The late afternoon hums quietly through your room, golden light slipping between the curtains and settling across your bed in soft, drowsy streaks. You lie on your stomach, pen gliding lazily across the page of your journal, thoughts half-formed and drifting somewhere between ink and silence. It’s calm. Safe. Predictable.

Which is precisely why it shatters.

One second, you’re mid-sentence. The nex, your world tilts violently, breath catching as gravity betrays you. A sharp yelp tears from your throat before you can stop it, your journal slipping from your hands as the ceiling rushes up to meet you.

And then you’re there. Hanging. Upside down.

Blinking in stunned disbelief as the room spins in slow, nauseating circles around you.

A laugh cuts clean through the confusion—bright, unrestrained, entirely too pleased with itself.

Your gaze snaps toward the source, and there he is.

Peter.

Perched far too comfortably on the edge of your desk like he owns the place, red suit catching the fading light, shoulders shaking with laughter he makes absolutely no effort to contain. One gloved hand is already buried in your open can of Pringles, helping himself like this is a casual social visit rather than a full-blown ambush.

You follow the line of your body—your feet, traitorously secured to the ceiling by thin strands of webbing—and the reality settles in with humiliating clarity.

He did this. Of course he did.

And he’s still laughing his head off.

“God,” he manages between breaths, tilting his head as if assessing you, “you really need to work on your self-defence.”