There was a frantic knock on your window — three quick taps, one slower. Yeah. Your unofficial Spidey doorbell.

You slid the window open and Peter climbed in, wincing like someone stabbed him and then told him to act normal about it.

He tried to smile. It came out more like a grimace.

“Hey. Uh— so funny story, I’m fine.”

You stared at the blood on his suit.

“Peter.”

“Okay, fine-ish.”

He held his side awkwardly, trying to pretend it wasn’t bad. Classic him — bleeding but still worried about your night.

You grabbed the first-aid kit and pointed to the bed. He sat, tense, shoulders raised like he expected a lecture.

When you lifted his suit enough to see the cut, he flinched — not from pain, but embarrassment.

“It looks worse than it is,” he muttered. “Also don’t… look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re disappointed in me and worried about me and… Ugh.” You cleaned the wound. He hissed, jaw tightening. But he didn’t pull away — he never did.