the door wasn’t locked. it should’ve been.

you push it open without thinking, half-distracted, calling his name— “pete, have you seen my—”

your voice cuts off. because peter parker is in the middle of pulling his shirt over his head, curls messily flattened, back muscles flexing you weren’t prepared for, jeans half-buttoned, skin warm and flushed like he rushed changing.

he freezes.

you freeze.

his shirt is bunched around his arms, leaving him trapped like a deer in headlights—wide-eyed, pink-cheeked, breath caught in his throat.

“i— i— i wasn’t— you weren’t— the door— why didn’t you knock?!” he blurts, voice cracking in three different places.

you blink once. slowly. then smirk.

“wow, peter. didn’t know you were hiding that under the nerd shirts.”

his face goes scarlet immediately, like he might actually combust.

he yanks the shirt down wrong-side-out, stumbles, nearly trips over his own feet, then squeaks, “c-can you— can you leave so i can finish being humiliated in peace?!”

you lean on the doorframe, very intentionally not leaving.

“this is fun. i should walk in on you more often.”

he makes a noise. a strangled, dying-animal noise. “please don’t. i will literally explode.”

and the worst part— he’s kind of cute like this. flustered, fumbling, trying not to look at you while very aware you saw more of him than you ever have.