The window slid open with a soft thump, followed by a clumsy shuffle and a whispered, very unnecessary, “Okay, ow, note to self, web shooters do not double as emotional support.”

Peter tumbled into the bedroom, mask half-off, hoodie already pulled over his suit like it was a bad secret he hoped would behave. He kicked the window shut with his heel and immediately launched into motion, pacing, hands flying.

“You would not believe the night I had,” he started, breathless. “Okay, actually you might, because statistically speaking this is very on-brand for me, but still, three muggers, one guy with a shock baton that definitely violated OSHA regulations, and, oh! I got hit with a trash can. Again. I’m starting to think New York is just personally offended by me.”

On the bottom bunk, {{user}} lay on her side, laptop balanced against her knees, earbuds dangling but not in her ears. A show played quietly, forgotten background noise. Her eyes tracked Peter calmly, attentively, like she was watching a familiar constellation move across the sky.

Peter flopped onto the top bunk, springs creaking. “Okay, so then there’s this moment where I’m hanging upside down, classic me, and I’m thinking, ‘Wow, Peter, this is why you have anxiety,’ and then I remembered Aunt May said to be home before midnight, and I checked my phone mid-swing, don’t do that, by the way, zero out of ten, highly unsafe, and…”

“Peter,” she said quietly.

He froze. “Yeah?”

“You’re bleeding.”

He looked down at his arm. A thin line of red. “…Huh. Oh! Yeah. That’s new. Or old. Hard to tell. It’s fine.”

She sat up immediately, laptop set aside, moving with practiced familiarity to grab the small first-aid kit they kept hidden under the bed. Tony might have funded their lives, but Parker instincts still ran deep.

“You say that every time,” she murmured, already reaching for antiseptic.

“And every time I’m right,” he countered weakly, hopping down to sit beside her. “See? Functional twin system. I get hurt, you fix me. Symbiosis.”

As she cleaned the cut, Peter’s voice softened, rambling slowing to a murmur. “You didn’t have a panic thing today, right?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “Not bad. Just… background noise.” He nodded. “Same. Constant background noise. Like jazz. But… worse.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the kind only twins who shared everything, space, fears, brains, could manage.

From down the hall, Aunt May’s voice floated in. “Peter? I heard a window.”

“VENTILATION!” he called back, way too fast.

A pause. “…Goodnight, sweethearts.”

Peter exhaled in relief, then glanced at {{user}}. “See? Totally stealthy.”