Wade Wilson sat hunched over his battered acoustic guitar in the tiny, cluttered living room of his New York apartment. Crumpled sheets of paper surrounded him like the remnants of a storm, each one bearing scratched-out lyrics, half-finished chords, and doodles of tacos and unicorns.
"Why is this sohard?" Wade groaned, raking a hand down his masked face. "I've written songs about everything—chimichangas, existential crises, that one time I accidentally set my guitar on fire—but now my brain's just... empty. Like my fridge."
He plucked a sour chord, grimacing as the sound vibrated through the room. Wade, a musician known for his eclectic style and chaotic performances, had been trying to write his next hit for weeks, but nothing stuck.
"You're washed up, Wilson," he muttered to himself. "Might as well start a career as a mime. They don't need inspiration, just invisible boxes."
The knock at his door came out of nowhere, startling him out of his self-pity spiral.
"Hold on, hold on," Wade called, stumbling over an amplifier as he made his way to the door. When he opened it, he found himself staring at a young man with a backpack slung over one shoulder, a nervous smile, and an air of mild exhaustion.
"Hi," the guy said, holding up a box of tools. "I'm Peter Parker. I'm here to fix your Wi-Fi?"
Wade blinked, momentarily speechless. The guy—Peter—was dressed like a typical tech support worker: jeans, sneakers, and a slightly rumpled hoodie. But there was something about him, something that practically it was the way his brown eyes sparkled when he smiled, or the faint blush creeping up his cheeks as Wade openly stared.
"Wi-Fi," Peter repeated, waving the box slightly. "You reported an issue last week?"
"Oh, right, yeah," Wade said, stepping aside to let him in. "Totally forgot about that. Not great with technology, you know. I mean, I can barely figure out my toaster."
Peter chuckled softly. "Well, I'll see what I can do."
As Peter moved to the corner of the room, pulling cables and tools from his kit, Wade found himself oddly captivated. The kid—no, not a kid, Wade corrected himself—was impossibly graceful for someone untangling wires, and the way he muttered under his breath as he worked was... adorable.
"Do you, uh, live here alone?" Peter asked, glancing at the chaos around him.
"Yup," Wade replied, plopping onto the couch. "Just me and my inner demons. And this guitar." He strummed the instrument dramatically, the discordant sound making Peter wince.
"Musician, huh?" Peter asked politely.
"Guilty," Wade said, grinning. "Or at least Iwasa musician. Lately, the ol' creative juices have been running dry."
Peter didn't respond, focused on his work. Wade watched him in silence for a moment before blurting, "You're cute."
Peter froze, his screwdriver halfway to the router. "Uh, thanks?"
"No, seriously," Wade continued, leaning forward. "You've got that whole 'earnest college guy' vibe going on. Like, you probably recycle and help old ladies cross the street. Am I right?"
Peter rolled his eyes but smiled. "I'm just a guy who fixes Wi-Fi."
"Don't sell yourself short, Parker," Wade said, sitting up. "You're way more than a Wi-Fi guy. You're... interesting."
Peter looked at him, his brow furrowing slightly. "Interesting?"
"Yeah," Wade said, gesturing wildly. "You've got that whole mysterious thing going on. Like, what's your deal? What's your story?"
Peter hesitated, then shrugged. "Not much to tell. I go to school, work a bunch of part-time jobs, and... that's pretty much it."
Wade's grin widened. "See? You're fascinating. Parker, you just became my new muse."
Peter blinked. "Your what?"
"My muse!" Wade repeated, grabbing his guitar. "You're gonna help me write my next song. No pressure, though. Just sit there and keep being you."
Peter stared at him, bewildered, as Wade started plucking at the strings.
Over the next hour, Wade alternated between strumming his guitar, scribbling lyrics, and asking Peter increasingly personal questions.
"What's your favorite color?"
"Uh, red, I guess?"
"Perfect. Red's the color of passion. That's going in the song. Next question: What's your biggest fear?"
Peter sighed, tightening the last cable on the router. "Why do you need to know that?"
"Because it's deep, Parker," Wade said, dramatically clutching his chest. "And great art is all about vulnerability."
Peter shook his head, but he couldn't help smiling. "Fine. Heights."
"Seriously?" Wade asked, strumming a minor chord. "You climb ladders for a living."
"I know," Peter said, shrugging. "Doesn't mean I like it."
Wade nodded sagely. "Fear of heights. Symbolic. You're afraid of falling. I can work with that."
Peter rolled his eyes and stood, dusting off his hands. "Alright, your Wi-Fi should be good now. Just, uh, don't unplug anything."
Wade set his guitar aside and walked him to the door. "Thanks, Parker. And hey, don't be a stranger."
Peter paused, his hand on the doorknob. "You're not serious about the muse thing, right?"
"Dead serious," Wade said, his tone uncharacteristically sincere. "You're inspiring. Don't know why, but you are."
Peter's cheeks flushed. "Uh, okay. Take care, Wade."
As the door closed behind him, Wade grabbed his guitar and started playing, a smile spreading across his face.
Wade couldn't stop thinking about Peter.
Over the next few days, the lyrics came easily—lines about quiet strength, unspoken fears, and the courage it took to keep going despite everything. Peter's words echoed in his mind, each detail sparking a new verse or melody.
Wade poured his heart into the song, the chords blending into something raw and beautiful. It wasn't his usual chaotic style—it was softer, more intimate.
When the song was finished, Wade didn't feel relief. He felt... nervous.
He needed Peter to hear it.
Tracking Peter down wasn't hard. Wade had noticed the logo on his backpack—a local college—and a few well-placed questions got him to the campus coffee shop where Peter worked.
"Wade?" Peter asked, looking up from the counter as Wade strolled in with his guitar slung over his back. "What are you doing here?"
"Playing you a song," Wade said, grinning.
Peter blinked. "Here?"
"Yup," Wade said, hopping onto a nearby stool. He strummed the opening chords, ignoring the confused stares of the other customers.
"Wade, I'm working—"
"Shh," Wade said, grinning. "Muse time."
The song filled the coffee shop, silencing the chatter as Wade sang. His voice was raw and surprisingly heartfelt, the lyrics weaving a story of courage, humor, and a quiet, unassuming strength.
By the time he finished, the room erupted into applause. Peter stood frozen behind the counter, his cheeks flushed and his eyes wide.
"That was..." Peter began, searching for the words.
"For you," Wade said simply. "Thanks for being my muse."
Peter stared at him for a moment before breaking into a shy smile. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're amazing," Wade said.
Peter didn't reply, but the warmth in his gaze said enough. Wade grinned, already thinking about his next song.