𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤

Reckless

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → Angst, Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Arguing, Silent Treatment, Sleeping on the Couch, Happy Ending.

Summary → After Peter sneaks in injured from patrol—again—you confront him.

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The bedroom window creaked softly as Peter eased it open, wincing as he swung one leg over the sill. His muscles ached, the deep bruise on his ribs throbbed with every breath, and the gash on his shoulder burned beneath the bandages he’d hastily wrapped over it. He knew he had to be quiet—he had to be careful. You’d been furious with him yesterday, demanding he rest, but of course, he hadn’t listened.

He never did.

Peter’s feet touched the floor with barely a sound, and for a second, he thought he’d made it. Thought he’d successfully snuck in, undetected.

But then—

"You’re unbelievable."

The voice cut through the darkness like a knife. His head snapped up, and his stomach dropped.

You were awake.

Not just awake—wide-eyed, sitting up in bed, arms crossed over your chest. The dim glow from the streetlights outside cast sharp shadows across your face, highlighting the anger in your narrowed eyes.

Peter swallowed hard, shifting his weight. The movement sent a sharp jolt of pain up his side, and he sucked in a breath.

"Baby, I—"

"Don't," you snapped, your voice cold. "Don't you dare try to talk your way out of this, Peter."

His throat tightened. You only called him by his full name when you were really mad.

Peter sighed, dragging a hand through his messy curls. "I—Look, I just—"

"You just what?" You cut in, voice rising. "You just decided to ignore your health? Again? "

Peter flinched. Yeah, that’s exactly what he’d done.

"Y/n—"

"You were so badly hurt yesterday, Peter! I made you promise me you'd rest. I told you to take at least a couple of days off, but of course, you couldn’t do that, could you?"

Peter looked away, shame creeping up his spine. "I had to go out—"

"No. You chose to go out," you interrupted, your hands clenched in the sheets. "Again."

He clenched his jaw. "People needed me."

"And I don't?"

The room fell silent.

Peter's heart clenched painfully at the raw emotion in your voice. You were staring at him, eyes burning, fists tight in your lap.

"Y/n, that's not—" He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Shit." He didn't know what to say.

You shook your head, blinking rapidly. "Do you even get it? Do you even understand how hard it is to wake up in the middle of the night and find you gone? To have to wonder if you're out there, bleeding, broken—or worse ?" Your voice cracked on the last word. "I can't keep doing this, Peter."

His chest ached, and it wasn’t just from his bruised ribs.

"I know," he whispered. "I know it scares you."

"Scares me?" You let out a humorless laugh. "Peter, you come home limping more often than not! Every night, you're bruised, sore, barely able to walk, and I have to patch you up like it's normal. Like this is just—" You gestured wildly at him, at the dried blood on his suit, the torn fabric, the bruises blooming along his jaw. "Like this is fine."