.ೃ࿔*:･𝐱𝐱𝐱𝐯𝐢𝐢. this love is difficult, but it's real

"𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐃."

The sound of her name, soft yet weighted with uncertainty, made her heart skip a beat. She didn’t need to look up to recognize the voice that had haunted her thoughts for so long. Peter was there, standing just a few feet away, close enough that she could feel his presence but far enough to remind her of the distance that had grown between them.

Ingrid sat at the back of the ship, trying to lose herself in the hum of the engines, but there was no escape from the inevitable. Peter's hands hung at his sides, his fingers fidgeting in that nervous way she remembered all too well. It was a small, familiar gesture that tugged at her chest. She knew this conversation was long overdue.

Her eyes darted around, searching for a way out, a distraction—anything. Tony and Stephen were deep in conversation on the other side of the ship, too far away to be of any use, even if they cared to intervene. Not that they would. This was between her and Peter, and she was painfully aware of that fact.

Finally, she looked up, meeting Peter's gaze. He was closer now, closer than she had realized. His brown eyes held a mixture of determination and fear, emotions that mirrored her own.

"Hey," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Strange was probably bluffing," Peter blurted out, his words rushed as if he needed to fill the space between them. "In case you're thinking about what he said earlier."

Ingrid blinked, momentarily confused, before the memory of the earlier conversation with Strange and Tony came flooding back. The weight of it settled in her chest like a stone. She swallowed, trying to push the fear down. "I'm not," she replied, her voice strained. But the lie was thin, even to her own ears. "And he wasn't."

Peter stood there, silent but steadfast, waiting for her to continue. His presence was both comforting and overwhelming, and it made her want to crawl out of her skin.

She took a shaky breath, her gaze falling to the cold metal floor. "I'm just... very bored," she admitted, though the words felt hollow compared to the turmoil in her heart. "I hate just sitting around doing nothing, but I left my backpack at Strange's place, so now I don't have my books or my journals." Her voice cracked, and she felt the sting of tears. "Oh God, if somebody touches my copy of Frankenstein... I've been annotating it since I was six, and—"

Her voice broke off, and she quickly raised a hand to her face, brushing away the tears that had escaped. She hadn't meant to cry. Not in front of him. Not now.

Before she could gather herself, Peter was next to her, crouching down so that they were eye-level. His hand found its way to her back, and he began tracing slow, soothing circles—a gesture so simple yet so intimate that it made her heart ache.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. It was as if all the words they couldn’t say were hanging in the air between them, thick with unspoken emotions.

"I'm sorry," Peter finally said, his voice soft and filled with regret. Ingrid's eyes fell to the floor again, the weight of his apology settling over her like a blanket. Peter shifted, lowering himself to sit beside her, the metal floor cold beneath them.

"I'm sorry for not reaching out after... we last saw each other," he continued, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. "I guess I thought you didn't want to see me."

Hearing him apologize—hearing the vulnerability in his voice—made something inside her crack open. The tightness in her chest loosened, if only slightly.

"I'm sorry, too," Ingrid began, her voice trembling slightly. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself before continuing. "I wanted to talk to you. I really did. But I knew I needed to stay away, Peter. Being with me while I'm on the run... it would only put you in danger. You don't deserve that."

Peter's eyes widened, a flash of frustration crossing his face. "But I don’t mind being in danger," he said, his voice rising with emotion. "If it means being with you, then I don’t mind at all."

"Then why did you leave after you kissed me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The question hung in the air like a heavy cloud. Peter’s gaze dropped to the floor, unable to meet her eyes.

"I’m sorry for that, too," he said, his voice now soft and filled with regret.

Ingrid swallowed, the knot in her throat tightening. "The whole time, I thought it was my fault," she confessed, her voice breaking. "That I did something wrong."

Peter’s head snapped up, panic in his eyes. "No, no, no," he said quickly, shaking his head as if trying to banish the very thought. "I promise, it wasn’t you. I was just... confused. And overwhelmed, I guess." He offered a small, almost sheepish smile, as if he could lighten the weight of his words with that simple gesture.

Seeing him smile, however faintly, made Ingrid’s heart ache with something she couldn’t quite name. Despite everything, she couldn’t help but smile back. "Yeah, you’ll have to get used to it. Everything's confusing and overwhelming in my life," she said, her voice tinged with a mix of humor and sadness.

"Anything for you," Peter blurted out, the words escaping before he could stop them. A moment of silence followed, thick with the unspoken meaning behind his words. They both looked away, the air between them buzzing with unaddressed feelings.

Finally, Peter cleared his throat. "So, are we okay?" he asked, his voice soft and tentative, as if he feared the answer.

Ingrid looked at him, really looked at him, and in that moment, she realized how much she had missed him—missed this. "Yeah," she said, nodding slowly, as if reassuring herself as much as him. "We’re okay."

Ingrid sighed deeply, leaning her head against Peter's shoulder. The silence between them stretched on, not uncomfortable but filled with a thousand unsaid words. It was as if they were both savoring the rare peace, trying to hold onto it before the chaos inevitably returned.

Finally, Peter broke the silence, his voice hesitant. "What do you think..." He started, but the thought seemed to slip away as he spoke. He paused, unsure, and Ingrid lifted her head to look at him, her eyes encouraging him to continue.

"What do you think about when all of this is over...you and your dad coming over for dinner with me and my aunt?" he finished, the words tumbling out in a rush as if he feared he might lose the nerve to say them.

The unexpected suggestion caught Ingrid off guard, and before she could stop herself, a burst of giggles escaped her lips. She quickly covered her face with her hands, embarrassed by her reaction. "What?" Peter asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. He clearly hadn’t anticipated laughter.

Ingrid shook her head, still giggling. "It'll be so awkward," she managed to say between fits of laughter.

"But it will be nice!" Peter insisted, trying to paint the picture in a better light. His excitement was palpable, and Ingrid couldn’t help but find it endearing. "It'll be normal," he added, his voice softening as he imagined it. "We’ll eat in awkward silence and talk about my aunt’s cooking like it’s the best thing ever."

The thought of such a painfully ordinary dinner, filled with small talk and forced politeness, made Ingrid laugh even more. "We'll miss so many social cues," she giggled, the absurdity of it all striking her as both hilarious and strangely appealing.

Peter grinned, clearly enjoying seeing her like this. "And we'll pretend to be normal," he added, the smile on his face broadening at the thought. The idea of normalcy was almost laughable given their circumstances, but that only made it more appealing.

Ingrid wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, still smiling. "Can Natasha come?"

Peter nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, of course," he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "If you want to subject her to that level of torture."

Ingrid’s eyes sparkled with amusement. "If I have to do it, so does she," she declared, her voice full of mock seriousness.

They both laughed, the sound filling the space around them. For a moment, it was as if the weight of their situation had lifted, replaced by the simple joy of imagining a future where awkward dinners and forced small talk were their biggest concerns.