Chapter Text
“Petey?” Morgan’s voice is barely a murmur, soft and fragile against the biting wind, but it cuts through the chaos like a thread pulled taut, keeping him focused. It’s the only thing pulling him through the thick fog of exhaustion, forcing his legs to keep moving even when every step feels heavier than the last. Above them, the sky is a deep, suffocating black, its emptiness pressing down like a weight he can’t shrug off. His eyes sting, but he refuses to cry; the cold digs deep into his skin, sharper than any knife, leaving him shivering in a way that feels permanent.
If Peter could gather up all the awful Parker “luck” he’s ever had, stacking every bad moment like bricks in a tower, it still wouldn’t scrape the surface of how monstrously terrible tonight is. Morgan clings to his back, her tiny arms squeezing his neck with a sticky, desperate grip. Her legs wrap around him, her hands pressed against his sides, giving just enough stability to ease his fear that she might slip—especially if he has to start running again. He doesn’t want to. He’s too tired, his body a raw, aching mess. He wishes, with a sharp pang of regret, that he had his Spider-Man suit. He wishes even more that he hadn’t ignored Tony’s constant reminders to wear his watch. But he can’t dwell on that. Regret is a luxury he can’t afford—not when Morgan is depending on him.
The lake house isn’t an option anymore. It’s the place they’re running from, and Peter has no intention of turning back. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since the intruders breached the supposedly secure property, but the memory of how close they came to being caught is enough to keep him moving. His one and only goal now is to get them somewhere safe. Morgan is his top priority—Tony and Pepper’s daughter, the most important thing in the world to them. And they’d trusted him, of all people, to keep her safe for one night.
One night.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
Happy and May were on their honeymoon. Pepper was in Beijing for a Fortune 500 conference. And Tony? He was supposed to be at home with Peter and Morgan. That was the plan, anyway, before the attacks started—a calculated string of chaos across the city, big enough to demand every available Avenger. Well, except Peter.
Peter hadn’t been thrilled about being sidelined. Sure, he’d turned down the offer to officially join the Avengers when he was younger, but that felt like a lifetime ago. Things were different now—he was different now. He’d fought alongside them, bled alongside them. He’d earned his place. Or so he thought. But when Tony asked him to stay back and watch Morgan, there was no room for argument. Not really.
At first, he’d grumbled inwardly, feeling a pang of resentment that he’d never admit aloud. Watching the others gear up for a mission while he stayed behind felt like being benched, and Peter hated that feeling. It clawed at something deep in his chest, the same place that burned with the constant need to prove himself. But then Morgan had looked up at him, her bright, mischievous smile lighting up her whole face, and every trace of bitterness melted away. She’d tugged on his sleeve and called him “Petey,” her voice as sweet as her four-year-old heart, and suddenly the idea of spending the evening with her didn’t seem so bad.
Who was he kidding? He’d never stood a chance against her.
He’s sixteen and doesn’t know the first thing about babysitting. Happy and May had teased him about it before, warning him that Morgan would run circles around him if he wasn’t careful. But Morgan isn’t just any kid. She’s Morgan—sweet, clever, endlessly curious. She has Tony’s sharp wit and Pepper’s quiet, commanding grace, and she’s wrapped Peter around her little finger since the day they met. Every time she looks at him with those wide, trusting eyes, he feels a warmth he doesn’t quite know how to name.
She adores him, and he adores her right back. It’s not even a question. It’s effortless, this bond they share, as though some unspoken understanding ties them together. She’s the sibling he never thought he’d have—the family he didn’t think he deserved. And he’s never said it out loud, but every time Tony or Pepper calls Morgan his “little sister,” he feels a swell of pride he can’t put into words.
The plan had been simple enough: keep Morgan entertained, make sure she eats dinner, tuck her into bed, and wait for Tony to get back before morning. Easy. The lake house was a fortress, tucked away on a sprawling, secure property and monitored constantly by Friday. Nothing ever happened there. It was safe. It was supposed to be safe.
Until tonight.
Now they’re here, trudging down a desolate road that stretches endlessly into the cold, moonless dark. His phone is dead, its blank screen mocking him. His suit is at home, neatly folded into the watch Tony gave him—the watch Tony is always harping on him to wear. He’d forgotten it, of course. Because that’s what he does, isn’t it? He forgets things. Important things.
The watch would be invaluable right now. He could press the panic button, connect with Karen, or summon Friday with a single touch. He could call Tony. He could fix this.
He could almost hear Tony’s voice in his head, a perfect mix of exasperation and sarcasm. “Kid, you had one job. One.”
Peter doesn’t need the intruders to kill him; he’s already doomed. The moment the Starks find out their daughter was put in danger because of him—because he couldn’t remember a simple thing like wearing his watch—they’re going to kill him. That much he’s sure of.
The guilt is suffocating, curling around his thoughts like smoke, thick and inescapable. He’d been trusted with something precious—someone precious—and he’d failed. It doesn’t matter that he’d done his best to protect her once things went sideways. It doesn’t matter that he’d carried her on his back, shielded her with his body, and kept running even when every muscle screamed for him to stop. The fact remains: Morgan is in danger, and it’s his fault.
He adjusts her slightly on his back, her small arms clinging tightly to his neck, and feels the sticky warmth of her hands against his skin. The thought hits him, sharp and unbidden: She trusts me. She still trusts me.
And that’s the worst part. That unshakable trust in her voice when she calls his name, the way her little fingers tighten around him like she believes, without question, that he’ll keep her safe.
Peter isn’t sure he deserves it.
He pushes the thought away, burying it deep. Now isn’t the time to spiral. He has to keep moving, keep her safe, keep them both alive. He’ll figure out the rest later—if they make it that far.
“Petey?” Morgan’s voice pulls him back to the present, small and hesitant, barely audible over the crunch of gravel beneath his sneakers.
It’s the second time she’s said his name, and this time it snaps him out of the endless loop of guilt and what-ifs. “What’s wrong, Mo?” he asks, doing his best to keep his voice patient, even though patience feels like a distant dream right now. It’s not her fault. None of this is her fault, and he’d never want her to think he’s mad at her. The frustration bubbling inside him is aimed squarely at himself—at every decision that’s led them here.
He doesn’t even know if he’s truly lost the tail that the intruders had on them at first. His speed should’ve been enough. He’s fast—faster than they could ever hope to be—and his instincts told him he’d put enough distance between them to call it safe. But instincts weren’t infallible, and paranoia has been clawing at him ever since. It burrows into the edges of his thoughts, twisting his mind into constant vigilance, forcing his head to snap back every few steps, even when the road behind them remains dark and empty.
Every whisper of the wind feels like footsteps. Every rustling leaf is a potential threat. He knows better than to trust logic—it’s failed him too many times before. Not with her. He can’t take chances. Not when Morgan’s safety hangs by a thread.
“What’s wrong, Mo?” he asks again, his tone soft but tight, fraying at the edges like the fabric of his patience. He adjusts his grip on her, his hands firm and steady, as though holding her tightly enough can somehow shield her from everything going wrong around them.
“I have to go potty,” she whispers, the words so timid and achingly innocent that Peter’s heart clenches. She sounds so small—smaller than she ever has before, even when she’s wrapped herself up in his arms to hide from a thunderstorm or begged him to stay with her until she falls asleep. This is different. This is her trusting him completely to take care of her in a situation that’s anything but normal.
His quick stride falters, then slows to a stop. He glances around, his senses straining, listening for anything—anything at all—that could hint at danger. But the night around them is still. Too still, maybe. The kind of quiet that makes his nerves buzz with unease, but he forces himself to focus. The only sounds are his own uneven breaths and the softer rhythm of Morgan’s against his back. No cars. No voices. No signs of life.
For now, stopping feels like the safest option. He veers off the road into the wet grass, where patches of melting snow seep through his sneakers, cold and sharp. His muscles are coiled, his body ready to spring at the slightest hint of danger, but he forces himself to sound calm for Morgan’s sake.
“Okay, Mo,” he says, keeping his tone light and upbeat. “We’re gonna have to go in the woods, just like we did when we went camping with your dad, okay? Remember how fun that was?”
The memory surfaces unbidden—a rare weekend away from the chaos, a trip Tony had planned months in advance. The campsite had been tucked so far from the city that Peter had almost forgotten about the weight of who they were. It had been peaceful. Quiet. For once, Tony wasn’t Iron Man, and Peter wasn’t Spider-Man—they were just Tony and Peter, and Morgan was simply a little girl excited to roast marshmallows.
Of course, the “nature bathroom” had been a hard sell, even with Tony’s endless arsenal of jokes and reassurances. Morgan had pouted, refusing to go until Tony’s silly voices made her giggle, and Peter had laughed along with her, his chest light in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
But Tony isn’t here now. There’s no easy charm to smooth over the edges of this moment, no lighthearted voice to break the tension. It’s just Peter, raw and fraying, doing his best to fill the impossible shoes Tony left behind.
To his relief, Morgan simply nods. No arguments. No tears. Just quiet, steady trust that makes Peter’s breath catch in his throat. She trusts him so completely, so implicitly, that it hurts. That trust feels like both a gift and a curse, settling heavy on his chest, wrapping itself around his ribs until the pressure is almost unbearable.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice breaking slightly. He crouches down, keeping her close, his eyes darting constantly around their surroundings. The trust in her nod steadies him, even as his mind races. She’s depending on him, and no matter how terrified he feels, no matter how much doubt gnaws at the edges of his resolve, he won’t let her down.
It’s as he’s pulling her pajama pants back up, murmuring soft reassurances to keep her calm, that the sound reaches him—a car engine, low and steady, its growl like a predator prowling in the distance. At first, Peter tells himself it’s nothing, just some late-night traveler passing through, maybe a trucker or someone heading home after a long shift. Surely, the car will drive right past them.
It has to.
It’s the middle of the night—or the first hours of morning, though time feels meaningless now, stretched and distorted by exhaustion. Anyone driving at this hour must have a purpose, and Peter clings to the fragile hope that this car’s purpose has nothing to do with them. He needs to believe that, if only to stop the rising tide of panic threatening to take hold.
But then the headlights bleed into the trees, their harsh glare slicing through the darkness like a blade. Peter freezes, his breath catching as the white-hot light floods the shadows around them, illuminating the forest floor in unforgiving detail. His pulse quickens, his heart hammering in his chest as the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. A shiver bolts down his spine, sharp and electric, and in that moment, hope crumbles beneath the weight of dread.
He moves instinctively, scooping Morgan into his arms and inching them deeper into the forest. His movements are slow, deliberate, careful. Panic is clawing at the edges of his mind, threatening to consume him, but he shoves it down. He can’t let Morgan see his fear. He has to keep her calm, has to keep her safe.
The sound of the engine shifts, the low hum turning into the uneven crunch of tires on gravel. Peter’s stomach twists as he realizes what it means. The car is slowing.
He hears it in every grating roll of the tires, every crackle of crushed stones. The vehicle comes to a full stop, and the silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the soft, uneven rhythm of Morgan’s breaths against his shoulder. Peter swallows hard, his mind racing. He presses himself tighter against the thick brush that shields them, praying that it’s enough to keep them hidden.
Please, let them think we’re gone. Please.
The car door creaks open, then slams shut with a force that echoes through the still night. Peter’s body tenses, every muscle coiling like a spring. There’s no time to think, no time to run. Stopping here for Morgan’s sake suddenly feels like the worst decision he’s ever made. They’re trapped, with nowhere to go.
Peter presses a firm hand over Morgan’s mouth, his fingers trembling slightly as they brush against her soft skin. He doesn’t have time to explain why she needs to be silent, doesn’t have time to reassure her. He can only hope she understands, hope that she can feel the urgency in his grip and stay quiet.
She’s four, yes—but she’s a Stark. And Starks are smart.
But even being a Stark can’t always override being four.
The footsteps crunch closer, slow and deliberate, each one sending a fresh spike of terror through Peter’s chest. The person heading toward them swings a flashlight, its beam cutting jagged paths through the trees. The light bounces erratically, its glow creeping closer and closer, until it lands near their hiding spot.
Morgan shifts in his arms, and Peter can feel her trembling against him, her tiny body radiating fear. He tightens his grip on her, silently willing her to stay still, stay quiet. But when the flashlight’s beam sweeps directly toward them, she yelps—a small, startled sound that escapes before he can stop it. Her little body jolts, pressing against him as if she realizes too late that she’s given them away.
Peter’s stomach drops, the sound of her yelp reverberating in his ears like a gunshot. If their hiding spot wasn’t compromised before, it is now.
The flashlight’s beam stops, steady and unmoving, pointed directly at them.
Peter curses under his breath, the sound barely audible over the rapid pounding of his heart. There’s only one of them—he can take one. He’s Spider-Man, after all. He’s faced worse odds and come out on top. One guy isn’t impossible. He just needs to make sure Morgan stays put, hidden. If he can knock the guy out quickly enough, he can take the car and get them out of here. It’s a good plan.
Well, except for the glaring problem: Peter doesn’t know how to drive.
His jaw tightens, frustration biting at the edges of his thoughts. He can figure that part out later—if he gets the chance.
“I got ‘em, boss!” The man’s shout slices through the air, gruff and far too close. Peter’s breath catches, and his stomach drops as he hears it: two more sets of footsteps, their heavy crunching against the gravel drawing nearer with every step.
One guy, Peter could handle. Two? Maybe, if he got lucky. But three? That’s a joke. And the punchline is cruel.
“Put the gun away, Francis,” another voice commands, sharp and impatient. Peter’s muscles tense as he hears the faint click of a safety disengaging. His breath hitches. A gun. They have a gun.
“We need them alive for this to work,” the voice continues, unrelenting. “Just knock the older one out and toss them in the trunk.”
The words barely register before something hard slams into Peter’s face with brutal force. Pain explodes behind his eyes, sharp and blinding, before everything goes black. Darkness washes over him like a tidal wave, heavy and consuming, dragging him under before he has a chance to fight back.
The world tilts, and Peter is vaguely aware of his body being hauled upward by rough, unforgiving hands. Voices blur together, harsh and cold, their words an indecipherable hum against the pounding in his skull. He hears Morgan’s cries, thin and broken, cutting through the haze like glass against his ears. His chest aches with the need to comfort her, to tell her it’s going to be okay—even if it’s a lie. But he can’t reach her. He can’t see her.
The sound of a door slamming jolts him back to partial awareness. His body is dumped unceremoniously onto a hard, unyielding surface. Metal, maybe. The impact rattles his bones, sending fresh waves of pain radiating through his body. He tries to focus, to push past the pounding in his head, but his thoughts are fragmented, jumbled into incoherence.
Then he feels it—small, trembling hands fumbling for his. Morgan. Her touch pulls him back, grounding him in the moment. Her fingers find his, clinging tightly, and the need to reassure her burns in his chest. He wants to squeeze her hand, to let her know he’s still here, still with her. But he forces himself to stay still, to keep playing unconscious. It’s their only advantage.
The world around him sharpens slightly as the truck door slams shut, sealing them in. The voices fade, leaving only silence. Peter waits, his ears straining for any sign of movement outside. When he’s sure they’re alone, he finally lets his eyes flutter open.
The dim light filtering through the cracks of the truck confirms what his ears already told him: they’re alone.
Morgan is pressed tightly against him, her small frame trembling like a leaf caught in a relentless storm. Her tear-streaked face burrows into his chest—Tony’s shirt, soft and familiar against his skin. It’s one of the old Stark Industries ones he’s borrowed a hundred times, a piece of home he’s never really thought about until now.
“P-P-Petey,” she sobs, her voice breaking into fractured syllables, her words jagged and raw. “I want Daddy.”
The plea hits him harder than any blow, sharp and relentless, carving deep into his chest. It’s a reminder of all the ways he’s failed her, failed Tony, failed himself. He rubs her back gently, his hand moving in slow, deliberate circles, the only comfort he can offer when every instinct in him is screaming to do more. Her cries vibrate against his chest, each one chipping away at the fragile calm he’s barely holding together.
“I know, Mo,” he whispers, his voice trembling under the weight of his own fear. “I know. I want him too.”
The words catch in his throat, heavy with unspoken desperation. I want him too. More than anything. Because Tony would know what to do. Tony always knows what to do. He’d stride in, calm and unbothered, his sharp tongue and quick wit deflating the tension in an instant. Peter can almost hear him now, muttering something snarky about “rookie kidnappers” before dismantling the entire operation like it was just another Tuesday. Tony would have a plan. Tony would fix this.
But Tony isn’t here. It’s just Peter. And Peter doesn’t feel like Spider-Man right now. He feels like the terrified kid he was before the bite, before the mask, before anyone believed he could be anything more than Puny Parker.
He pulls Morgan closer, wrapping his arms tightly around her trembling frame as if he can shield her from everything that’s gone wrong. Relief seeps through him when he realizes the kidnappers haven’t restrained him—a critical mistake that tells him one important thing: they don’t know who he is. They don’t know he’s Spider-Man.
That’s his advantage, and he’ll take it. It’s a lifeline in the chaos, a sliver of hope in a situation that feels increasingly hopeless.
“Shhh, Mo,” he murmurs, his voice shaking despite his best efforts to sound steady. “Shhh. I know you’re scared. I’m scared too.”
The confession slips out before he can stop it. It’s not something he’d ever planned to say, especially not to Morgan. But it’s the truth, and in this moment, honesty feels like the only thing he has left to give. He’s terrified—of what’s happened, of what’s coming next, of the thousand ways this could go wrong. He’s never been kidnapped before, never been this powerless. Without his suit, without the tools and gadgets that give him an edge, he feels small and exposed, every protective instinct screaming louder than his confidence.
But he can’t let her see how deep that fear runs. He’s the grown-up here, the one who’s supposed to know what to do. He has to be strong for her, even if the cracks in his armor are threatening to split wide open.
=
Peter has lost count of how many days it’s been since they were tossed onto the cold, unforgiving floor of the storage unit. Time has blurred into an endless stretch of misery, marked only by Morgan’s restless movements and the rhythmic drip of condensation from the rusted ceiling. The days bleed into nights, which bleed into more of the same, until Peter can’t tell if it’s been two days or ten.
There’s a single mattress shoved into the corner of the room, its faded fabric mottled with dark stains he doesn’t want to think about. The middle sags, groaning under the weight of whoever dares to sit on it. It spans almost the entire width of the unit, leaving little room to move, as though the walls themselves are closing in on them. Two threadbare blankets are crumpled on top—more holes than material, their questionable state a testament to how little the kidnappers care about their comfort.
But comfort isn’t a luxury Peter can afford to worry about. The December chill bites at their skin with a merciless edge, creeping in through every crack and seam in the metal walls. Dignity has no place here—not when the only thing standing between them and frostbite is wrapping those blankets tightly around Morgan every night.
He holds her close, her small body trembling against his as they huddle together for warmth. She shivers violently in her sleep, her face buried against his chest, and Peter feels like he’s failing her all over again. He should be able to keep her warm, keep her safe, keep her happy. But all he has are these filthy blankets and a growing desperation he can’t let her see.
The drip from the ceiling echoes like a clock ticking down, each drop a reminder of how little time he has to figure something out. Every beat of that sound feels like a hammer against his resolve, a cruel countdown to a disaster he doesn’t know how to prevent. He needs a plan. Desperately. But the weight of helplessness presses down on him, suffocating, every fleeting idea dissolving as quickly as it forms.
On the opposite side of the room sits the bucket—their only alternative to the bathroom they don’t have. At first, they’d avoided it entirely, stubbornly holding out for as long as they could. Morgan had clung to him, squirming and whining softly, her pride warring with her discomfort. Peter had encouraged her as best he could, trying to spin the situation into a game, but even his boundless creativity couldn’t mask the humiliating reality of their situation.
Morgan is only four, though. Her small body doesn’t understand stubbornness the way Peter does, and eventually, she couldn’t hold out any longer. The bucket now sits against the farthest wall, as far away from the mattress as Peter could manage, its presence a constant, miserable reminder of their lack of options.
On Peter’s worst days, he finds himself wishing the men would come back—just so they could take the bucket away, clean it, make this one unbearable aspect of their captivity slightly less awful. But then he remembers what their visits mean, and that wish dies before it fully forms.
They’ve only come back once since locking them in, and Peter isn’t in any hurry for a repeat. The bruises still blooming across his ribs and jaw are evidence enough of what their return entails. Every movement sends sharp, burning reminders of their cruelty radiating through his body, the aches a constant companion that keeps him from forgetting, even for a moment. He doesn’t need to relive it to know what to expect. But they left Morgan alone. That’s the one thing keeping him grounded—the one thing anchoring him when the urge to break apart feels overwhelming.
She’d cried, sobbing uncontrollably, her little body wracked with fear. Her cries had pierced the air, relentless and heartbreaking, and Peter had felt her pain in every bone, every nerve. But they hadn’t touched her. Not once.
Peter had taken everything they threw at him—their fists, their kicks, their sneers and insults. He’d let them hurt him in every way they could because the alternative was unthinkable. He’d take their brutality a hundred times over if it meant protecting her, if it meant keeping her safe. If his suffering was the price of Morgan’s untouched innocence, he’d pay it willingly, again and again.
But even that resolve doesn’t make his situation any less hopeless. Fighting back is a fantasy, the kind of reckless daydream he doesn’t have the luxury of indulging. There are three of them. One carries a gun. The odds are stacked too high against him, and he knows better than to waste his strength on futile heroics. Without his web shooters, without his suit, without Karen’s calm guidance in his ear, all Peter has is his raw strength, his speed, and his instincts. And even those aren’t enough—not without the absolute certainty that Morgan would make it out unharmed.
That’s the line he won’t cross, the risk he won’t take. Morgan is his priority, her safety the only thing that matters. So, for now, he’s stuck. Stuck in this metal box that feels smaller with every passing second, trapped between the mattress and the bucket, with nothing to work with. No tools. No options. No hope.
It’s just him and Morgan. And Peter knows he has to protect her, no matter what. But with each second that ticks by, each echoing drip from the ceiling, the walls feel like they’re closing in, and the weight of his responsibility feels heavier than he can bear.
“P-Petey?” Morgan’s small voice trembles in the oppressive silence, a fragile sound that cuts through the stillness like a whisper against glass. Her tiny frame quivers beneath the thin, patchy blankets, huddled close to Peter in their desperate attempt to stave off the biting chill. Their teeth chatter in unison, the sound echoing off the metal walls like a cruel metronome, each sharp click marking the seconds that drag endlessly on.
Peter tilts his head toward her, his heart already sinking. “Yeah, Mo?” he murmurs, his voice soft but laced with a weariness that feels like it’s seeping into his bones.
She hesitates, her little fingers twisting the edge of the blanket as though she’s afraid to speak the words already forming on her lips. “Do you think Daddy’s going to find us soon?”
Her question lands like a blow, harder than any punch Peter’s ever taken. His chest tightens, and for a moment, he can’t breathe. He freezes, his throat constricting as he searches for an answer that doesn’t feel like a lie. But what can he say? That he doesn’t know? That he’s scared, too? That every passing hour chips away at his hope, leaving him with less and less to hold onto?
In the suffocating darkness, Peter forces himself to breathe. He lets his eyes drift upward, his gaze tracing the metal ceiling of the container. But instead of seeing cold steel, he imagines stars dotting the expanse, forming constellations where there are none. He paints a night sky in his mind, bright and endless, a reminder of something bigger, something hopeful. Even if it’s only in their imaginations, it’s something to hold onto.
“Da—To... Your dad is Iron Man,” Peter says finally, his voice trembling slightly but steady enough to sound convincing. “Of course he’ll find us.”
Morgan shifts against him, her small body pressing closer. “Really?”
“Really,” he says, leaning his head down to nuzzle hers lightly. “Your dad’s the smartest, strongest guy I’ve ever met. He’s out there right now, probably flying all over the place, turning over every rock to find you. And you know what? He’s going to do it, Mo. He’s going to find us.”
The words are meant to comfort her, but Peter knows they’re as much for himself as they are for her. Because it’s been at least four days—he’s almost certain of that—and Tony still hasn’t found them. Peter doesn’t want to think about what that means. He doesn’t want to imagine what could be stopping Tony or how slim their odds must be if he hasn’t shown up yet.
Morgan’s voice pulls him back from the spiral of doubt. “Daddy always says he’s not scared of anything.” Her voice is soft, hopeful. “Is that why he’s not scared to come get us?”
Peter swallows hard, blinking against the sting in his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, forcing a small smile she can’t see but might hear in his voice. “That’s exactly why. And you know what else? I think you’re just like him.”
She peers up at him, her big, tear-filled eyes wide and searching. “I am?”
“Totally,” Peter says, giving her a gentle squeeze. “You’re brave, Mo. Even if you’re scared, you’re still being so brave. And that’s what makes you just like your dad.”
Morgan sniffs, her voice wobbling as she whispers, “But I don’t feel brave.”
“Being brave doesn’t mean not being scared,” Peter says, his voice softening. “It just means you keep going, even when you are. And that’s what you’re doing. You’re doing so good, Mo. I’m really proud of you.”
Her little hand grips the fabric of his shirt tightly, clinging to him as though he’s the only thing keeping her grounded. “Are you scared, Petey?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy and raw. Peter closes his eyes, his heart twisting. He wants to lie, to tell her no, to reassure her that everything’s fine. But he knows Morgan is too smart for that. She’ll hear the lie, and it will only make her more scared.
“Yeah,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared too. But you know what?”
“What?” she asks, her voice small and trembling.
“I’m not giving up,” he says firmly. “Your dad doesn’t give up, and I’m not going to either. We’re going to get through this, Mo. Together.”
“Together?” she echoes, her voice a little stronger now.
“Always,” Peter says, pulling her closer, his arms wrapping around her protectively. He can feel her start to relax against him, the tension in her small frame easing ever so slightly.
So he clings to the only truth he has left: Tony Stark is out there. And Tony Stark doesn’t give up.
Neither will Peter.