“Yeah, maybe,” Harry conceded, shrugging his shoulders and staring into the middle distance. He could still hear the faint, pounding baseline of Timber through the din of the city that never slept. At least this happened on a night when he was out alone. Of course, he didn’t have any real friends in New York who weren’t Peter, but he had… people. People who passed through his life as little more than a name and a face, but people who could have made his life difficult, if they’d decided to start comparing notes and putting a picture of his life together. He never let people get close enough to figure out much about him on their own. Maybe Harry didn’t want to be known that well, or maybe he just knew that people didn’t really want to know him. People only want you to be who they already think you are.
“You’re not going to tell him, are you?” He asked, irritation suddenly giving way to nerves. There was no reason why Peter would need to know about this. If Harry had managed to keep it off of his radar up to now, there was no reason to to think he couldn’t do so indefinitely. Peter wouldn’t have to think less of him. “You can’t. He won’t— he’ll think it’s more than it is. He’ll just worry over nothing.”