Peter had been quieter than usual. You noticed the way his shoulders hunched when he came home, the way he pushed his food around at dinner, the way his eyes never quite met yours when you asked how school was.

It wasn’t until you were doing laundry one evening that you saw the truth: a shirt stuffed at the bottom of his hamper, stained and stretched, with “PUNY PARKER” scrawled across it in marker.

Your blood boiled.

“Peter,” you called, holding the shirt up as you stood in the doorway to his room.

He froze, caught mid-homework, his face draining of color. “I—it’s nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Your voice was firm, but not unkind. He bit his lip, eyes darting away.

Finally, he muttered, “It’s Flash. He just… he doesn’t stop. And Midtown doesn’t care. They just laugh it off.”