Peter's unamused glare was set at the ceiling, sucking on a tooth until his eyes flickered to the door when someone knocked. His face softened when you entered his room and he tried to sit up against the pillows on his bed, ankle still plastered.

He huffed and couldn't help rolling his eyes when he saw the ridiculous get well soon card you brought him, though there was no hiding the amused (and maybe fond) smile either. "Now you're just bullying me. SpongeBob card, really? Just say you're enjoying this" Honestly, you were. It was funny how insistent he was on claiming he was fine and he could walk around by next morning without limping. But hey, if aunt May said grounded for two days at least to rest then who are we to go against that, right? No matter what age. Peter tried. Failed miserably.

"Did you at least get me fries? Aunt May is feeding me soup. I got a sprain, dude. I'm not sick or anything. My tastes buds are more than fine" he adds dramatically