The word had been floating in Peter's head since second period, like a scheduled weather report he wasn't quite sure how to prepare for. Not because he was nervous. He didn't really do nervous anymore. It was just... different.
Liz had invited him to her place. Officially.
The invitation had come yesterday—Tuesday—right after school, when they were walking toward the main gates together. She had casually brought it up like it was no big deal.
"Hey, Peter," she said, brushing her fingers lightly against his. "Want to come over for lunch on Thursday? My mom's home, and she said it'd be nice to finally meet you properly."
Peter had nodded. "Sure."
It was that simple. No internal debate, no hesitation. Just sure. But now that Thursday was creeping closer, he found himself thinking more than usual.
Midtown High always had a certain post-assembly fog on Wednesdays. The students were mentally checked out—too close to the weekend to care, too far from Monday to be responsible. Peter walked down the hallway with his backpack slung over one shoulder, weaving through clusters of half-asleep students and bursts of half-hearted hallway chatter.
In the distance, Harry leaned against a row of lockers near the science wing, twirling a pen between his fingers with unnecessary flair. Peter approached him just as the warning bell rang.
"You're alive," Harry muttered with mock surprise. "I was about to send the search party."
"I was in chem lab," Peter replied, glancing at the clock. "You'd know if you actually showed up for it."
"Touché."
They started walking toward their next class—history. The halls were thinning out.
"So," Peter said casually, "I'm having lunch with Liz and her mom tomorrow."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Whoa. The Margaret Allan? That's serious. She's like the chillest mom, but also has scary judgment eyes."
Peter smirked faintly. "I'll bring flowers."
"Smart man. That'll buy you fifteen minutes of grace before the background check starts."
They turned into the classroom and took their usual seats near the back, just as the teacher stepped in and started scribbling on the whiteboard.
History was slow. Mr. Elden was passionate about the Revolutionary War, but his voice had the kind of flat cadence that could put a caffeine addict to sleep. Peter half-listened, his pen moving in idle loops on the margin of his notebook.
His thoughts drifted. Not toward superheroes. Not crime. Just... Liz.
She wasn't a "distraction." She wasn't a mission, or a liability. She was just there—bright, grounded, real. She didn't ask for anything he wasn't already willing to give. In a life built around secrecy and emotional distance, that kind of simplicity felt like luxury.
Lunch was loud, as always. Midtown's cafeteria never truly settled—metal trays clattering, chairs scraping, laughter and argument blending into the daily hum of hormonal chaos. Peter sat down at the usual table with Harry and Liz already mid-conversation.
"—and then she just dropped the whole tray on Mathew's lap," Liz was saying with a smirk. "He didn't even yell. He just froze. Like a statue made of spaghetti and shame."
Harry laughed, nearly choking on his drink. "Classic."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "What did Mathew do to deserve that?"
"He said Mia's eyebrows looked like caterpillars. Loudly," Liz replied. "So Mia threw her pasta at him. I give her credit."
"Fair," Peter said.
Liz turned to him, nudging her shoulder gently against his. "You still good for tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Flowers and everything."
Harry mock-gasped. "Romantic Parker? What's next, handwritten poetry?"
Peter blinked. "I write technically clean prose. Poetry's inefficient."
Liz laughed. "That's the most Peter answer ever."
They continued eating—small jokes, casual banter. It was so normal that it almost felt surreal.
Peter glanced around the room, eyes flicking past tables. He noticed Mark and Kevin sitting with some of the football guys, whispering and shooting occasional glances toward his table. They didn't say anything, but Peter caught the tension behind their stares.
They are still pissed at me? Why? I'm pretty sure they don't know. He didn't care. Not really. But it was a detail worth noting.
The rest of the day blurred. English, gym, and physics passed in steady chunks of time. After school, Peter walked Liz to the bus stop, his hand brushing hers as they walked.
"You don't have to dress up or anything," she said. "My mom's just happy I'm seeing someone who isn't a walking ego."
"That rules out most of the school."
She chuckled, then looked at him. "You're hard to read sometimes, you know?"
Peter tilted his head. "How so?"
"I don't know... You care, but you don't show it like other people. You're calm. Focused. Like... you're always thinking two moves ahead."
"I am," he said simply.
She smiled. "Yeah. That's what makes you interesting."
He didn't reply. Instead, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
She smiled and stepped onto the bus.