Peter WHY...

The soft gray light filtered through the curtains of Liz Allan's bedroom, casting a gentle glow over the tangled sheets where Peter Parker (MC) stirred awake. His body felt heavy, a pleasant ache from the night before settling into his muscles, and as his eyes fluttered open, he realized why—Liz lay sprawled across his chest, her blonde hair fanning over his shirt, her breaths slow and even in sleep. Whoa, Peter thought, a sleepy grin tugging at his lips as he registered the warmth of her against him. Guess we crashed hard—last night was something else.

The winter formal dance at Midtown High had been a blur of magic—dancing under fairy lights, Liz's white dress swirling as they spun, the gym alive with laughter and music. They'd stayed late, swaying until the last song, then stumbled back to her apartment in the snowy Queens night, too tired and happy to care about anything but each other. Her mom was away with work, leaving the place theirs, and they'd collapsed onto her bed, still in their dance clothes, falling asleep in a heap.

Peter shifted slightly, trying to ease out from under her without waking her, his tux jacket crumpled beside him on the floor. Gotta move slow—don't wanna ruin this, he thought, his hand brushing her arm as he slid toward the edge. But Liz stirred, her eyes fluttering open, a drowsy smile spreading as she caught his gaze.

"Morning," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep as she propped herself up on an elbow, her hair a messy halo. "Trying to sneak out?"

Peter chuckled, caught mid-escape, and settled back against the pillows. "Busted," he said, his tone soft. "Didn't wanna wake you—you looked too peaceful."

She grinned, leaning closer, her eyes warm. "Too late now," she said, her voice teasing. "You're stuck with me."

"Good," Peter replied, his heart skipping as he looked at her—disheveled, beautiful, his. "Best way to wake up." He tilted his head, closing the gap, and kissed her—a gentle press of lips, sleepy and sweet. Liz kissed him back, her hand finding his cheek, the moment stretching as they lingered, the world outside fading to a snowy murmur.

They parted, smiling, and Liz sat up, stretching with a yawn. "Coffee?" she asked, brushing hair from her face. "I'm starving—dance took it out of me."

"Coffee sounds perfect," Peter said, swinging his legs off the bed, his tux shirt wrinkled but intact. "Breakfast too—gotta refuel after last night."

They padded to the kitchen, the apartment quiet save for the hum of the coffee maker as Liz brewed a pot, the rich aroma filling the air. Peter scrambled eggs while she toasted bread, their movements easy, a rhythm born from months together. "Last night was unreal," Liz said, pouring coffee into mugs, her eyes bright. "Best dance ever—everyone's gonna talk about it for weeks."

"Yeah," Peter agreed, sliding eggs onto plates, his thoughts drifting to her in that white dress, the way she'd felt in his arms. "You made it unreal—whole school was buzzing, but you were the star."

She blushed, handing him a mug. "You weren't so bad yourself—those moves? Nailed it," she teased, sipping her coffee. "proud of you."

"Had a good teacher," he shot back, grinning as he took a bite of toast, the warmth settling into him. Perfect night, perfect morning, he thought, savoring the moment—Liz across from him, the quiet intimacy after the dance's chaos.

They finished breakfast, the coffee chasing away the last of their sleepiness, and Peter stood, grabbing his jacket from the bedroom floor. "Gotta head out," he said, reluctant but knowing the day called. "You good?"

"Yeah," Liz said, walking him to the door, her smile soft. "Thanks for staying—made it even better."

"Anytime," Peter replied, pulling her into a quick hug, her warmth lingering as he stepped back. "See you later?"

"Count on it," she said, and he slipped out, the snowy Queens morning greeting him with a chill as he left her apartment, the dance's magic still humming in his chest.

Parker (MC) strolled away from Liz's apartment, his tux jacket slung over his shoulder, the warmth of their breakfast and kiss still lingering. The cold nipped at his nose, his breath fogging as he walked, the quiet crunch of snow under his boots a steady rhythm after the high of the winter formal dance. What a night, he thought, a grin tugging at his lips as he replayed Liz's laugh, their slow dance under the fairy lights. His mind was still half in that moment when a flicker of movement caught his eye—a figure in a black-and-red suit swinging through the streets above, webbing from building to building with fluid grace.

Peter (MC) paused, squinting up at the alternate Peter Parker, the spare suit he'd loaned him cutting a sharp silhouette against the gray sky. 

Doesn't this guy sleep? he thought, amusement mixing with a touch of exasperation. Been out swinging since yesterday—guess he's making up for lost time. He pulled the flip phone from his pocket—the one he'd given the alternate Peter—and dialed the number, his thumb tapping as he leaned against a snow-dusted lamppost.

The line clicked, and the alternate Peter's voice came through, slightly winded but alert. "Hey—calling already?"

"Yeah," Peter (MC) said, his tone casual as he watched the figure land on a nearby rooftop. "Saw you swinging around—thought you might wanna regroup. Meet me at the lair's entrance?"

"On it," the alternate Peter replied, a hint of a grin in his voice. "Be there in a sec—swinging's been a blast."

"Figured," Peter (MC) said, flipping the phone shut with a chuckle. Guy's loving it—good for him, he thought, shoving his hands in his pockets as he headed for his ride. Time to roll—big day's not slowing me down.

He reached a hidden alley where his motorcycle waited—a sleek, black beast he'd lifted from a thug months back and modified into something fierce. The bike was a custom job: matte paint job scratched from use, reinforced frame for speed, a souped-up engine he'd tweaked for silent power, and webbing-resistant tires he'd crafted in the lair. Stole it fair and square, he thought, swinging a leg over the seat, the leather cold against his jeans. Thug didn't deserve it—runs like a dream now. He fired it up, the engine purring low as he pulled onto the snowy streets, weaving through Queens toward the abandoned railway lair.

After a short ride, Peter (MC) rolled up to the lair's entrance—a concealed tunnel mouth tucked behind a cluster of snow-laden trees near the industrial edge of the borough. The alternate Peter stood there, leaning against a tree in the borrowed black-and-red suit, his mask pulled up to reveal a slightly flushed face, his breath fogging as he waved. Peter (MC) cut the engine, the bike's rumble fading into silence as he dismounted, kicking the stand down.

"Nice ride," the alternate Peter said, nodding at the motorcycle as Peter (MC) approached, his tux jacket still over his shoulder. "You bought it?"

"Stole it from a thug—fixed it up," Peter (MC) replied, grinning as he adjusted the jacket. "Runs smooth—keeps me mobile. You been swinging all night?"

Of course he stole it, Peter thought in his mind.

"Pretty much," the alternate Peter said, stretching his arms with a wince. "Couldn't sleep—too wired. Helped a couple folks—stopped a carjacking. Your city's got some action." This place is alive, he thought, his eyes scanning the snowy horizon. Feels good to swing again.

"Glad you're keeping busy," Peter (MC) said, his gaze sweeping the area—snowy trees, quiet streets, no signs of prying eyes. No intruders—good, he thought, his instincts sharp. "Let's head in—make sure we're clear."

The alternate Peter nodded, following Peter (MC)'s lead as they checked their surroundings—ears pricked for footsteps, eyes darting for shadows. Satisfied, Peter (MC) tapped a hidden panel near the tunnel entrance, the heavy door sliding open with a soft hiss. They stepped inside, the lair's sterile glow greeting them, and Peter (MC) parked the motorcycle beside his black cargo truck, its flatbed still marked with faint traces of Green Goblin's blood. The door sealed shut behind them, the silence of the well-secured space wrapping around them like a shield.