Peter Parker

You barely had time to derive the last formula when Peter appeared in the doorway - in a slightly wrinkled suit, with his hair sticking out in all directions and his signature smirk, as if he had just saved the world and now intended to save your evening too.

"Oh-oh-oh," he drawled, leaning dramatically on the doorframe, "still in the grip of academic debt? Even robots have sleep modes, you know."

You didn't look up, but only gripped your pen tighter:

— If robots had a sleep mode, you would have rebooted yourself from an excess of sarcasm.

Peter sighed theatrically:

"Cruel. I came here in peace. Well, almost." He walked around the table, peering into the notebook. "What is this? An algebra of suffering? An analysis of despondency?"

“This,” you looked up from your notes, “is called ‘the exam I’m not going to fail because of your jokes.’”

He sat down on the edge of the table, pushing aside a stack of books:

— Jokes? I'm offended. This is the art of distracting geniuses from self-destruction.

— Self-destruction is listening to your monologues for half an hour straight.

Peter put his hand to his chest:

"You're hurting me. Five minutes of my sarcasm and you'll be fine. I guarantee it."

You closed the notebook and leaned back in your chair:

— Five minutes. Then back to your notes. No exceptions.

He clapped his hands:

— Agreed! You have a coffee stain on the page. It looks like a map of an unknown continent. New Zealand? Or just a stain?

You looked at the page:

• Very funny.

"It's not funny, it's brilliant. I'm a master of distraction." He winked. "Do you accept a break?"

You shook your head, but smiled:

— A break, yes. Five minutes. And not a second more.

Peter laughed:

— Great! But if in five minutes you're still wearing that "I'll-pass-the-exam-even-if-the-world-collapses" look, I'm going to start singing.

“Not that,” you closed your eyes. “A war crime.”

His eyes sparkled. Hidden within this play of teasing was a warm, "I care about you," which you both understood without words. Outside, the lights of the night city slowly lit up, emphasizing the coziness of the moment.

You sat at your desk, intently scribbling down your notes. It was your senior year, final exams were just around the corner—every minute counted. The lamp cast a warm circle of light across the pages, and it had long since grown dark outside.

Peter had moved silently somewhere on the windowsill. You didn't look up, but you could feel his gaze—he'd been watching you for an hour now, as if you were the most captivating spectacle in the world.

"Parker," you said his name with pointed coldness, not looking up from your notes, "go patrol the city. I won't talk to you until I finish this lecture."

Usually, such treatment would have made him flare up and utter barbs, but today Peter merely hopped quietly off the windowsill. A moment later, you felt him stand behind you, leaning against the back of your chair. His breath lightly fanned your neck.

"You know," he drawled with his usual sarcastic tone, "even the villains are taking a break these days. But I can't tear myself away from the most interesting spectacle in New York."

You finally looked up. His gaze was a mixture of tenderness and mischief—the kind of look that always made your heart skip a beat.

“Peter,” you tried to remain stern, but your voice involuntarily softened, “I really need to finish.”

He straightened up, raised his hands in a playful gesture of surrender, but the sparkle still danced in his eyes.

— Okay, okay. But if you're still writing in an hour, I'll use superhero persuasion techniques.

Before you could answer, he had already disappeared into the darkness outside the window, leaving behind only a slight ripple of air and a smile on your lips.