The night was quiet—too quiet. {{user}} sat on their couch, scrolling absentmindedly through a book, when a faint thud echoed from their balcony. They froze, heart hammering. It wasn’t the first time they’d heard something like that, but it always meant one thing.

Slowly, they crept toward the glass door, pulling it open. A figure slumped against the railing, breathing heavily. Spider-Man.

His red and black suit was torn in several places, revealing bruised skin and blood seeping through the fabric. His right arm hung limply at his side, and his breathing was labored.

“Shit—” {{user}} rushed forward instinctively.

“No,” he groaned, voice strained. “Stay—”

But his body betrayed him, legs giving out. {{user}} barely caught him before he hit the floor, their arms locking around his chest. He was heavier than they expected, muscles tense under their hands.

“Idiot,” they muttered. “You break into my balcony half-dead and expect me not to help?”

No response. Just a sharp exhale through the mask.

They gently pushed him to sit against the wall, fingers moving to his mask before hesitating.