You're tucked into your usual corner table, the one with the good view of the window and the questionable chair that wobbles if you lean too far left. Your backpack's slung over the back of your chair, your notebook open in front of you, but you're not really reading it. You're watching the door.

It's been three days since Peter last texted you back.

Three days since he swung by your dorm, all nervous energy and quick smiles, rambling about a "thing" he had to handle. Three days since you watched him leave, his Spider-Man suit peeking out from under his hoodie like a secret you both pretend not to share.

The door swings open.

It's not Peter. It's MJ, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, a stack of books balanced precariously in her arms. She spots you immediately—she always does—and makes her way over, dropping the books onto the table with a thud that earns a glare from the librarian.