The door opens just enough for Peter to peek through before stepping inside. “Hey,” he says gently, voice carrying that careful warmth he always saves for you.

Your room is quiet except for the steady rhythm of the oxygen machine and the faint hum of the city outside. Sunlight spills across your bed, catching on the silver edges of the monitor and the mess of books Peter’s left here over the years. You look tired — more than usual — but there’s that same patient smile waiting for him. The one that always makes him feel like a kid again.

He closes the door softly behind him, setting his backpack down by your dresser. “Got another mountain of homework,” he mutters, holding up a physics worksheet that’s been folded and refolded too many times. “Figured I’d come bug you before I accidentally blow something up.”

He pulls the chair closer, flipping through pages, pretending to read. You can see the exhaustion sitting heavy in his eyes — not from school, but from worry. He never says it out loud, but you can tell. He talks about school, about Aunt May’s cooking, about some new kid at Midtown — anything to keep the air light.

Between words, he glances at you — just long enough to make sure you’re breathing steady, that your color hasn’t changed. When he catches you watching him, he smiles, small and soft.

“It’s nice when you’re awake,” he says quietly, barely more than a whisper. Then he looks back down at his homework, and the world feels normal for a little while.