The air hummed with half-finished thoughts and over-brewed coffee — the rhythm of Insight returning to life.
Peter Parker pushed open the glass door, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Two days away felt like two months. He expected silence, but the second he crossed the threshold, Danny popped his head up from behind a monitor.
"Well, look who finally crawled out of the grave!"
Clara glanced over her glasses. "Even if you're a ghost, Parker, we'll need your approval on this week's headlines from the afterlife."
Mark, leaning against the printer, raised his coffee. "We've been sitting on the Oscorp afterword story waiting for your signature, boss. Paper's starting to fossilize."
Peter smiled — genuinely this time. "Nice to see you all really missed me and not my approval."
"Missed our paychecks, more like," Clara muttered, though her smirk betrayed affection.
Behind them, Alison adjusted a telephoto lens and snapped a candid shot of the group, the shutter clicking like punctuation. "First front-page story back: Local Editor Resurrected After Two-Day Coma."
Peter chuckled. "Print it. Might sell more copies."
Felicia Hardy, perched on the edge of her desk near the whiteboard calendar, crossed her legs and grinned. "About time, Editor-in-Chief. We were about to replace you with the kid that doesn't brood."
Peter dropped his bag on his desk. "Ethan doesn't have my charm."
"Or your absentee record," she teased, brushing a strand of silver-blonde hair behind her ear.
The banter flowed, natural as breathing. And for the first time since the break-up, Peter didn't feel like he was faking it. Meeting Leah, seeing that spark of belief in her eyes, had shaken something loose in him — the heaviness of guilt, the ache of loss. The world was still broken, but he didn't have to be. Sometimes you forget things like that.
He exhaled, rolled up his sleeves, and leaned over the main conference table where proofs of the Insight issue were scattered. "All right, let's get this train moving."
Danny brought up the headline on the main monitor: The Cost of Power: Oscorp's Fallout.
"Lead image?" Peter asked.
Alison spun her laptop around. A photograph filled the screen: an Oscorp warehouse, half-collapsed, dawn light filtering through smoke. In the foreground, a firefighter carried a soot-covered boy to safety. The boy's hand reached backward, toward the burning "O" of the Oscorp sign.
Peter nodded slowly. "That's perfect. You caught the whole story in one frame."
Alison shrugged, modest but proud. "You said to look for humanity, not spectacle."
"And you nailed it."
Clara flipped through print proofs. "Text's finalized. We have statements from the displaced workers and confirmation from City Hall about the missing persons records that happened on that day."
Mark added, "Printing's ready once you sign off. But the presses have been cold for forty-eight hours. We'll need a clean go-ahead."
Peter drew a red pen from his pocket — habit, muscle memory — and circled a paragraph. "Move this quote higher. Start with the people affected, not the politicians."
Clara made the edit. "Done."
He scribbled his initials on the proof and looked up. "All right, folks. Light the fire. Let's bring Insight back to life."
Mark punched the air. "Finally!"
Danny grinned. "Told you he'd show up eventually."
As the team dispersed to their stations, the newsroom began to buzz again — printers whirring, phones ringing, keyboards clacking. Alison hoisted her camera strap over her shoulder and headed for the elevator.
"Where are you off to?" Peter asked.
"Need street shots for the sidebar — real faces, not just the damage. People rebuilding."
Peter smiled. "You always know what story we're really telling."
She winked. "That's why you keep me around."
Hours later, the sun had dipped below the skyline, leaving the office washed in gold and shadow. The others had gone home. Only Peter and Felicia remained.
He sat at his desk, scrolling through the online layout for errors. Felicia leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him.
"Never pegged you for the stay-late type," she said softly.
"I'm making up for lost time."
She smirked. "Good. I was starting to think you'd forgotten how to enjoy work that doesn't involve stealing secrets or punching billionaires in the face."
He laughed quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe I just needed a reminder."
Her expression softened. "You look… lighter."
Peter shrugged. "Met someone who reminded me that heroism isn't about the mask. Sometimes it's just about showing up."
"Deep," she said with a crooked grin. "You should write that down."
He looked up at her, studying the way the city lights from the window framed her face. For once, Felicia Hardy looked almost nervous.
"What?" she asked, catching his gaze.
"Nothing," he said. "It's just weird seeing you nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"Really? You're fidgeting."
"I'm adjusting my sleeve," she lied, then sighed. "Fine. Maybe I'm a little nervous. Happy?"
Peter leaned back, folding his arms. "Very."
She stepped closer, tilting her head. "You know, you shouldn't tease a woman with claws."
"Feels fair," he said. "You've been teasing me for years."
She blinked — then laughed softly, tension slipping from her shoulders. "Touché."
Peter stood, closing the gap between them. The hum of the city below faded until only their breathing filled the space.
"I missed this," she said quietly.
"Which part?"
"The part where it's simple. Just you, me, and a room full of bad coffee."
He smiled. "You make it sound romantic."
"Depends who's making the coffee," she said, brushing his hand as she passed.
Peter caught her wrist gently. "Felicia—"
She met his eyes, daring him. "What?"
He kissed her — not a desperate act or a rebound, but something deliberate and slow. The world didn't tilt or explode; it just… settled.
When they broke apart, Felicia's breath caught. "You're not just doing this because of her, are you? Because of Mary Jane?"
Peter shook his head. "No. I'm doing it because I want to."
For a moment she looked as if she might say something else, then smiled instead. "Then don't stop."
Downstairs, a low rumble started — the printing presses roaring back to life for the first time in days. Felicia leaned against Peter's chest, listening.
He smiled. "I haven't felt this happy in a long time."
"Me too," she murmured.
He chuckled, pressing his forehead to hers. "Maybe this was how it was always meant to be."
Felicia pulled back, glancing at the monitors where the new front page glowed in digital blue. The headline scrolled across the screen:
THE CITY DESERVES THE TRUTH.
She traced the words with a fingertip. "Guess that's your story now."
Peter looked at her, warmth flickering behind his tired eyes. "I want to make it a good one."
She smirked. "You're in charge of what we write. I can sneak into lots of places and take secret photographs. The world won't know what hit it."
"Deal."
The door chimed. Alison returned, camera in hand, cheeks wind-burned from the cold. "Got your people shots," she said, dropping a memory card on Peter's desk. "You're gonna love them — hope your new couple portrait isn't off the record."
Felicia blinked. "You—"
Alison grinned wickedly. "Don't worry. I only took one."
Peter laughed, shaking his head. "You never miss a story, do you?"
"Not when it's standing right in front of me," she said, slinging her camera strap back over her shoulder. "Night, boss."
As she left, Peter turned to Felicia, who was still blushing faintly.
"She's never going to let us live that down," he said.
Felicia smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Good. Maybe it's about time someone caught us in focus."