You sat at the Decathlon table, highlighters fanned out like a rainbow, a practice test spread open in front of you. The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, catching the dust motes suspended in the air.

Across the table, Ned was building something small with paperclips. MJ was reading, one earbud in, the other dangling.

And Peter Parker?

He was two seats down, staring at you.

Not at you — at you. Like he was trying to memorize the way your brow furrowed when you were concentrating. Like you were a problem he couldn't solve and didn't want to.

His pencil hovered over a notebook that definitely wasn't his homework.