If Spider-Man had a dollar for every time he got trapped in a suspiciously small wooden box with someone during a mission… Well. He’d have one dollar. But that was still one too many.

“Okay,” he said, shifting uncomfortably as his knee knocked into something, maybe your stomach, maybe your soul, it was hard to tell in the pitch black. “This is officially worse than that time I got stuck in a crawlspace with six raccoons and a malfunctioning Roomba.”

The box creaked ominously. The air inside was hot, dry, and smelled like wood glue and crime scene regret.

Outside, you could vaguely hear the police tape being pulled, sirens fading, officers shouting things like “You got him?” and “We’ll get the others out in a second!”

Which meant the villain was caught. Mission successful.

You? Still trapped. With Spider-Man. Inside a glorified coffin for two.

He tried not to fidget. He failed.

“This is fine,” he muttered to no one in particular. “Totally fine. Two heroes. One box. Zero breathable personal space.”

It sounded like a cliché book prologue. He sighed.

A beat of silence.

Then, barely above a whisper, as if even the walls would judge him:

“…Is it weird that I kind of miss the raccoons?”