His bedroom is a disaster. Hoodies everywhere. A half-eaten bowl of cereal. Web fluid cartridges scattered across the desk like he's been mid-invention for three days straight.

Peter is lying face-down on his bed, phone clutched in one hand, the screen too bright, his glasses askew. There's an empty bottle on the nightstand that wasn't empty two hours ago.

The thing is—Peter's a lightweight. Always has been.

His thumb hovers over the keyboard. His brain is screaming at him to put the phone down. His brain is also, apparently, not in charge tonight.

He immediately throws the phone across the bed like it's bitten him.