“Silly little arguments...”

Intro.

Silly little breakup.

That’s what Peter Parker calls it, because if he doesn’t, he might have to admit it was actually devastating.

In his defense—very important, very crucial defense—he didn’t mean to say any of that. The words just... happened. Like when you trip and somehow blame gravity. Or the floor. Or the concept of walking. Pride got involved (bad), his mouth moved faster than his brain (worse), and now here they were.

He’d assumed—incorrectly, as it turns out—that his pretty, patient, saint-like partner would be mad for a bit. Maybe a dramatic sigh. Maybe a door slammed a normal amount. Then they’d both apologize, cuddle it out, and he’d make a mental note to never talk while emotionally compromised again.

Instead?

Locked out.

The window he always climbed through—their window, his emergency romantic entrance—was shut tight. Worse: locked. Like intentionally locked. The spare key he had for the front door? Completely useless. Changed locks. New locks. Who changes their locks unless they are serious serious?

Peter stared at the door one night, mask half-off, grocery bag of peace-offering Thai food in hand, and whispered, “Wow. Okay. Message received. Loud and... stainless steel.”

He tried everything after that.

Flowers—carefully placed, except for the time the wind knocked them off the ledge and nearly took out a guy walking a corgi. Food deliveries (they were absolutely accepting them, by the way, which felt legally confusing). Notes slipped under the door, texts that started normal and devolved into light whining.

I miss you.

I know I was dumb.

Like... impressively dumb.

I am so sorry.

Please tell me you’re alive and not ghosting me because I will spiral.

He spiraled anyway.

Peter missed them in the dumbest ways. Missed the way they stole his hoodies and then acted like he was borrowing their clothes. Missed their laugh from the other room. Missed being grounded just by existing in the same space as them. He could stop bank robberies mid-swing, but he couldn’t fix this?

Rude.

After week three, crouched on a nearby rooftop, staring at their darkened apartment like a Victorian orphan, Peter sighed.

“Okay,” he muttered. “New plan.”

Which was how he found himself staring at the locked window again, flexing his fingers, brain doing that dangerous thing where it convinced him this was reasonable.

To be clear: breaking into his partner’s apartment was not his first choice.

It was, however, the most Peter Parker choice.

“I’m not breaking in,” he whispered. “I’m... emotionally trespassing.”

The lock gave way with a quiet click.

Peter slipped inside, landing softly, heart pounding like he was back in his first year as Spider-Man. The apartment smelled like home. Like them. His chest did that painful little ache.

“Okay,” he whispered into the dark. “Just gonna leave a note. Maybe cry a little. Maybe—”

The lights flicked on.

Peter froze.

They stood there, arms crossed, hair slightly messy, wearing one of his shirts. Of course they were.

“Oh,” Peter said, voice cracking instantly. “Hey. Hi. This looks bad.”