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You set your mug down before yanking your jumper tighter around your shoulders, and head into the corridor. The hallway smells of damp carpet. You step up to 4B, fold your knuckles, and rap four beats against the door.

A violent rustle erupts inside.

Someone scrambles blindly over a piece of furniture, trips, curses under their breath, and finally unlatches the deadbolt. The door opens a paltry three inches, held fast by the brass security chain.

Peter Parker peers out through the vertical gap. His curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat, a fresh purple streak blooming right along his jawline. He looks as though he had just finished wrestling.

“Hey,” he rasps, voice sounding like he swallowed a handful of gravel. He pulls a faint, utterly hopeless squint, resting his forehead lightly against the edge of the door. “Is... is everything alright out there?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” you say, leaning your side against the doorframe. “Considering you sound like you’re tossing all sorts of things around your flat.”

Peter winces, his hand tightening on the edge of the timber. “Right. Sorry. I just... lost my balance.” he nods, more to himself than to you. “My shoelaces were untied.”

“Your shoelaces.”

“Yeah. Double knot failed me.”

“Right. And the shoelaces hit you in the face?”

Silence fills the corridor. Peter blinks, his brain clearly grinding its gears to manufacture a backup lie, but the bone deep exhaustion in his eyes catches up to him. He lets out a defeated breath that rustles his messy fringe. “It was a very aggressive knot.”

“You are a dreadful liar.” Your eyes drop to his knuckle where he grips the door. “Is everything okay? You look like you’ve been through it.”

“Appreciate the honesty.”

“I’m serious. You look about one breath away from collapsing onto the floor.” You turn on your heel without waiting for his rebuttal. “Don’t lock the door.”

You disappear into your kitchen, grabbing a make shift ice pack that is frozen peas wrapped in a towel out of the freezer compartment. When you return, Peter hasn’t moved an inch, though his eyelids are half closed, his weight propped against the doorframe just to stay upright.

You shove the wrapped pack through the narrow gap, causing him to jolt back to life. He fumbles it, his rough fingers scraping against yours as he secures a grip.

“Hold it against your face.” you order, stepping back. “And if you’re going to keep dragging yourself home in pieces at midnight, at least learn how to fall properly.”

A crooked smirk cuts through his exhaustion, tugging at the corner of his split lip. “I’ll uh add soft landings to my list.”

“Do that.” You tap the wood of his door with a knuckle.

“Night,” he calls out, his tone dropping into something surprisingly quiet as you turn away.

You don’t linger to watch him shut the door, but the click of the lock follows you back to your flat, accompanied by the muffled sound of him finally sliding down against the wall to rest.

Three nights later, the knock comes on your door.

It's a tentative, almost apologetic tap—two soft thuds against the timber at a quarter past one in the morning.

You pull your headphones down around your neck, shoving your laptop aside on the sofa before padding over. When you swing the door open, Peter is standing in the dim light of the corridor, looking remarkably clean compared to his last appearance. His curls are damp from the rain outside, and the purple bruise along his jawline from earlier in the week has already faded to a dull yellow.

A ridiculously fast recovery that you brush off.

In his hands, folded into a neat, lopsided square, is your towel.

“I washed it,” he explains immediately. “And I bought my own ice pack. A proper gel one this time. So your frozen peas are safe.”

You take the laundered cloth with a slow tilt of your head. “You know it’s past one, right? Normal people exchange laundry during daylight hours.”

“Yeah, well, my schedule isn’t exactly normal,” he admits, shifting his weight between his feet. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers tangling briefly in his messy hair. “Plus, I saw the light under your door. Figured you were still awake.”

“I work better when everything else has settled,” you shrug. “What’s your excuse?”

Peter offers a small, self deprecating grin, though his eyes wander past you into the warm glow of your flat. “Odd jobs. Whatever pays cash under the table. Late night shifts keep me out of people’s way.”

He shifts again, and as he does, a sharp wince catches in his throat. His left shoulder hitches up unnaturally high, his right hand instantly snapping up to brace his elbow.

You don’t miss the subtle flinch. “What did you do now?”

“Nothing,” he says a fraction too fast, eyes locking back onto yours. “Just pulled something. Lifting heavy boxes.”

“Heavy boxes.” You raise a brow and take a step back into your entryway, leaving the door wide open. “Come in.”

Peter hesitates on the threshold, his eyes widening slightly. “Oh, no, I really don’t want to bother you–”

“You’re already bothering me by standing there,” you cut in, heading straight for the kitchen counter. “In. Before the cold freezes the whole flat.”

With a quiet exhale, he steps across the entryway. Having him inside your tiny space immediately alters the air. He’s broader than his oversized clothes let on, his presence instantly filling the narrow entry. He stands awkwardly by the coat rack, his lips forming into a thin line as he watches you retrieve a tub of muscle rub from a cabinet.

“Shirt stays on, don’t worry,“ you break the silence, turning back to face him with the jar in hand. “Just turn around and sit on the edge of the sofa.”

Peter blinks, a charming flush creeping up from the collar of his jumper, tinting his face a faint pink. “You really don’t have to do this–”

“I know I don’t,” you answer, gesturing toward the cushions. “Sit.”

Peter sinks onto the cushion, perching on the absolute edge. You sit down beside him on the sofa, unscrewing the small jar in your hands. The crisp scent of eucalyptus instantly fills the space between you.

“Lean forward,” you instruct, rubbing a dollop of the cool cream across your palms. “And try to actually relax for five seconds.”

Peter ducks his head without argument, resting his elbows on his knees. His messy curls drop over his forehead, exposing the skin at the nape of his neck. When you press your hands against the base of his neck, working your thumbs into his left shoulder through the wool of his jumper, he stiffens instantly. A ragged breath hitches in his chest, his whole frame going solid beneath your touch. It’s like pressing your hands into solid granite. Beneath the knitwear, there is no give—just dense hard muscle wrapped tight with strain.

“Breathe, Peter,” you murmur, digging your thumbs in harder to work around a stubborn knot near his shoulder blade. “I’m not gonna break you.”

“Right. Yeah,” he rasps, though his knuckles turn white where his hands grip his knees. He swallows hard, his shoulders slowly dropping under your steady pressure. “Sorry. Just... not really used to it.”

“Not used to what? Basic self care?”

“People…” He hesitates, the word hanging heavy in the room before he quickly catches himself. “People touching my shoulders, I guess. Usually it’s just someone shoving past me on the subway.”

The answer is delivered with a light chuckle and yet it hits with an unexpected sting. At that, you slow the rhythm of your hands, smoothing the warmth of the cream deeper into the stiff muscle.

“Well, you have dreadful posture anyway,” you joke softly, “so you’re going to have to suffer through it.”

Peter lets out a genuine laugh that vibrates right through his back and into your fingertips. His head dips lower, his breath hitching once more, not from pain this time, but from something far quieter, his eyes fluttering shut as he finally lets his full weight sink back against the cushions.

For a few minutes, neither of you speaks. The only sound in the flat is the rhythmic hum of your fridge and the pattern of Peter’s breathing as your thumbs work out the tension in his upper back. The heat radiating through his clothes is almost absurd. Beneath your palms, the stiff line of his spine finally relaxes.

“Better?” you ask quietly, lifting your hands.

Peter turns his head slowly, looking back over his shoulder. Up close, without the shadows of the draughty corridor hiding him, his brown eyes are calm and unguarded. Near his collarbone, a faint, restless pulse flutters, beating far too fast for someone sitting completely still.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “Yeah, actually. A lot better.” He nods.

You wipe the excess cream off your palms onto a tissue, maintaining a steady posture despite the sudden spike in atmospheric pressure. “Good. Because I’m not making a habit of running a wellness centre out of my living room.”

A smile tugs at his lip. He shifts his frame on the cushion, angling his knees toward yours in the narrow space between you. He looks down at his scraped knuckles for a brief second before his gaze travels back up to your face, tracing the line of your jaw before settling firmly on your eyes.

“I could pay you,” he offers, his tone light, though the way he is watching you is anything but casual. “I mean... not in money. But I could do your heavy lifting. Or fix your radiator. It rattles at three in the morning, by the way.”

“You’re listening to my radiator at three in the morning?”

Peter goes dead still, his mouth parting as if to instantly retract the statement. A deep, telltale flush surges right up to the tips of his ears. “I–well, paper thin walls. I just hear things. I’m not... I promise I’m not lingering outside your wall like a creep.”

“I know, Peter.” a quiet laugh bubbles in your throat as you tilt your head. “Relax.”

He exhales a breath that seems half relieved and half flustered, running a hand through his hair. Then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he pushes off the sofa with fluid grace that seems too fast for a guy who claims to be clumsy.

“I should um... probably get out of your hair,” he stammers, taking two quick steps back toward the entryway. “It’s late. Or early. Whatever it is.”

You follow him at a more leisurely pace, resting against the archway as he unlatches the front door.

“Try not to fall on your journey back to 4B,“ you call out.

Peter pauses and looks over his shoulder. “No guarantees,” he chuckles, his gaze lingering on your face for one beat, two beats, before he finally steps out into the corridor. “Night.”

“Night, Peter.”

The following evening, you’re standing in the overcrowded aisle of the corner shop down the block, debating between two identical jars of pasta sauce, when a shadow falls over you.

“The basil one,” a voice says from right behind your shoulder. “The garlic one tastes like cardboard.”

You turn around to find Peter precariously balancing three trays of meat, a carton of milk, and a loaf of bread in his arms.

“No basket?” you breath a laugh, putting the garlic sauce back and taking his recommendation.

“I wasn’t planning on buying much,” he awkwardly clarifies, “I came in for milk. The rest were an impulsive buy.”

Another soft laugh escapes your lips before you reach over to pluck the meat trays out of his arms and drop them into your own basket. “Here. Give me the rest.”

Both his brows raise in surprise. “Thanks.” he falls into step beside you as you head toward the till. “I actually… I owe you one anyway. For the shoulder thing.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I could carry your groceries,” he insists, tapping the side of your plastic basket. “If–if you want.”

True to his word, he waits for you by your checkout counter immediately after paying for his own groceries, taking your brown paper bag the second the cashier finishes packing it up. The sun warms your skin as you walk side by side back to your building.

When you reach the fourth floor, he hands the bag back, his fingers brushing against yours for a second longer than necessary.

“See?” Peter says smoothly, leaning his back against his front door with a proud smirk. “Not one bruise. Flawless execution.”

“Impressive,” you tease as you tilt your head, unlocking the door to your flat. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” he chuckles lightly, eyes staying on you until you step inside. “I’ll um see you around.”

Three nights pass without a squeak from him.

Outside, a relentless deluge lashes against the glass, drumming a chaotic rhythm across the roof. It is nearly three in the morning when the sound hits. A heavy impact that rattles the picture frames on your partition wall.

You drop your phone onto the desk, sprinting across the cold floorboards to the front door. When you yank it open, Peter is on his knees in the dark corridor.

He is completely drenched, water pooling around his worn trainers. His chest heaves in wheezing gasps, one arm pinned tightly against his ribs while his forehead rests against your doorframe. Worse still, the grey hoodie he is wearing is torn open down the left side, heavily saturated in a dark, terrifying crimson.

“Peter,” you breathe, dropping to your knees beside him without a second thought.

“Hey,” he manages, though his voice is barely a thread of sound. He tries to force a reassuring smile, but his face is ghostly pale, his skin shivering violently from shock and cold rain. “Sorry... didn’t mean to... hit the door so hard...”

“I don’t give a shit about the door,” your brows furrow in disbelief as you take his uninjured arm, looping it over your shoulders, and hauling him up with every bit of strength you possess. “Get inside. C’mon.”

He weighs far more than anything you’ve ever carried— dense muscle unanchored by energy—but somehow, you manoeuvre him across the threshold, kicking the door shut behind you. You guide him toward the sofa, letting him slide down onto the cushions.

“I need to see where it’s coming from,” you warn, grabbing a clean towel, a pair of scissors, and a first aid kit from your drawer. Your heart is hammering rapidly against your ribs, pure adrenaline wiping out any lingering fatigue.

“It’s just a scratch. Looks... worse than it is,” he slurs, his hand rising weakly to intercept yours as you reach for the hem of his ruined jumper. “Seriously. I... I heal ridiculously fast–”

“You are bleeding all over my house, Peter, so stop arguing!”

You cut cleanly through the soaked cotton of his jumper, peeling the wet fabric back to assess the tear. But as the dark material parts, your fingers go still.

Beneath the ruined clothes, there is no bare skin or cotton undershirt. Wrapped tightly over his chest and shoulders is a sleek, textured fabric of vibrant red and deep blue—badly torn at the waist, where a shallow, nasty laceration is weeping blood down his side.

Silence drops over the kitchen like blunt weight.

Slowly, your eyes travel up from his torn suit, past his bruised collarbone, to meet his eyes.

Peter’s breath hitches in his chest. His eyes are blown wide with raw, terrifying panic as he looks down at the exposed suit, then back up at your face. He looks braced, desperately searching your expression as if waiting for you to do something crazy.

“Wait–I–” he struggles, his voice cracking with frantic concern. “it’s not–I can explain, please don’t–”

But you simply stare at the web pattern for a long moment, taking slow breaths to steady the overwhelming thumps of your heart.

“Right.” you pick up the antiseptic. “A really aggressive shoelace knot, was it?”

He lets out a breathless laugh, though it quickly falters. “... Wait, you’re not–you’re not freaked out?”

“Of course I’m shocked, Peter.” You unscrew the cap of the bottle. “But you’re currently losing blood, so maybe right now isn’t really the time for questions.”

A gasp escapes him, a mixture of laughter and a sob of sheer relief. The crushing tension in his posture snaps, his head thumping back against the sofa cushions. “You have no idea how hard it was coming up with those lies.”

“I do, actually. They were terrible.”

You work carefully, dousing a pad of gauze in warm water and antiseptic. Peter winces as you clean the edge of the wound, but he stays completely still for you. Once the side cut is cleaned and neatly bandaged, you shift up to sit beside him, bringing a damp cloth to his face.

“Hold still,” you mumble softly.

Peter doesn’t move a muscle. His eyes trace your face with focus as you gently wipe a streak of grime from his temple, moving down the sharp line of his jaw. Right at the corner of his lower lip, there is a tiny, fresh split. You dab delicately at the split on his lip with the corner of the warm cloth. Peter’s breath hitches, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly under the subtle touch of your thumb.

He looks undone. Unmasked, battered, and stripped of every defense he usually hides behind, sitting in half of a spider man suit in your living room while the rain lashes against the glass outside.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” Peter whispers. He exhales a long breath, leaning his head back with a weary chuckle. “Pretty sure I can’t even move right now.”

You look up for a second, catching the intensity in his gaze. His eyes are no longer on yours, but staring straight at your lips.

A sharp flutter hits your chest, catching the breath in your throat as the air between you turns thick. Your own gaze helplessly drifts downward, tracing the curve of his lips, the faint tremble of it, and the tiny cut you were just tending to.

His hand reaches up, fingers sliding around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your pulse point. He pulls you forward with patience, closing the narrow gap between your faces until your breath fans warm over his skin.

The second his lips meet yours, everything fades into the background. The kiss is unhurried and soft at first—careful of the split on his lip—that is before his grip in your hair tightens just so to pull you flush against him. A shuddering sigh escapes him against your mouth.

When he finally parts from your lips, staying close enough that your noses brush, a tinge of crimson colours both your faces.

You take a steadying breath, a teasing smile curving your lips. “I thought you couldn’t move?”

“For this?” His thumb gently strokes your jawline. “I can manage.”

“You’re unbelievable.” a smile grows across your face as you reach over the armrest to grab the soft fleece blanket from the back of the sofa.

You drape it over his broad shoulders, tucking the edge around him to keep the draft off his skin. Peter fully settles into the cushion, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. He doesn’t move away, instead letting his weight shift until his head comes down to rest comfortably against your shoulder.

“You’re staying here tonight.” you guide your fingers through his damp curls. “No arguments.”

“No arguments,” he repeats against the fabric of your clothes, his eyelids fluttering shut as his breathing slows into a steady pattern.