the weight in his chest ease, just slightly.

Tonight, at least, James was with him.

The late morning sun poured in through the wide windows, scattering soft light across the living room. Plates with the remnants of brunch rested on the low coffee table, half-finished glasses of orange juice catching the light. The air still carried the warm, sweet scent of pancakes and strawberries.

Peter sat curled up on the edge of the couch, knees drawn close, watching as May held James in her arms. Her hands were gentle but practiced, the way only someone who had carried so much love, and so much loss, could hold a child.

“You didn’t tell us,” May said, her voice hushed, but not sharp. It trembled with emotion rather than reproach. She brushed her thumb over James’s tiny hand as the baby instinctively grasped her finger. “Two weeks, Peter. Two weeks I could’ve been here.”

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again. He didn’t know how to explain it. Not without unraveling more than he could afford to. “I… I wanted to,” he finally murmured, his voice low. “I just… didn’t know how.”

May’s eyes softened as she looked at him. “He’s beautiful,” she whispered, as though the words might shatter if spoken too loudly. Her lips curled into a fragile smile, but her eyes glistened. “You did good, Pete. And—” she glanced briefly around the house, as though the walls themselves might echo with the name— “Tony… he’s a good man. I’m glad you’re not alone in this.”

Ned, slouched in an armchair nearby, nodded vigorously. “Yeah, dude, this is… wow.” His eyes were locked on the baby, wide with a mix of amazement and disbelief. “You’re, like… you’re somebody’s dad now. That’s insane.”

MJ, perched casually on the armrest beside him, tilted her head, her gaze sharp and steady as always. “Not insane,” she corrected. “Just… unexpected. But it suits you, Parker. You look different. Stronger.”

Peter’s throat tightened. He ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck, unable to hide the faint, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. For the first time in days, the weight in his chest eased. Not gone, not even close, but lighter.

James let out a soft coo, and May’s breath caught. She pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, blinking back tears. “He’s perfect,” she whispered, her voice breaking just slightly.

Peter’s eyes lingered on May, his chest heavy with guilt. Watching her cradle James—her face softened, her lips trembling with unspoken emotion—was almost too much to bear. He shifted forward on the couch, his hands twisting together.

“I’m so sorry, May,” he said suddenly, his voice cracking. The words slipped out raw, desperate. “I should’ve told you sooner. I should’ve… I don’t know, done this the right way. You deserved to know before anyone else.”

May looked up at him, eyes shining. For a moment she only studied his face, as if searching for the boy she’d raised hidden beneath the young man sitting before her. Then she shook her head, a faint smile breaking through.

“Peter,” she said softly, “you don’t need to apologize to me. You’ve been carrying so much, I can see it.” Her gaze dropped briefly to James, then back to him. “But look at you. You’re here. You’re doing it. That’s what matters.”

Peter swallowed hard, his throat aching. “Still… I hate that you had to find out this way. That I didn’t trust myself enough to just… tell you.”

May leaned forward slightly, her voice tender but steady. “Tony Stark,” she said deliberately, the name filling the air between them. “He’s… he’s not just anyone, Peter. He’s a man the whole world looks at. And now you’re with him. Of course things are going to be different. Life won’t be simple anymore.” She reached over and laid her free hand gently on his knee. “But different doesn’t mean bad. It just means you have to be stronger than ever. For him.” She nodded toward the baby, who was fussing softly against her chest. “And for yourself.”

Peter felt his chest tighten, but this time it wasn’t guilt—it was something steadier, something warmer. His lips curved into the smallest of smiles, though his eyes glistened.

May’s thumb stroked across James’s tiny knuckles, her voice dropping into something almost reverent. “I’ve always believed Tony was a good man. Flawed, yes. Complicated. But good. And if he’s in your life—really in your life—then maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally have someone who understands you the way you deserve.”

Peter blinked, stunned by the softness of her words. He wanted to protest, to explain how much of this wasn’t what it seemed, but the weight of James’s small, steady breaths and the warmth in May’s expression made the words stick in his throat.

“I just…” He exhaled slowly, letting his shoulders sag. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

May smiled at him, tired but sure. “You won’t. Not if you lead with your heart.”

May’s words lingered in the air, and Peter kept his head bowed. The silence didn’t last long; Ned cleared his throat, as if trying to cut through the heaviness.

“Uh… for the record,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender, “I think it’s kind of awesome. I mean—look at him.” He nodded toward James, whose tiny fingers were clutching at May’s blouse. Ned’s eyes lit up. “He’s, like… perfect. And you’re his dad, dude. That’s crazy. Crazy in a good way.”

The corners of Peter’s mouth twitched upward. “Thanks, Ned.”

MJ leaned back against the couch, arms crossed over her chest. Her face wore its usual calm distance, but there was a subtle softness in her eyes. “So… let me get this straight,” she said dryly. “You’ve been hiding a baby and a billionaire boyfriend for two weeks, and you thought brunch was the right time to casually drop that bomb on us?”

Peter immediately went defensive. “I didn’t mean to hide it—it just… everything happened so fast. I didn’t know how to—”

MJ rolled her eyes, but her voice wasn’t sharp. “Relax. I’m not mad. Just… surprised. Which I think I’m allowed to be.” Her gaze slid over to James, softening further. “He’s cute. And you look… happy. Which is weird, but… good-weird.”

Peter couldn’t help the small smile spreading across his face. “Yeah. He makes me happy.”

Still cradling James, May looked up at him, her eyes meeting his. “That’s all I need to hear.”

For a moment, the room was quiet again; only James’s little murmurs broke the silence. Then Ned, unable to hold his excitement any longer, leaned forward.

“Okay but wait—do I get to be, like, Uncle Ned now? Because I’m ready. I’ve been training my whole life for this.”

MJ bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Training? For what, exactly?”

“Video games, babysitting, you know… essential uncle stuff.”

Peter shook his head, finally smiling fully. Relief washing over him for the first time that day.