𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤

Let Me Make It Better

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → Emotional distress, crying, comfort, soft fluff, domestic intimacy, stress, hurt/comfort.

Summary →Peter comforts you after a horrible day, spoiling you with affection, food, warmth, and soft boyfriend care until you feel safe again.

          ｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆  ｡･:*:･ﾟ★

You knew the day was ruined the second you dropped your keys. Not gently. No—straight-up skidded across the hallway floor, hit the wall, and disappeared under the damn shoe rack of your neighbour.

Perfect. Fantastic. Gorgeous start.
Your brain was already one poke away from collapsing, so the key situation felt like the universe personally choosing violence.

By the time you finally got inside the apartment you shared with Peter, your eyes were already burning. Your backpack felt heavier than your entire existence, your head was pounding, and all you wanted was to sit on the floor and cry until you pass out.

You barely kicked the door closed before Peter appeared from the kitchen, hair messy, sleeves pushed up, an apron tied around him. He looked way too cute for someone who wasn’t suffering.

“Hey, sweetheart—”
He froze.
“Whoa. Hey. What happened? Come here.”

You didn’t even have to say anything. You didn’t have to try being strong. Peter crossed the room in a few long strides and wrapped his arms around you instantly, like he was physically shielding you from the day.

The second he wrapped himself around you, you broke.

Not dramatic sobbing—just that ugly, quiet crying where your throat hurts and your shoulders shake and you think, God, I’m so tired.

Peter held on tighter.

“Babe,” he whispered, voice soft and warm, “hey, hey… it's ok. Just let it all out. You’re allowed to fall apart with me.”

Your fists had curled into his hoodie, and he just kept coaching your breathing, rubbing slow circles on your back.

After a minute, he tilted your chin up with that gentle touch he always uses when he’s scared you might shatter.

“What happened?” He asked quietly.

You sniffed. “Everything. Just—everything sucked today.”

Peter’s lips twitched into a sad little smile. “Okay. Then we are officially declaring today illegal.”

You let out a tiny laugh through the tears. “Illegal?”

“Yup. Banned. Canceled. Thrown in jail. I’ll write the president myself.”

He kissed your forehead—quick, soft, like he was scared you’d disappear if he moved too fast.

“Go change first and then sit on the couch,” he said, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “I’m making dinner. And before you say you’re not hungry—baby, you are. You forget to eat when you’re stressed, and I refuse to let my girlfriend die of academic negligence.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was real.

Peter wasn’t done.

He followed you down the hallway. Once you changed into your softest t-shirt and pajama pants, he met you at the doorway and took your hand.

“Better,” he murmured, kissing your knuckles. “Now sit. Couch time.”

He guided you to the couch, tucked you under a blanket, handed you his softest sweater—yes, the one he claims he “lost” but always finds in your drawer—and then, with the most serious expression, pulled out:

The Emergency Bad Day Kit

You blinked. “Is that…?”

Peter nodded proudly. “A playlist, a heating pad, a stupidly soft plush I impulse-bought because it reminded me of you, and—” he held up a bag of your favorite snacks “—these.”

“Peter,” you groaned, tearing up again. “You’re literally an angel.”

He looked offended. “No, angels don’t swear and I say fuck at least seven times a day. I’m just your boyfriend, baby.”

He leaned down and kissed your cheek again—light, sweet, lingering—like he was reassuring himself you were really here.

While he cooked (which, honestly, was adorable because he kept muttering recipe instructions to himself like a stressed cooking contestant), he kept glancing over at you every few seconds.

“Doing okay?”
“Blanket too warm?”
“Do you want water?”
“Will you be mad at me if dinner comes out ugly?”

Eventually he brought over a plate of pasta that actually looked and smelled amazing, sat beside you, and nudged your shoulder with his.

“Come here,” he whispered.

You melted into him easily, head on his chest, his arm wrapping around you like muscle memory. He kissed the top of your head, slow and lingering, letting you breathe.

After a while he murmured, “You don’t have to be okay all the time. That’s my job too, you know? Being here when you’re not.”

The words were gentle—no pressure, no expectation—just pure love.

You sighed, curling closer. “Thank you. For… all of this.”

Peter tightened his hold just a little.
“Always. You’re my girl. I’m supposed to make the bad days feel less terrifying.”

He nudged your forehead with his nose, smiling softly.

“And tomorrow? We reset. Together.”

You whispered into his hoodie, “I love you.”

He kissed your temple like it was the easiest truth in the world.
“I love you more. And I’m not going anywhere.”

And somehow, wrapped in Peter’s arms, the day didn’t feel heavy anymore.
It felt fixable.

Because he made it that way.
‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗