The bell over the door jingled, and Peter Parker glanced up from the espresso machine, a practiced smile already on his face. His coffee shop,Brewing Marvels, was his pride and joy—a cozy corner of the city that smelled of roasted beans, warm pastries, and the faint lavender of the diffuser he kept behind the counter.

The morning rush had come and gone, leaving the shop pleasantly quiet. A few regulars lingered at the tables, sipping their drinks or tapping away on laptops. Peter adjusted his apron, savoring the calm.

That calm shattered with the sound of blaring heavy metal.

The walls shook as a screeching guitar riff ripped through the air, loud enough to drown out the gentle hum of the café's indie playlist. Peter winced, the sound reverberating through his teeth.

It was the third day in a row.

Peter set down the latte he was making and marched out the door, his jaw tight. Next door, the offending tattoo shop,Inked Immortals, had its front door propped open, the music blasting from speakers mounted just inside. A new banner hung above the door, proclaiming its grand opening.

Peter hesitated on the sidewalk, torn between annoyance and curiosity. He hadn't met the new owner yet, but he was about to.

He stepped inside, immediately assaulted by the sound of growling vocals. The interior was stark and industrial—metal accents, black walls, and a faint smell of ink and antiseptic. A man was leaning against the counter, his back to Peter, wearing a leather jacket and ripped jeans. His head bobbed along to the music as he inspected a clipboard.

"Excuse me!" Peter called, raising his voice over the noise.

The man turned, and Peter's breath caught.

Wade Wilson.

Wade was grinning, his scarred face lit up with a mischievous energy Peter remembered all too well from their shared high school years. They hadn't seen each other in ages, but Wade was impossible to forget.

"Baby boy!" Wade shouted, his voice cutting through the music as easily as his katanas used to cut through their gym class bullies' intimidation. "What are you doing here? Looking to get inked?"

Peter blinked, momentarily thrown off. "What—no! Wade, you own this place?"

"Damn right I do!" Wade gestured grandly. "Isn't it beautiful? I call itgrunge chic. It's like a rock concert had a baby with a tattoo needle."

Peter resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Your music is rattling the cups off my shelves."

Wade tilted his head, as if noticing the volume for the first time. "Oh. That explains the old lady who gave me the finger this morning. Hang on."

He reached for a remote and turned the music down—though not by much.

"Better?" he asked, leaning on the counter.

Peter crossed his arms. "Barely. Wade, I run a coffee shop. People come to relax. This..."—he gestured to the shop—"is not relaxing."

Wade smirked, his gaze sweeping over Peter in a way that made him feel uncomfortably warm. "Relaxation is overrated. But, hey, I'll compromise. How about we switch it to punk rock?"

Peter groaned. "Wade..."

"Alright, alright," Wade said, holding up his hands. "I'll keep it chill during your hours. But only because you're cute when you're mad."

Peter blinked, his cheeks flushing. "What?"

"Nothing!" Wade said innocently, though his grin didn't waver. "Anything else I can do for you, Petey?"

Peter huffed, spinning on his heel and heading back to his café. "Just keep it down, Wilson."

Wade's laughter followed him out the door.

The days that followed were... interesting. Wade kept his word—mostly. The heavy metal wasn't gone, but it was at least muffled, and he'd started switching to softer playlists during Peter's busiest hours.

It wasn't long before the two of them fell into a strange rhythm. Wade would pop into the café every morning for a black coffee ("None of that caramel macchiato nonsense!"), chatting with Peter as he waited. He flirted shamelessly, always leaving Peter flustered and pretending to be annoyed.

Peter found himself looking forward to it.

One afternoon, Wade wandered in during a lull, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder. He leaned against the counter, watching Peter clean the espresso machine.

"Why coffee?" Wade asked suddenly.

Peter looked up, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Why'd you open this place?" Wade gestured around the café. "You could've done anything. Like become a scientist. Or a librarian. Or a crime-fighting vigilante in your spare time."

Peter chuckled. "It's a long story."

Wade shrugged. "I've got time."

Peter hesitated, but there was something about Wade's easy smile that made him want to share. "After my uncle died, I wanted to do something that felt... meaningful. He loved coffee shops—said they brought people together. So, I used what little savings I had to open this place. It's small, but it works."

Wade's grin softened. "That's... kinda beautiful, actually. Uncle Ben would be proud."

Peter blinked. "You remember my uncle?"

"Of course," Wade said. "He used to let me crash on your couch when my dad was being a dick. Good guy."

Peter smiled, a warmth spreading through his chest. "Yeah. He was."

They lapsed into silence, the kind that felt comfortable rather than awkward. Wade tapped his fingers on the counter, glancing at the menu board.

"You know," Wade said, breaking the quiet, "you never answered my text in high school."

Peter frowned. "What text?"

"The one where I asked if you wanted to hang out," Wade said, his voice light but tinged with something Peter couldn't quite place. "Thought maybe we had a vibe back then. Guess not."

Peter stared at him, his heart skipping a beat. "Wade, I... I didn't get that text."

Wade raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? I sent it. 'Hey, Peter, wanna grab pizza? Also, I think you're cute, so don't freak out.' Ring a bell?"

Peter's face turned red. "I never got it. And—you thought I was cute?"

"Still do," Wade said, grinning.

Peter opened his mouth, but no words came out. His mind raced, a mix of confusion, embarrassment, and something else entirely.

Wade's grin softened. "Hey, no pressure, Parker. Just thought you should know."

Peter swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. "Wade... do you want to grab pizza? After work?"

Wade's eyes lit up. "You asking me on a date, Baby boy?"

"Maybe," Peter said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Wade leaned closer, his grin wide and genuine. "I thought you'd never ask."

That evening, as they closed their respective shops, Wade was waiting outside Peter's café with a lopsided grin and two helmets.

"Motorcycle?" Peter asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Only the best for you," Wade said, handing him a helmet. "Let's ride, Baby boy."

Peter laughed, the sound light and unrestrained. For the first time in a long time, he felt like things were falling into place.

As they sped off into the city, the world felt full of possibility.