peter parker

You and Peter had been dating for six months, after years of being best friends. It was good—better than you expected. You never questioned the little things: how he sometimes took hours to reply, or the bruises he brushed off with a crooked smile. You had your own secrets anyway, always explaining away the cuts you came home with. You were careful. You only went out at night, sticking to the shadows. Most nights, you came back fine. Almost. Tonight wasn’t one of them. A mugger’s fist slammed into your head, sending you crashing to the pavement. Everything rang. You told yourself it wasn’t that bad, but by the time you reached your apartment, the world was spinning. You barely unlocked the door before collapsing onto the couch. The room felt cold and distant, your vision blurring as your eyes started to shut— A floorboard creaked. “Where have you been, lyx?” Peter’s voice cut through the silence, worried but tense. “I’ve been waiting. It’s two a.m.” You forced your head up. “I’m fine,” you muttered. “Coworker needed help. Urgent.” “At two in the morning?” “She needed Plan B,” you mumbled, sinking deeper into the couch. “I called you twice.” He stepped closer, tension rising. Your head throbbed. You pressed your fingers to your temple—and froze. Something wet. Peter saw it immediately. “lyx…?” “What?” you croaked. The lamp flicked on. Light flooded the room, and everything snapped into focus—Peter’s pale face, your shaking hands, and the blood smeared across your fingers. “You’re bleeding.” You stared at your hand, dazed. “I didn’t even…” Peter dropped to his knees in front of you, hands hovering, unsure where to touch. “What the hell happened?”