Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter

Okay, so. I know I tend to exaggerate sometimes—like when I said the cafeteria's turkey chili was a crime against humanity (it was, but maybe not a felony)—but I swear I’m not being dramatic when I say my new calc teacher looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ: Disgraced Genius Edition.

He waltzed in like he didn’t care that it was 7:57 a.m. on a Tuesday, in Room 204, where the ceiling tiles have water stains and the radiator makes that weird clicking noise like it’s trying to communicate in Morse code. Most teachers kind of slump into the room like the weight of public education is physically crushing them. Not this guy. He looked like he owned the room. Hell, he looked like he’d designed it, patented it, sold it to NASA, and then came back for fun.

Black shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show a little forearm but not in a trying too hard way—more like I don’t have time to button this down because I’m too busy thinking about quantum mechanics or global warming or why the vending machines are always broken. Sunglasses still pushed into his hair like he’d just taken a break from saving the world—or maybe crash-landing a sports car. No briefcase. No stack of papers. Just a single dry erase marker in his hand and this look on his face like he was already five steps ahead of everyone else in the building.

And me? I immediately forgot what numbers were. Like, I saw an integral sign on the board and thought, That’s cute. I used to know math. Before my frontal lobe melted.

Which is impressive, considering this is AP Calculus, and numbers are kind of the whole point. I think my brain just sort of glitched. Like—404: Function Not Found. Rebooting Peter Parker. And listen, I know people say that kind of thing when they’re crushing on someone and trying to be funny, but this wasn’t funny. This was humiliating. I hadn’t even heard him speak yet and I was already spiraling.

He turned to the board and started writing out an equation, like it was no big deal, like this wasn’t a literal Tony Stark—THE Tony Stark—just casually subbing for Ms. Ellison for the rest of the semester like it was normal. Like he hadn’t once invented half the tech I’d drooled over in Wired Magazine. Like he hadn’t been on TV doing interviews about AI and clean energy before I even hit puberty.

And yeah, okay, I tugged my hoodie sleeves down over my hands and slouched a little. It's what I do when I feel weirdly seen or too visible, which is often. Being the shortest guy in class doesn't help. Or the quietest. Or the one still working on sounding like his voice belongs to him. Being trans is weird like that. I pass okay, most days. But sometimes I feel like a glitch in the Matrix, just waiting for someone to notice the seams.

Mr. Stark didn’t notice me. Not then. He just kept writing on the board with his ridiculous handwriting—half messy genius, half architect.

And I tried not to stare. Really, I did. But the problem is, when something—or someone—is interesting, my brain kind of latches on like a dog with a sock. It’s a whole thing. Mild ADHD, apparently. Which is a cute way of saying concentration is optional and thoughts are spaghetti.

Anyway. That’s how I met Mr. Stark. Former engineer. Current teacher. Probably not someone I should’ve immediately developed a massive, wildly inconvenient crush on.

Spoiler alert: I did anyway.

Chapter Text

Peter

Three weeks.

Twenty-one days.

Not that I was counting or anything—but that’s how long it had been since Mr. Stark walked into my life with his rolled-up sleeves and ridiculous hair and immediately became the main character of my internal monologue and wet dreams.

And in all that time, I’d never been late to his class. Not once. Not even by a second.

Until today.

I burst through the double doors of Midtown High like I was running from the cops, which, for the record, I wasn’t. I’d just slept through my alarm (because it literally broke in the middle of the night—it fell off my nightstand and died blinking “12:00” like a final taunt), missed the subway, and had to jog-walk-hyperventilate my way across six blocks to make it to school before the bell stopped ringing. My lungs were doing this tight, fiery thing that made me question every decision I’d ever made involving stairs, and my heart was slamming around like it had somewhere better to be.

“Excuse me, sorry—!” I squeezed past a group of freshman girls blocking the hallway like a human wall of lip gloss and glitter. My backpack kept slapping against my hip like it was mad at me. The second-floor landing felt a hundred miles away.

Calc was my first period. Which would be great, in theory, if mornings and I were on speaking terms. But today? Today I was eight minutes late, my hair was doing this weird poofy thing that screamed slept-on-wrong-and-didn’t-have-time-to-fix-it, and my lungs were halfway into filing a formal complaint.

By the time I hit the second floor, I was sweating through my hoodie, heart pounding like it thought we were training for the Olympics. And my binder—God. Usually I could tune it out, but after all that running, it felt like it was trying to give my ribs a hug they never asked for. Not painful, exactly. Just tight. Too tight. Like I was one deep breath away from imploding.

I slowed down outside Room 204, pretending it was to compose myself, but really I just needed to stop feeling like I might pass out in front of thirty of my peers and the man I had an extremely inconvenient crush on. Not that anyone was watching. But still. I wiped my palms on the sides of my jeans and tried to remember how to be a functioning person.

My backpack was cutting into my shoulder weirdly, and I couldn't tell if I was sweating from panic or the run or both. Probably both. The strap was twisted and digging in, but I didn’t stop to fix it. I could already picture the classroom—Mr. Stark mid-lecture, marker in hand, making eye contact with someone who probably understood limits better than I did. The thought made my stomach do a backflip. Not the cool kind.

And okay, maybe I stood there longer than necessary, hovering like a raccoon outside a trash can. My hand was on the door handle. Just needed to push it open. Just needed to act normal. Whatever that meant.

I took a breath. A shallow one. (Binder said no to deep ones.) Then I opened the door.

As I pushed the door open, heart still hammering, I was praying to any higher power that Mr. Stark wouldn’t notice me immediately. Spoiler: he did.

The room went quieter than it had any right to. I could feel every pair of eyes drift to me, even if they were just waiting for me to slide into the back like the mess I was. I swallowed hard, but the tightness in my chest didn’t go away.

Mr. Stark was at the front of the room, leaning casually against the board, looking like he hadn’t spent an hour on a subway platform this morning, or jogged six blocks in a hoodie that felt two sizes too big. His arms were crossed, lips curled in this half-smirk, like he found the whole thing amusing.

I gave him a sheepish wave, and he didn’t smile back. He just raised an eyebrow and exhaled slowly.

“Peter Parker,” he said, his voice a little too loud in the sudden silence, and my skin turned hot. “Late to my class?” He paused for a beat, then shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t believe it. “I thought you had better time-management skills than this.”

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even annoyed. He was... disappointed.

And that, right there, was the worst part.

I hated disappointing people. Hate, hate, hated it. I’d spent so long trying to prove I could be someone worth trusting. Someone worth noticing. And now here I was, late, winded, looking like I hadn’t slept in a week, and the one person I didn’t want to disappoint—the one person I wanted to impress—just gave me that look. That look of disappointment, like I was a bit of homework he could just shove to the side for later.

I swallowed again, my throat dry. “Sorry, Mr. Stark,” I muttered, feet frozen to the floor. “My alarm didn’t go off—”

“Save it for later,” he cut me off, not unkindly. “We all have our off days. But you’re pushing it, Parker. We’ll talk about this after class.”

A brief pang of panic flared in my chest, but I nodded, avoiding his eyes and starting my slow, miserable walk to my desk. I could feel every pair of eyes on me. Like I was walking through a hall of mirrors where everyone could see the mess I was. I wanted to shrink into the floor, but there was nowhere to go.

I got to my desk, sat down quickly, and tried to sink into my chair without drawing attention. But as soon as I settled, it hit me. That cold, awful feeling of realization.

My backpack was still open, and I hadn’t even taken out my notebook yet. I reached inside and shuffled through the papers. My stomach twisted. The assignment. The one I was supposed to have finished last night.

I cursed under my breath. I’d left it at home.

Home. The tiny, one-bedroom apartment I shared with Aunt May, where the walls were so thin you could hear every creak of the floorboards. Where “cozy” meant “you can’t move without bumping into something.” Where I sometimes felt like I didn’t belong because, let’s face it, I didn’t. Aunt May worked long shifts at the hospital, picking up extra hours whenever she could. So, it was just me in that cramped space, scrambling to keep up with everything, and trying not to be too much of a burden. She was usually so tired by the time she got home, I didn’t want to add to her stress by asking for help with homework or getting things done on my own.

I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes into class, and I was already blowing it. Again.

A wave of heat rushed to my face. I quickly shoved my papers into my backpack, trying not to let the panic spread. I could do this. I could just pretend I had the assignment. Maybe no one would notice. Maybe Mr. Stark wouldn’t ask.

Then he spoke again. Of course, he did.

“Peter,” Mr. Stark said, not looking up from the whiteboard. “Do you have your assignment? Or do you need me to call your aunt and remind her that you're supposed to be preparing for college instead of running around late for my class?”

My stomach dropped. Oh God, no.

I stayed quiet, not trusting myself to answer. How could I tell him I forgot it at home? That Aunt May was probably working a double shift at the hospital, and there was no way I was getting back to our apartment until after the bell rang? That I had no idea how I was supposed to balance everything when it already felt like I was failing at all of it?

I wanted to shrink into a corner and die right there.

I pulled out my notebook and tried to focus. I had maybe 20 minutes to finish this mess—if I could even figure it out. I stared at the first problem: differentiate (3x^2 + 4x)(2x^3 - x).

I’d learned this stuff, right? I wasn’t that bad at calculus... well, most of the time. But right now, my brain was still stuck on how I was about to get chewed out by Mr. Stark. The guy probably thought I was a lost cause by now.

I wrote down the formula for the product rule. My hand shook a little, so I quickly tucked it into my lap and stared at the notebook like it was the only thing I could control right now. Focus, Peter. Just get through it.

I started scribbling through the steps, each one feeling a little more foreign than the last. I’d always been good at math... until I wasn’t. The numbers were all jumbled in my head, and I wasn’t sure if I was even using the right formulas anymore. It wasn’t like I could ask anyone. I’d just embarrassed myself in front of the whole class. And Mr. Stark. Especially Mr. Stark.

I glanced up quickly. Mr. Stark was talking at the front of the room, casually explaining something about limits like it was the simplest thing in the world. Meanwhile, I was sitting here, barely keeping my thoughts straight, fighting the urge to shove my textbook in my bag and bolt out of the room.

“Okay,” I muttered to myself, trying to make sense of the numbers. “Let’s do this. Product rule... you can do this, Peter. It’s not rocket science.”

I kept writing, but I could feel the pressure mounting with each passing second. Every stroke of my pencil against the page was like a reminder of how much I was failing. How I should’ve gotten this done last night—how I shouldn’t have messed up today.

Why do I always do this to myself? I thought, pushing my hair out of my face. Every. Single. Time. You'd think I'd learn.

I glanced back at Mr. Stark, who was explaining something with his hands, and I had to blink a few times to snap out of my spiral. He looked so... in control. Like he had everything figured out. Like he was so much more put-together than I was.

He’s probably disappointed in me. He’s probably wondering why I even bothered showing up today.

I shook my head, pushing those thoughts aside. I couldn’t let myself get stuck in that. There were still two more problems to go, and I had to finish this assignment—somehow.

I wrote down the next equation, one for finding the area under a curve. It looked pretty straightforward. I was halfway through it when my hand stopped moving. I stared at the integral for what felt like an eternity. The numbers on the page swirled around in a dizzying mess.

This was supposed to be easy, right? I had done this a thousand times, but now... now it felt like I was staring at a foreign language.

I blinked hard, trying to shake off the anxiety creeping up my chest. Come on, Peter. You’ve got this. Just focus. You’ve done harder things before.

But no matter how many pep talks I gave myself, my mind kept wandering back to Mr. Stark. What would he say when I turned this in? What if I couldn’t pull it off in time?

I looked up again, hoping that Mr. Stark wouldn’t notice how much I was struggling. He wasn’t even looking at me—he was too busy explaining something to the class with his usual energy, but it was too much. It was like I couldn’t keep up. Like I was running in the wrong direction, and the harder I tried, the farther I got from where I needed to be.

I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly, trying to ignore the buzzing in my ears.

I was so fucked.

Chapter Text

Peter

The bell rang, and I was out of my seat before it had even finished. I barely had time to shove my notebook back into my bag before I was hustling to the front of the classroom. Mr. Stark had just finished handing out the last of the papers when I made it to his desk. I could already feel the nerves bubbling up again. My palms were sweaty, and I had the distinct feeling my stomach was about to eat itself alive.

“Hey, Mr. Stark?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady as I stood in front of his desk.

He glanced up, and for a second, there was something flickering in his eyes—something that made me wish I could just disappear. But he smiled, just a little, like he wasn’t mad anymore. And that made it worse.

“Peter,” he said, putting his pen down and folding his arms over his chest. “Got your assignment?”

I nodded, pulling the crumpled paper from my bag. My handwriting was a mess, but it was done. Every last part of it.

He took the paper from me, flipping through it with that meticulous attention to detail that made me nervous all over again. It was like he could see every mistake I made, every misstep, and I didn’t even want to know what he thought of it.

“Looks like you managed to pull it together,” he said, eyes scanning the work, his tone almost... approving? “Good. I was starting to think you might be the kid who never finishes his homework.”

I bit my lip. “I swear, it’s not usually this bad.”

He looked at me over the rim of his glasses and raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Don’t make excuses, Peter. We all have stuff going on, but if you keep handing in work like this,” he gestured to my paper, “it’s gonna catch up with you. And not in a good way.”

I nodded quickly, even though I could already feel my heart rate climbing. “I get it, Mr. Stark. I’ll do better.”

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand over his face like he was trying to decide whether to say something else. Finally, he sighed. “Look, you’ve got potential, but I can’t keep letting you slide. We’re past that point.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved that he wasn’t angry or if the disappointment was worse. He wasn’t yelling at me, but that look on his face—it was the same one I’d seen earlier. The one that made me feel like I was messing everything up before I even had a chance to get it right.

“I know,” I said quietly. “I won’t let it happen again.”

Mr. Stark nodded, still not looking entirely convinced. “I’ll take your paper for now, but next time... don’t make me remind you again.”

I forced a smile. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get outta here. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than stand here and listen to me lecture.”

I almost laughed, but I just nodded and made my way toward the door. As I grabbed the handle, I heard him call out, “And Peter?”

I froze, hand on the door. “Yeah?”

“Take it easy on yourself. We all screw up.”

I blinked, not sure if I had heard him right. But before I could respond, the door swung open, and I slipped into the hallway, my heart still pounding in my chest.

***

The rest of the day dragged by like molasses in January. Every class blurred into the next, but none of it stuck. All I could think about was the way Stark had looked at me—cool, unreadable, disappointed. Not mad, but not exactly not mad either. I’d replayed our conversation a hundred times already, each mental rerun making my stomach twist tighter.

By the time lunch rolled around, I was more exhausted than hungry. I made my way to the back corner of the cafeteria, to the table under the one flickering light that nobody ever fixed. It was our spot—me, Ned, and MJ. The trio of academic misfits and social outliers. It was familiar. Safe. Predictable.

Ned was already there, half a sandwich in one hand, the other scrolling his phone with the kind of intensity usually reserved for defusing bombs. MJ sat across from him, hunched over their sketchbook, drawing something that looked vaguely like a raven on fire. Or maybe a math teacher? Hard to say.

I dropped my tray on the table with a little more drama than necessary and flopped into the seat beside Ned.

MJ glanced up. “You look like the ghost of AP coursework.”

“Felt like it, too,” I muttered, peeling open a carton of milk with all the grace of someone doing heart surgery in mittens. “It’s been a morning.”

Ned looked up. “You were late to Calc, right? What happened? Did Stark roast you?”

“Worse,” I groaned, letting my forehead hit the table. “He was disappointed in me.”

There was a pause.

“Yikes,” MJ said, as if that somehow covered the emotional devastation.

“And then I forgot my homework,” I added, not lifting my head. “So I had to redo it during class while trying not to suffocate in my binder and also keep up with whatever math wizardry he was throwing at the board.”

Ned winced. “Oof. You good though?” “Barely.”

MJ tilted their head. “You’ve had a thing for him since the first day, haven’t you?”

I lifted my head just enough to glare at them. “No. I mean… maybe. A little.”

Ned laughed. “Dude, you blush every time he says your name.”

“I do not—” I stopped, sighed. “Okay, yeah, I do. But I can’t help it. He talks about derivatives and I spiral into existential longing.”

“That might be the gayest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Ned said, grinning.

“I contain multitudes,” I muttered, stabbing at my mystery-meat entrée like it had personally offended me.

MJ set down their pencil and looked at me with that laser-precise, no-nonsense kind of gaze they’d perfected over years of cutting through Ned and me’s collective idiocy. “Look, crushes on teachers are fine in theory. But if you let it mess with your head, it’s gonna eat you alive. Just be smart, okay?”

“I am smart,” I mumbled.

They exchanged a look that said we beg to differ, but let it go. I focused on chewing whatever this meat was supposed to be and pretending like I didn’t still feel Stark’s words echoing in my chest.

You’ve got potential.

Yeah. Sure. If only I could figure out how to use it without spontaneously combusting first.

“Anyway,” I said, shoving aside my barely-touched tray, “can we talk about literally anything else before I turn into a cautionary tale?”

“You’re already halfway there,” MJ deadpanned, but they nudged my milk carton back toward me like a peace offering. “But sure. Ned was just telling me about his new obsession.”

Ned perked up. “Okay, listen. There’s this guy on YouTube who builds working lightsabers out of actual plasma—like, real science, no movie magic.”

MJ rolled their eyes. “You’ve watched three of his videos and now you think you’re gonna build one.”

“I could,” Ned insisted, pointing dramatically at his phone. “He linked all the schematics. I just need a tungsten filament, a modified fuel injector, and maybe like… twelve thousand dollars.”

“So pocket change,” I said, smirking. “I’m saying it’s possible.”

“You once tried to solder a USB charger and set off the fire alarm.”

“Minor setback,” he huffed, then pointed a chicken nugget at me. “At least I dream big.”

“I dream of finishing lunch without getting dragged,” I muttered, stealing a nugget off his tray. He smacked my hand, but it was half-hearted. That’s friendship.

MJ leaned back in their seat and stretched their legs out under the table. “Well, while you two are planning DIY arson, I’ve been researching colleges that don’t charge a soul as payment.”

“Found any?” I asked.

“They all require firstborn children,” MJ sighed. “And shockingly, my parents aren’t on board with that.”

Ned grinned. “Just tell 'em I’ll go in your place. I'm good with parents.”

MJ snorted. “You’d charm the admissions board and somehow get me a scholarship and a pet lizard. I don’t even want a pet lizard.”

“You’d name it after a Victorian poet and spoil it rotten,” I said, grinning.

“...Okay, that’s true,” MJ admitted.

I leaned back, letting their voices wash over me for a second. My friends were weird, chaotic, and often a bit much—but they were mine. And moments like this, in between stressing about calculus and trying not to let my very inappropriate crush eat me alive, they made me feel like maybe I wasn’t totally falling apart.

MJ kicked my foot under the table, soft. “Hey. You’re zoning out.”

“Sorry,” I said, blinking. “ADHD moment. Brain’s buffering.”

They nodded like that made perfect sense. “You okay, though?”

I hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. Just… recalibrating.”

Ned raised his milk carton like a toast. “To recalibrating.”

MJ clinked theirs against his. “And not blowing up chemistry labs.”

I grinned and joined them. “And getting through the week without another emotional breakdown.”

None of us said anything after that, but I think we all silently added, hopefully.

I was halfway through pretending I didn’t care about my mystery meat when I spotted movement near the cafeteria entrance. My gaze flicked up—and promptly betrayed me.

There he was.

Mr. Stark, in all his “shouldn’t look that good just standing there” glory, patrolling the cafeteria like he was above the chaos. He had a travel mug in one hand and was deep in conversation with Ms. Bradbury, the English teacher who always wore scarves like she was in a romantic period drama. But I wasn’t looking at her.

My eyes locked on his hand—his right one, the one wrapped around that stupid mug. His fingers looked like they’d been engineered in a lab for the sole purpose of ruining people. Long and elegant and veiny in a way that shouldn’t have been distracting, and yet… here we are. The way the tendons moved when he tipped the cup toward his mouth should’ve been illegal. And don’t even get me started on the rings—he always wore at least one, like he knew exactly what kind of damage a good pinky ring could do to someone’s brain.

I swallowed hard. Big mistake.

Because then my brain, in all its traitorous, hormone-fueled glory, began to spiral. I started thinking about what else those hands could do. Not just the pencil-spinning, chalk-scribbling academic stuff—but other things. Things that made me shift in my seat and stare very intently at my lunch tray like it held all the answers to the universe.

I could feel my cheeks heat up, which only made it worse. I was seventeen, not thirteen, but you’d never know it from the way my mind was short-circuiting over a freaking coffee mug.

And yeah, maybe part of it was that I was a late bloomer. That being trans meant I’d spent a lot of my life avoiding these kinds of thoughts, pushing them down, not letting myself want. But lately… it was like a dam broke. And Tony Stark—Mr. Stark—was right at the center of it.

I dragged my hand down my face and mumbled something like “oh no” under my breath.

MJ looked up from their sketchbook. “What’d you see, a ghost?”

“Worse,” I said, voice rough. “A very attractive man drinking from a cup.”

Ned blinked. “...Dude.”

“I know,” I groaned, putting my head back on the table. “I’m so fucked.”

Chapter Text

The whiskey was mostly for ambiance.

A couple fingers poured neat into an old Stark Industries mug—because yeah, I’m that guy. Irony tastes better with alcohol. I leaned back in the cracked faux-leather chair that came with the room like a cursed artifact, and surveyed the battlefield of half-crumpled papers spread across my desk. Calculus quizzes. Graphs. Scribbled formulas. A doodle of what might’ve been a cat or a math demon—unclear.

High school was chaos. Grading it was a kind of purgatory I’d apparently volunteered for.

I sighed, dragged a red pen through a disaster of a limit problem, and muttered, “Slope doesn’t even go that way, kid.” Flipped the page. Reached for the next.

And then… there it was.

Peter Parker’s name at the top—neat, a little squished, like the kid was trying to keep all his thoughts locked in a cage made of college-ruled lines. Pretty standard. What wasn’t standard? The rest of the page.

Tiny sketches scattered along the margins. Doodles, sure—but one of them? That was me. Hair a little exaggerated, but the jawline was flattering. Five o’clock shadow: accurate. I stared at it for a second too long, and that’s when I saw it. Next to the drawing, just lightly scrawled like he forgot it was homework:

name: Peter Stark / date: yes please

I froze.

A laugh kind of escaped me—more of a breath than a sound. Sharp. Surprised. “Oh, kid,” I muttered, shaking my head. “You’ve got it bad.”

I should’ve put the paper down. Moved on. Kept grading like a normal adult with healthy boundaries and a pension. But I didn’t.

I held onto it, fingers curled tighter around the edge of the paper than necessary. My eyes stayed stuck on that handwriting, on those damn words. Parker had written his name next to mine like it was a joke, a secret fantasy, something he never expected anyone to actually see. And now I had.

And of course—of course—my brain couldn’t let it go. It started replaying every glance he threw me in class, every time he bit the inside of his cheek trying not to smile, the way he’d rush through answers like he was desperate to impress me. The kid was bright. Too bright. But this? This wasn’t just academic enthusiasm.

I ran a hand over my face and let out a low groan. The page crinkled in my lap. I really, really should’ve been grading sober tonight.

I knew I should’ve stopped after the first page. But something about the way Peter had written his name—Peter Stark—on that homework assignment, with the little “date: yes please” under it, stuck with me. I told myself I was just curious. That this was all just a mistake, some harmless teenage crush that didn’t mean anything.

But then, of course, I kept flipping.

The next page had a poem. A fucking poem.

I could almost hear Peter’s awkward voice as I read through it:

You speak like fire, like burning gold,
But your hands are soft, and your eyes are cold.
I want to impress, but I want to be more,
Is that why I keep walking through your door?

I exhaled a laugh before I could stop it. It was a goddamn mess. Not the poem itself—it was real, like he wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he had feelings. But it was messy in a way that made me realize how young he was. And how much he was throwing himself into this.

And then I made the mistake of flipping the page.

There they were. A few quick sketches—of me. Of my face. Not the usual good-looking teacher version. No, this was rawer. More like an outline, a rough idea of who I was when I wasn’t standing in front of the class with my “cool teacher” mask on.

Then—oh god. There was a stick figure. And another stick figure. Both of them kissing.

For a second, I just stared. My thumb brushed over the ink, wishing I could somehow unsee it. The figures were so obviously us, and I could almost feel the weight of Peter’s eyes on me as he drew this. His fingers, tracing every line with what could only be described as hope.

I let out a frustrated breath, sitting back in my chair, trying to calm myself. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. I wasn’t supposed to be getting lost in a kid’s drawings—my student’s drawings.

But I couldn’t ignore the knot in my stomach. This wasn’t just an innocent crush. This was something deeper. Peter had put it all out there, scribbled it onto a piece of homework like it was a confession, and I couldn’t escape the feeling that it had been meant for me to see.

What was I supposed to do with this? Laugh it off? Pretend it didn’t stir something in me? That I didn’t feel a weird pull in my chest as I traced the sketch of us together, lips almost meeting?

Fuck. This wasn’t supposed to be happening.

I stared at the stick figures for way too long, my thumb idly tracing over the lines of the drawing. I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe I thought it’d just disappear if I stared at it long enough, like it wasn’t even real. But it was real. It was right there on the paper, and now it was stuck in my head.

Shit.

I leaned back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose like that would clear my thoughts. It didn’t.

What the hell was I supposed to do now? I couldn’t just ignore this. I couldn’t just pretend I hadn’t seen what Peter had written, what he’d drawn. It wasn’t like a casual flirtation or a passing crush. The kid had put it on paper. It was deliberate.

My stomach turned in tight, uncomfortable knots. Should I report it? Was this harassment? Would I be crossing a line if I confronted him about it? Hell, maybe it was nothing—just a stupid teenage phase, a crush that would fade as fast as it came.

But then, why the hell had I been thinking about it so much? Why did my heart skip a beat every time I looked at his work, or when he looked at me like that—eyes wide, slightly flushed, like he was waiting for something that wasn’t supposed to be coming?

Fuck, I muttered under my breath, rubbing my temples. This was a mess. A complete fucking mess.

I could see it now, couldn’t I? Him walking into my office with that nervous smile, like everything was fine, like he didn’t just draw us kissing on his homework. The image of it burned behind my eyelids. The way his hands would tremble as he slid the paper across the desk. His voice—soft, unsure, maybe even a little hopeful—asking if I’d graded it yet, and what I thought.

I exhaled sharply, standing up to pace around my cramped office. This was one of those moments where everything felt too much, too fucking close to reality. I didn’t have the right to feel this way. I didn’t have the right to be looking at a student’s work like this. I should be treating this like any other student’s grade, focusing on the math, focusing on his effort.

But those damn stick figures... that stupid little kiss between the two of us... It was there, burning in my brain like I couldn’t forget it even if I tried.

I grabbed my mug and took a long sip, feeling the burn of whiskey slide down my throat, trying to numb the thoughts.

Report it? Confront him?

Neither felt right. I didn’t want to be the teacher who did something stupid. But how the hell did I face him tomorrow knowing this?

The door to the office creaked open, and I snapped my head toward it, instantly on edge. But it was just a colleague, one of the other teachers, walking by. I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding, then caught myself. Was I… paranoid? Overthinking? Jesus.

I had to get a grip. Peter was just a kid with a crush. He’d move on, right? This would blow over. I wasn’t going to let my feelings cloud my judgment.

But when I glanced back at the paper, back at the drawing of us, lips almost meeting…

God help me, this kid would be my demise.

Chapter Text

Mornings have never been my thing.

I rolled into the classroom with a travel mug full of something just south of coffee and a tight jaw from clenching my teeth all night. I’d been productive—if pacing around my apartment and talking to myself counted as productivity. At least I had the warm-up on the board before the first kid wandered in. Small miracles.

The bell hadn’t even rung yet and I was already itching for lunch. Or a drink. Or both.

Kids trickled in like always—some chatty, some sullen, one kid already half-asleep—and I half-watched them without really seeing anyone.

Until Peter came in.

Just before the bell. Perfectly timed, just late enough to make me notice, just early enough not to say anything about it. Of course.

He muttered a soft “morning” without looking at me, sliding into his seat near the back. Hoodie zipped halfway up. Standard Peter Parker camouflage. Except it didn’t look right today. It hung weird.

I looked away. Tried to focus on the whiteboard. But my eyes flicked back on instinct. It took me a few seconds to pinpoint what was off.

His posture was different. Shoulders tense, but not the same way they were when he was bracing for a pop quiz or pretending not to stare at me while I explained something. No, there was a deep-rooted anxiety in his posture.

I forced my gaze back to the chalkboard, shaking off the unwelcome feeling of care I suddenly felt for the boy. Why was I noticing that? Why did it matter?

Not your business, Stark. Not. Your. Business.

The overhead speaker crackled, and the voice of the vice principal rolled out like a foghorn. “Please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance…”

I stood automatically, mouthing nothing. Hadn’t said the words since college, maybe longer. The whole class rose around me, reciting in robotic rhythm.

Peter stood too. His hands were behind his back, shoulders drawn tight, chin slightly down like he was trying to shrink inside himself. My eyes drifted over, just for a second too long.

I saw the shift in his expression. That distant look he got when something was wrong but he didn’t want anyone to ask about it. I knew that look. I’d worn that look.

I swallowed hard. Felt something lodge itself in the back of my throat and stay there.

When it was over and everyone sat back down, I turned to the board. Grabbed the chalk. My hand didn’t shake, but it felt like it wanted to.

“Alright,” I said, louder than necessary. “Derivatives today. Let’s find out how much math you all managed to forget over the weekend.”

I didn’t look at Peter again. But I could feel him. Like gravity.

I turned back to the board and launched into the day’s lesson. Derivatives. Basic stuff, but I made sure to overcomplicate it with some advanced techniques. A little challenge never hurt anyone.

“Alright, class,” I said, tapping the marker against the whiteboard. “The derivative of a function represents the rate of change of that function. It's the slope of the tangent line to a curve at any given point…”

I knew they weren’t listening. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I was listening at this point. Not really. My mind kept bouncing back to Peter. The way he was sitting so still in the back corner. Hood halfway up, fingers drumming on his notebook, eyes darting around like he was trying not to make it obvious that he wasn’t paying attention at all.

But it wasn’t just the lack of attention that caught my eye. It was the way he looked at me—or rather, the way he didn’t. That half-glance he kept stealing, the way his gaze lingered a little too long before snapping back down to the desk, like he was worried I’d notice.

I had to stop myself from smirking.

Every now and then, my eyes would slide back to him, just... without meaning to. And it was worse today. There was something different about him. Off. The way his hoodie hung loose around his shoulders, the way his chest didn’t quite sit right under it.

And then I realized—he wasn’t wearing his binder.

The thought hit me all at once, and I immediately looked away, a little too fast, like I’d seen something I wasn’t supposed to. But it was too late. My brain had already catalogued everything. The way his Star Wars shirt—faded and soft-looking, probably worn a hundred times—clung to him in all the places he usually kept hidden. He must’ve gotten dressed in a rush. Forgot the binder. And he wasn’t wearing anything else underneath either. No bra. No layers. Nothing.

The fabric hugged him just enough to show the subtle curves he usually worked so hard to hide, and—Christ—his nipples were pressing faintly against the cotton, just enough to make an indent when he shifted. Not intentionally. Not sexy. But my mind didn’t care. It noticed.

And that was all it took.

God, he looked vulnerable like that. Unarmored. Like he wasn’t supposed to be seen this way. And of course, that only made it worse. Made me feel like I was looking at something sacred—forbidden—and I was still staring anyway.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I snapped my eyes back to the board like I’d been caught doing something criminal, my jaw tight. He probably didn’t even realize. Probably just rolled out of bed, threw on a hoodie and the first shirt he grabbed, and came running to class. Completely unaware of how the hem of that shirt rode up a little when he stretched, or how the fabric pulled when he leaned over his desk.

I cleared my throat and focused back on the whiteboard, trying to shove all those thoughts deep into the pit of my brain where I could pretend they never existed.

“So,” I started, forcing my voice to sound steady, “if you were to graph the derivative of a polynomial function, the slope of the tangent line would change at every point on the curve. Just like... well, like how you change from one state to another.”

The last sentence slipped out before I realized it. Jesus, Stark. What the hell was I even saying? I quickly moved on, grabbing a new marker from the ledge and uncapping it with way more aggression than necessary. I really should’ve just stuck to the math.

I turned back to the board and continued, but I could still feel him. Back there. Watching me. Or trying not to watch me. He was so obvious about it that it almost made me laugh. His eyes trailing after me when I paced, mouth parted just slightly in that dazed, distracted kind of way. Honestly, if I stared long enough, I could probably catch the tiniest bit of drool gathering at the corner of his lip. He looked like he was imagining something. Something definitely not math-related.

And honestly? That made it worse.

I squeezed the marker a little too tight and stared at the board. I was just going to finish this lesson, dismiss them, and then I’d go hide in my office until I stopped thinking like this.

Hopefully.

The rest of class passed in a blur. I kept talking—about derivatives, tangent lines, second derivatives, limits, whatever came to mind—but I wasn’t really thinking. Not in the useful way. Just enough to keep up the act. My body went through the motions: pacing, scribbling on the board, occasionally asking a question no one wanted to answer.

And the whole time, Peter kept sitting there. Still in that damn hoodie. Still distracting in a way he definitely didn’t mean to be.

Eventually, the bell rang, breaking the spell.

“Alright,” I said, closing my marker with a satisfying snap. “Finish the problems on page 174 for homework. We’ll go over the answers tomorrow.”

The class erupted into the usual post-bell chaos—shuffling chairs, rustling backpacks, kids trickling toward the door with glazed eyes and halfhearted goodbyes. I stayed by my desk, rifling through the stack of graded homework, trying not to think too hard about the name scrawled in pink ink with hearts in the margins.

When I got to Peter’s, I hesitated for half a second before slipping a sticky note on top. “See me after school.” Simple. Neutral. Professional enough—on paper.

I handed the papers out as the kids filed out, saving his for last.

“Parker,” I said, and he looked up at me, a little confused, a little nervous. I offered the paper like it was no big deal. “Good effort on this. Come by after the final bell, yeah?”

He blinked down at the note, then back up at me. His cheeks were already pink. “Uh, sure. Yeah.”

I nodded and pretended to turn back to the whiteboard, giving him space to slink out with the rest. But I watched him go out of the corner of my eye, still clutching the paper a little too tight, like it might burn him if he let go.

Once the room emptied, I exhaled and rubbed the bridge of my nose.

What the hell am I doing?

Chapter Text

Tony

The halls were quiet. That kind of strange, sterile quiet that only happened after school—when the chaos of the day had drained out but the lights were still buzzing and the walls still smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and hormone-laced despair. I leaned against the edge of my desk, the sticky note still stuck to the corner, curling at the edges now. See me after school.

God. What a dumb idea.

It sounded more ominous than I’d intended. I’d meant it to be neutral, clinical even. Something a teacher would write when a student needs to review a test or get clarity on a missed concept. But I wasn’t thinking like a teacher when I wrote it. Not really. I was thinking about doodles and pink ink and the way Peter's lips had parted when I handed it back to him like he’d been caught doing something much worse.

I checked the clock again. Four minutes past the final bell.

He probably wasn’t coming. That was good. It was better, honestly. I didn’t even know what I planned to say. What did one say to a seventeen-year-old who wrote Peter Stark on his homework paper and then drew a crude little heart around it?

…Eighteen. He’s eighteen. At least he should be. He's a senior, right?

I scrubbed a hand over my face.

I could still go. I could shove everything into my bag and walk out of here, pretend the whole note never happened. Let it get lost in the debris of another unfinished stack of grading. And yet, I didn’t move. I stayed frozen at my desk, eyes darting to the door every few seconds like some part of me wanted to be caught.

Then, right when I’d almost convinced myself to leave, there was a knock. Not even really a knock—just a hesitant tap tap against the already ajar classroom door.

Peter peeked in.

"Uh, hi," he squeaked out, voice soft and a little unsure. His backpack hung off one shoulder, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands like armor. He looked even younger than usual in the fading daylight, face shadowed but bright-eyed. Nervous. Expectant.

And I hated how my chest did that stupid stutter thing just looking at him.

"Hey," I said, straightening. My voice came out smoother than I felt. "Thanks for coming."

He nodded and hovered awkwardly in the doorway for a second, like he didn’t know if he was actually allowed to step inside.

“You can come in,” I added, gesturing vaguely toward the desks.

He did, slowly, walking like he was afraid of making a sound. He dropped into the seat closest to my desk but didn’t quite look at me. Just stared at his hands as they fiddled with a fraying bit of his sleeve. I tried not to stare too hard at the way the fabric clung to his chest, how obviously he'd skipped something that morning. But my brain noticed it anyway.

Every little thing about him seemed loud.

“I wanted to talk about your homework,” I said finally.

His head snapped up, eyes wide. “Was it wrong? I—I redid it during class and maybe I rushed the last question—”

“No, no,” I interrupted. “It was fine. Good, actually. You got most of it right.”

“Oh,” he said, blinking. “So…why the note?”

Yeah, Tony. Why the note?

My own brain was fucking mocking me.

I hesitated. “Some of your…uh. Doodles.”

His face flushed immediately, red climbing from his collar to his cheeks like it was on a speedrun. “Oh. My God.”

He covered his face with both hands.

And I was officially the worst person alive.

I cleared my throat and tried not to look at how red he was turning. "Peter, look—"

"Okay, in my defense," he cut in, voice muffled through his palms, "I thought I was gonna throw that page out."

I blinked. “You what?”

“The page. The one with the uh—" he made a vague twirling gesture in the air, "—emotional crises and visual crimes. I meant to rip it out, but then I was running late and I panicked and shoved it in the stack. So technically… not entirely my fault.”

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Peter.”

“I mean, also, can we talk about how fast your turnaround time is on grading?” He peeked through his fingers. “Most teachers would take a week. You caught my gay little meltdown in like forty-eight hours. Impressive, honestly.”

“That’s not the point—”

“Is it not?” he asked. “Because I feel like you’re dodging how flattered you should be. I drew you with biceps.”

I stared at him.

He stared back, still pink-faced and visibly vibrating with anxious energy, but meeting my eyes now. Like if he looked long enough, he could pretend this wasn’t excruciatingly embarrassing.

“Peter,” I said again, slower this time. “This kind of thing—it’s not a joke. You’re my student.”

“I’m an adult,” he said, automatically. "Almost, at least."

“I’m your teacher,” I repeated, firmer.

That seemed to sink in a little. He deflated, the humor slipping out of his posture like air from a balloon. “I know,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just… dumb stuff. Doodling. I do that when I’m—” He paused, then let out a sharp little breath. “I don’t know. Lonely, I guess.”

The word hung in the air longer than it should have. Long enough to mean more than he probably wanted it to.

He looked down again, picking at his sleeve. “Sorry. I know I made it weird.”

I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. “You didn’t make it weird, Peter.”

That was a lie. It was weird. It was so weird. But it wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even inappropriate in the way it could have been. And now he was sitting in front of me, all small and nervous and very, very eighteen, and all I wanted to do was make that sorry little look on his face go away.

“It’s just…” I started, then stopped. Tried again. “You have to understand that this kind of thing puts me in a complicated position.”

Peter looked up at that. “Because you think I’m gross?”

“What? No. That’s not—God, no, Peter. That’s not what I’m saying.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly, and he tilted his head. “So… not gross.”

“Peter.”

“Not inappropriate, not offensive, not even all that anatomically inaccurate…”

I put my face in my hands.

He giggled.

He fucking giggled. 

“I should give you detention just for being a menace.”

“Aw,” he said brightly. “Is that an offer? Because if you make me stay after class I might start thinking you’re into—”

“Peter.”

“Shutting up.”

I looked up again, only to find him biting back another grin. It was a disaster. It was a total disaster.

It was also kind of cute.