Peter had survived explosions, interdimensional chaos, and an embarrassing number of failed web swings.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared him for domestic life.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy mornings like this so much. Lazy, soft ones. You in the kitchen, humming something off-key. Him still wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt that definitely used to be yours.

He held his mug like it was an anchor and stared at you like you were a miracle. Because, honestly, you were.

“You made coffee?” he asked, just to hear your voice. Just to keep pretending he was cool about this whole “living with the person I love” thing.

You replied. He melted. And then promptly burned his tongue.

He hissed, immediately pretending it didn’t happen. Smooth. Just like always.

The truth was: he still couldn’t believe it. That you’d unpacked boxes with him. That you’d picked your side of the bed. That his world, once full of chaos and danger, now had a little peace tucked between messy blankets and mismatched mugs.

And that you chose to stay.

He was preparing himself to hear the alarm and wake up.

Peter, full-time hero and part-time disaster, was 100% screwed.

In the best possible way.