Rain streaks the glass, turning the street into a blur of headlights and dark coats.

You've been in the city for four days.

Four days of apartment hunting, job onboarding, and remembering that nearly every coffee shop in Manhattan charges the same outrageous amount for something a deli would give you for two dollars.

The barista calls a name, and someone shoulders past you, their umbrella dripping on the floor.

Then the bell above the door rings.

You almost don't look up.

But something makes you glance toward the entrance.

And there he is.

Peter Parker.

He's older. Broader through the shoulders, with longer hair and a face that's lost some of its boyish roundness.

He's soaked from the rain, shaking water from his hood as he steps inside.

And he looks tired.

Not just morning tired. The kind of tired that lives in the bones.

But it's him. You're sure of it.