Chapter Text
The late afternoon rush had finally died down. The coffee shop hummed with that familiar New York background noise — the low chatter of customers, the hiss of the espresso machine, the occasional slam of a taxi door outside. You wiped down the counter, humming under your breath, already thinking about how many hours you had left in your shift.
The shop MJ used to work at wasn’t the same anymore. New decor, new staff, new everything. But the bones were still there — the same yellow walls, the same mismatched chairs, the same smell of roasted beans that clung to your clothes after every shift.
It was..boring to say the least.
You enjoyed the warmth of the shop, a soft refuge from the bristling winter cold outside in Manhattan. Snow had overcome the streets, and the roads were filled with black ice, which made driving dangerous.
So you had to take the train. well— not like you had a car to drive anyway…switching between fast food restaurants and coffee shop wasn’t exactly the biggest rise of your paycheck. But it covered the rent!
You were restocking lids when the door chimed.
A guy walked in — messy brown hair, camera bag slung over his shoulder, hoodie slightly wrinkled like he’d been running around all day. He looked familiar in that “I’ve seen you around the city” way, but you couldn’t place him.
He stepped up to the counter, offering a polite smile.
“Hey,” he said. “Can I get a medium latte? Extra hot.”
You raised a brow. “Extra hot? You look like you already had a long day.”
He let out a small laugh — tired, but genuine. “Long week. Maybe long year.”
You laughed too, shaking your head as you punched in the order. “Alright, extra hot it is.”
He shifted his camera bag, and you glanced at it. “You a photographer?”
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mostly pigeons. They’re very cooperative.”
You snorted. “Pigeons? Really?”
“They pose,” he insisted. “They’re very dramatic.”
You laughed again — louder this time — and he smiled like he wasn’t expecting you to actually find him funny.
You ground the beans, tamped them down, and set the portafilter in place. The machine hissed, filling the cup with warm espresso. You poured the steamed milk in a slow, practiced motion, the latte forming clean and smooth beneath your hands.
You finished the drink, grabbed a sticky note, and wrote his name on it:
Peter Parker
You stuck it on the cup sleeve, then grabbed a cookie from the display case and slid it onto the tray.
“Extra cookie,” you said. “House rules. You look tired.”
He blinked, surprised but amused. “Thanks. Really.”
You handed him the drink. He took it and pressed his phone to the reader to pay.
Peter looked around the store for a bit, as if analyzing the place—the place where he was last able to see MJ. It had already been about a year after that happened, the memory lingering like a bitter espresso in his tongue.
He didnt want to think about it anymore. He shook his head, looked around one last time- then headed out the door.
You didn’t think much of it. Just another customer. Just another interaction in a long shift.
— Peter’s Apartment
Peter dropped the coffee on his counter the second he walked in. He kicked off his shoes, tossed his camera bag onto the couch, and stretched his back with a groan.
He reached for the cup — and then froze. A police scanner alert blared from his desk.Then his Spider-Sense spiked. he heard the distant boom of something exploding several blocks away.
He sighed. “Seriously?”
He grabbed the suit, Pulled it on, opened the window,Then swung out into the city.
The coffee sat untouched.
The explosion rattled the street before Peter even landed. Smoke curled upward from a shattered storefront, glass glittering across the pavement like ice. People were already running, shouting, ducking behind cars as a second blast shook the block.
Spider-Man swung in low, webbing onto a streetlight and flipping down onto the asphalt. The heat from the fire hit him instantly.
A masked guy — some petty criminal with a stolen tech weapon — fired another unstable blast toward a parked car. The shockwave knocked Peter back a step.
“Hey!” Spider-Man called out, voice sharp. “Maybe don’t blow up the neighborhood?”
The guy turned, weapon humming with unstable energy. He fired again.
Peter dove, rolling across the pavement as the blast tore a chunk out of the sidewalk. He shot a webline, yanking the weapon upward so the next shot fired harmlessly into the sky. The recoil knocked the guy off balance.
Spider-Man sprinted forward, dodging debris, sliding under a falling sign. He webbed the criminal’s ankles, yanking him down hard. The weapon skittered across the ground, sparking violently.
A car alarm blared. Sirens wailed in the distance.
The criminal tried to scramble up, but Peter was already on him — a quick web to the hands, another to the chest, pinning him to the pavement.
“Stay down,” he muttered, breath heavy.
A chunk of brick broke loose from the burning building above. Peter’s Spider-Sense flared — he spun, leaping upward and webbing the falling debris before it crushed a nearby civilian. He lowered it gently to the ground, checking the person with a quick nod.
“You’re okay,” he said, already turning back. But before he could even think about leaving- his spider senses perked up- and he ducked in instinct. Another shot rang out, almost hitting him in the head but passing on top of him instead.
He shot a web at it, catching and webbing it up before it could hit into a nearby building. He looked at where it came from, and to his-not-so-surprise— there were more guys now, each carrying one of those weapons.
Great. Just what he needed.
———
Firefighters arrived. Police swarmed the street. Spider-Man stepped back, chest rising and falling, soot streaked across his suit.
He just shot a webline, swung upward into the cold Manhattan night, and disappeared between the rooftops.
Peter climbed back into his apartment long after midnight. He shut the window behind him, peeled off the mask, and let out a long breath. A sound rang out.
E.V ONLINE
“Welcome Home Peter.”
Peter sighed, walking over to his computer. “Hey, EV” he said, sitting on the chair, and letting out a long, tired sigh. He closed his eyes for a second.
“Peter, your heart rate is elevated. Do you require medical assistance?”
“No.” He opened his eyes and looked around the room. A mess, but his- for now. His eyes landed on the coffee cup, left discarded on the table. He hummed.
“Your left shoulder impact registered at 62% force. Are you experiencing pain?”
“Uh, no, I’m fine EV.” He said, sitting up and grabbing the coffee cup. He turned around and to the kitchen. Placing it in the microwave for a minute. “E.V, I’m gonna head out for a second.”
“Okay Peter. Suit integrity is at 84%. Damage logged for later repair.”
When the microwave beeped- he took the coffee out and opened the window. He looked outside first- city seemed empty enough from here. He stepped outside and closed the window, climbing the wall up to the roof.
New York stretched out beneath him — glowing windows, distant sirens, the hum of traffic. He sat on the edge of the roof, sipping the reheated latte.
It was great. Just what he needed after all that fighting.
He looked down at the cup. He peeled the sticky note off the cup, intending to toss it aside.
He flipped it over.
And froze.
On the back, in your handwriting, it said:
Hope your year gets better!:)
— Friendly neighborhood barista!
He stared at it for a moment — soft, tired, but smiling.
He folded the note carefully and tucked it into his pocket.
He took another sip of the latte, looking out over the city. He sighed.
“I should get another coffee tomorrow.”