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FIFTEEN; 𝒎𝒚 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆'𝒔 𝒑𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒓!
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WHEN PETER IMAGINED losing Clara Rose, although it was purely his deliberation, he felt objectively heartsick as if an earthquake of the greatest magnitude convulsed shockwaves across him. No punches, no gunshots, no swollen-headed criminals could amount to that. To worsen things, any thought corresponding to her seemed to impinge the space he gripped her the closest; the most—within the little beating drum he kept inside the webbed-up cage.
And now that it was happening, it was difficult to debate with the part of him that was telling him that it was his imagination. Reasoning fled, and it took common sense with it. As he swung from his support webbings—ironic how this habit evolved to something new again—Peter's one advantage was the validity behind his lie. He'd been truthful about every word he said to her that excluded his identity, but really there was no rose without the thorns.
When he took one last lean over the bend and held fast onto a wall on the street, he spotted Clara Rose's receding back.
"Maybe we'll fondly think back to this someday," Peter said to himself. "When she was young and stupid. And I was... just stupid."
Dammit. He projected a line and swung downward while reducing his momentum on his descent to the pavement. He came to a running stop beside Clara Rose, who flinched with a shriek. Her fists funnily imitated a karate chop.
"Sticky fingers," he greeted with a short salute, jogging backwards. Do. Not. Stare.
"Shit!" she hissed, rubbing a hand over her chest. She was equal parts mischievous and afraid when she caught her breath. "Scared the bejesus out of me, webs."
"Sorry." For everything, he wanted to say.
"What the—?" She looked around the nearly deserted avenue. "Are you following me again?"
"Prefer not to answer. And sorry about this, too—" He couldn't finish saying because his arm was already dashing out to safely hook around her hips and they were off.
Clara Rose screamed bloody murder once before she came to terms with the inevitable flying start. She ensnared her arms around his shoulders and fastened herself to him, trapping Peter in a favourable embrace. The moment stretched out like a small eternity for him; her sweet face crushed into his neck, her warmth emanating through the suit, her faint 'don't let me die' chantings in his ears.
He whipped and swivelled around the block and two blocks further up till the rooftop of his apartment building. He drew to a halt, skidding on his feet over the grainy cement. Before breaking her off, he exploited Clara Rose's nearness and curved his arms around her, one hand supporting her head and the other over her spine. If he closed his eyes, maybe time would move slower.
