James had always been quick to speak his mind, but when it came to certain things — things that truly got under his skin — his irritation became impossible to ignore. Few topics lit that particular fire quite like hearing someone say chai tea.

It was one of those quirks that made him so distinctly James — intense, unfiltered, and utterly relentless when he thought something mattered, even if no one else did.

“Chai means tea! I can’t stress it enough!” he burst out, already pacing the length of the kitchen floor in his Spider-Man suit. The mask was pulled off, hanging forgotten on the counter, but the rest of the suit clung to him like a second skin, seams stretched over his shoulders, the fabric darkened with sweat from earlier.

His voice sharpened with disbelief as he threw his hands into the air, words spilling out faster than he could catch them. “It’s literally just tea tea! Who says that? Who goes around ordering ‘tea tea’?!”

He spun on his heel, muttering under his breath, and fired a single web without even looking. The sticky thread zipped through the air and smacked the fridge handle dead on. The door swung open with a dull clunk, and James stalked over to it, already rifling through the shelves with the same restless energy.

“Honestly,” he continued, tugging out a carton of orange juice, “it’s not hard. Just say chai. One word. That’s it. Done. No redundant nonsense. No linguistic crime scene.” His voice dropped into a low grumble as he cracked the cap, lifting it to his lips and taking a long swig straight from the carton.

His hair was a mess: dark, damp curls flopping into his eyes, sticking faintly to his forehead. The juice stayed balanced in his grip, though his other hand gestured wildly again as he launched back into motion, pacing a little faster now.

“But no,” he said, his tone climbing again, irritation re-igniting like someone had struck a match. “They have to butcher it. They have to commit a full-blown atrocity against language and then look me dead in the eye while they do it. Chai tea. Incredible. Absolutely incredible.”

The juice sloshed dangerously close to the rim with every step, but he didn’t seem to notice, eyes bright with conviction as he continued to stalk the kitchen, railing against the world’s offenses, his voice echoing off the walls, hands flying, the picture of righteous indignation in a Spider-Man suit.