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Peter’s key scraped in the lock just past 3 a.m. The apartment smelled faintly of rain-soaked concrete and the lavender candle May always kept on the windowsill. He dropped the duffel—still dusted with Berlin grit—by the door and stood in the dark hallway, listening. The fridge hummed. Somewhere down the block, a siren faded. Home.

May’s bedroom door was ajar, the little lamp still on. She hadn’t slept. Peter saw the glow spill across the floorboards like a runway. He toed off his sneakers, peeled the sweat-stiff hoodie over his head, and padded in.

She sat up in bed, hair tousled, the brown strands silvered by the lamp. The sheets had slipped to her waist; she wore one of his old Midtown High T-shirts, the one with the faded spider on the chest. Her eyes—tired, searching—found his.

“You’re back,” she whispered, as if saying it louder might make him vanish again.

Peter crossed the room in three silent steps. He smelled of airplane cabins and airport coffee, but underneath was the scent May knew better than her own: the boy she’d raised, now a man who’d just fought on a tarmac in Germany.

“I’m back,” he said, voice raw. He sat on the edge of the mattress. The springs creaked. May reached for him, fingers brushing the bruise blooming along his jaw—Cap’s shield had clipped him, nothing broken, just tender.

“Does it hurt?”

“Less than missing you.”

She pulled him down. No hesitation, no questions about right or wrong. The world had already torn itself in half over registration and accords; tonight, the only law was the one written in the tremor of her hands on his back.

Peter kissed her like a confession—slow, deliberate, tasting salt where her tears had dried. May’s palms slid under the hem of his T-shirt, tracing the new topography of muscle and scar. He shivered when her thumb grazed the edge of a cut still taped from Leipzig.

“Careful,” he murmured against her mouth.

“I’ve patched you up since you were nine,” she answered, voice husky. “I know where it hurts.”

Clothes came off in quiet layers: his shirt, hers, the soft cotton pooling on the floor like shed armor. The lamp painted them gold and shadow. Peter mapped her with reverence—collarbone, the faint stretch marks along her hips, the small mole just above her left breast. Every inch was a country he’d dreamed of in a Leipzig safehouse while Tony argued with generals.

May guided his hand lower, breath catching when his fingers found her warm and ready. She arched into him, whispering his name—not *nephew*, not *kid*, just *Peter*. He entered her slowly, eyes locked, the mattress dipping under their shared weight. The city outside kept its distance; in here, there was only the hush of skin on skin, the creak of old wood, the soft gasp when he filled her completely.

They moved together like a secret they’d rehearsed in dreams. Peter buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in—lavender, coffee, the faint sweetness of the vanilla lotion she used after showers. May’s nails scored gentle lines down his spine, anchoring him to the moment, to *her*.

When she came, it was quiet—a shudder, a sigh against his ear. Peter followed seconds later, muffling his groan in her hair. They stayed tangled, hearts hammering in counter-rhythm, the lamp flickering once as if embarrassed to witness.

After, May traced lazy circles on his shoulder blade. “You’re really here,” she said, wonder in her voice.

Peter pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

The lamp clicked off. Outside, dawn crept pale over Queens. Inside, Peter Parker slept for the first time in weeks—wrapped around the woman who’d raised him, who now held him like the only thing keeping the world from spinning apart.