Chapter 2: Milk Run and a Shower of Sin
The phone buzzed again, insistent, a small vibration against his palm that felt like an accusation. Peter stared at the screen, at MJ's name glowing in the dark, and for a fraction of a second he considered letting it ring. Letting it go to voicemail. Letting the rain wash away the last five minutes like they'd never happened.
But he was Peter Parker. And Peter Parker always answered.
He thumbed the screen, raised the phone to his ear. "Hey, MJ."
"Hey, you." Her voice was soft, sleep-laced, the kind of warm that made him feel like a piece of shit for even standing on this fire escape. "You still out? I was starting to worry."
"Just finishing up." He watched the rain cascade off a rusted gutter, turning the alley below into a river of neon reflections. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, everything's fine. I just—" She yawned, the sound crackling through the speaker. "I was gonna make some tea, but we're out of milk. You mind picking some up on your way back? I know it's late."
Milk. She wanted milk. He almost laughed — a hollow, broken sound that he swallowed before it could escape.
"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that."
"Thanks, babe. There's a bodega on the corner of Bedford and North 5th that's open all night. The one with the red awning."
"I know the one."
"Okay. Be safe, okay? I love you."
The words hit him like a punch to the sternum. "I love you too."
He ended the call and stood there for a long moment, letting the rain soak through his suit, letting the cold seep into his bones. Felicia's perfume still clung to his chest like a second skin.
He had to get out of here.
The bodega smelled like old wood smoke and cat litter, a narrow cave of fluorescent light and cluttered shelves. The man behind the counter barely looked up from his magazine as Peter walked in, still in his suit but with the mask pulled off, his damp hair curling against his forehead. A logical choice — there was no point in hiding his face from a guy who'd already seen a hundred Spider-Men buy a hundred cartons of milk.
He grabbed the milk from the fridge, walked to the counter, paid in crumpled bills. The owner grunted, handed him his change, went back to his crossword.
Peter stepped back out into the rain, bag swinging from his fingers, and swung home.
The apartment was quiet when he slipped through the window. Dark, save for the pale glow of the streetlight filtering through the blinds. The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and the ghost of last night's pasta — the same smell that had greeted him a thousand times before, familiar and mundane and so painfully normal it made his chest ache.
He set the milk in the fridge and padded down the hall to the bedroom.
MJ was already asleep.
She lay on her side, her red hair fanned across the pillow like a copper halo, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. In the dim light, she looked young. Peaceful. The kind of serene that came from trusting the world to hold you upright while you slept.
Peter stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching her breathe.
He was a bastard. A liar. A man who'd stood on a fire escape with another woman's hands on his body and done nothing to stop it.
No, that wasn't true. He'd done plenty to stop it — when she'd been there, when her thigh had pressed against the hard line of his cock, he'd done the one thing he could do.
He'd stood there and let it happen.
He stripped off his suit, tossing it into the hamper with more force than necessary, and stepped into the shower. The water came on hot and immediate, steam billowing around him in thick clouds, burning away the chill of the rain.
He should have felt clean. The water sluiced over his shoulders, over his chest, over the places where her fingers had traced patterns in the webbing of his suit. He lathered soap over his skin, scrubbing hard enough to turn his flesh pink, trying to wash away the ghost of her touch.
But he couldn't.
Her smirk materialized behind his closed eyelids, that knowing curve of her lips, those green eyes glinting like emeralds in the neon glow. His body remembered the pressure of her thigh against his cock — the obscene, perfect weight of it, grinding slow and deliberate, drawing a response from him that he hadn't been able to control.
Christ. He pressed his forehead against the cool tile, letting the water drum against his back. A weak, traitorous moan escaped his throat, swallowed by the hiss of the spray.
His hand moved before his mind could stop it — sliding down his stomach, fingers wrapping around his erection, already half-hard at the memory. He hissed through his teeth as his palm closed around the shaft, the sensation electric even through the water's heat. He was big in his hand, thick and pulsing, and he hated how good it felt.
He told himself it was just to get relief. Just to purge the want from his system so he could crawl into bed next to his wife and pretend none of it had happened.
But his mind had other plans.
He could see her clearly — not the memory of her on the fire escape, but the fantasy. Felicia, slick with rain, pressing him against the brick wall of the alley. Her fingers finding the edge of his mask, peeling it away. Her lips on his neck, her teeth grazing his skin.
"Doesn't it get so boring?" Her voice in his ear was silk and gasoline.
His hand moved faster, a ragged rhythm that matched the beat of his heart. He braced himself against the tile, his other hand flat against the wall, his breath coming in jagged gasps.
He imagined her hand around him instead of his own — her fingers, deceptively slender, wrapping around his girth and stroking him with a lazy, expert touch. He imagined her dropping to her knees in the rain, looking up at him with those predator's eyes, her tongue darting out to taste the bead of moisture at his tip.
"Shit—"
The word escaped him, barely a whisper. His hips bucked into his own fist, and he let himself have it. Let himself picture her mouth on him, hot and wet and obscene, taking him to the root while her fingers teased the heavy sac beneath. Let himself imagine the sound she'd make — a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through his entire body.
His strokes grew frantic, desperate, his body winding tight as a coil. Water streamed down his back, steam curled around him, and all he could see was her face — that fucking smirk, those knowing eyes, the way she'd ground against him like she'd already won.
Because she had.
He was going to come.
His hand flew, his hips thrusting into his grip, and the release hit him like a freight train. He came hard, hot and thick, spurting against the tile in long, violent pulses while her name tore through his mind like a litany.
Felicia. Fuck. Felicia.
He braced himself against the wall, shaking, trembling, his breath ragged and raw. The water washed the evidence down the drain, spiraling away into nothing, leaving him hollow and aching and so full of shame he could barely breathe.
He stood there for a long moment, letting the water pound against his back, letting the heat sear the guilt from his skin.
It didn't work.
It never worked.
He turned off the shower, stepped out onto the cold tile, and wrapped a towel around his hips. In the mirror, his reflection stared back at him — exhausted, hollow-eyed, a man who'd just gotten off to the thought of a woman who wasn't his wife.
One night, Felicia had said. No consequences. No guilt.
She was wrong.
He was already drowning in guilt, and they hadn't even touched.
He padded back to the bedroom, slid into bed beside MJ. She stirred, a soft sound in her throat, and rolled toward him, her hand finding his chest. Her warmth seeped into him, her breath soft against his shoulder.
"Mmm," she murmured, half-asleep. "You got the milk?"
"Yeah." His voice was rough, barely a whisper. "Got the milk."
She smiled, a ghost of a thing, and settled back into sleep.
Peter stared at the ceiling and didn't close his eyes for a long, long time.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he'd find Felicia. He'd get the necklace back. He'd end this.
But even as the thought formed, he knew it for the lie it was. He didn't want to end this.
And that, more than anything, was the truth that scared him most.