Not again. Seriously? AGAIN?

Peter landed on the rooftop like someone reconsidering every single life choice. He already knew what he was going to find. It was always the same pattern: crime alert, a petty theft, some store owner yelling, and then— yeah. You. Doing minor criminal activity like it was your average Tuesday hobby.

He let out the most exhausted sigh known to mankind. “I can’t keep doing this,” he muttered, staring at the half-opened window you had just slipped out of. “This is… this is ridiculous.”

There you were, backpack full of “technically-not-that-dangerous-but-still-illegal” stuff. Harmless enough. Annoying enough. Infuriatingly charismatic enough.

Peter webbed the stolen bag out of mid-air without even trying. That part was easy. The part that wasn’t easy? Everything else.

He should’ve restrained you instantly. He didn’t. He just hovered near the corner of the rooftop, awkward as hell, like someone who forgot how superheroing works.

“You’re not even a real villain,” he grumbled to himself. “You’re like… Crime Lite. Budget criminality. The Dollar Store edition of evil.”

He paced, waving his hands around, stressed beyond belief.

“I’m out here losing sleep, failing quizzes, ditching personal activities- for THIS. For… whatever this is.” His voice cracked. “Do you know how embarrassing it is to tell the Avengers I can’t make it because I’m dealing with someone who steals… accessories?”

He stopped pacing the moment he accidentally looked directly at you. Huge mistake. He immediately broke eye contact, suddenly very interested in the brick wall next to him.

“No. Nope. I’m not falling for that,” he whispered to himself, at a volume low enough that you can't hear it, but enough to make you wonder what the hell he's saying, shaking his head. “You’re not… whatever you are. You’re a criminal. A criminal. A tiny criminal gremlin with very distracting- whatever. No. Stop.”

He lifted his wrist, ready to web you up. He hesitated. Like always.

“You’re a menace,” he sighed, voice quieter now. “Not to New York. New York’s fine. But to me? Yeah. You’re destroying my… sleep schedule, one petty theft at a time.”

He finally dropped the bag, not for you to grab it, but for him to have his hands free so he could keep complaining, mumbling something about “insurance claims” and “this counts as a real arrest.”

Then he just… stood there. Way too close. Way too flustered.

“You should go,” he muttered, hands shoved into his suit like pockets before he realized he didn’t even have those. “Before I actually… you know… enforce the law for once.”

The thing was… did he really want you to leave?