It was almost criminal, the way you messed with Peter. Sitting side by side on one of those high-backed diner booths, he had a perfect view of you—which should have been a bonus, but was proving to be more of a punishment. You were distracted, holding the most ridiculous milkshake he had ever seen, complete with syrup, sprinkles, whipped cream, and a cherry on top. But that wasn’t what held his attention. Not at all.

Peter’s dark eyes were fixed on you. More precisely, on your mouth.

He tried to look away, to focus on anything else—the blinking neon from the jukebox, the sound of some classic rock playing in the background, or even the waiter walking by with a tray full of fries. Nothing worked. Not when you parted your lips around the straw, or when the tip of your tongue flicked out, barely visible, to taste the bit of whipped cream that had escaped.

The effect you had on him was insane. Peter knew he should say something, break the silence before it became painfully obvious how desperately lost he was in every little detail of you. But how was he supposed to act normal when everything about you felt like an invitation? He wasn’t made of steel, after all.

"Are you gonna tell me what's going on in that head of yours, or just keep staring at me like a cute psychopath?" you asked, raising an eyebrow with an amused smile while stirring the milkshake topping with your straw.

Peter let out a short laugh, running a hand through his silver hair, messing up the already unruly strands. "Cute psychopath? Wow. What an honor. But I prefer the term ‘charming admirer.’ Fits me better, don’t you think?"

You laughed, and he got even more lost in you, that sound echoing in a part of his mind that belonged only to you.

"Alright, charming admirer. Want some?" You pushed the milkshake toward him, your eyes sparkling with challenge.

He leaned in slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his expression turning thoughtful, dimples only adding to his natural charm. "Hmm… actually, I was thinking of something else."

Before you could ask what, Peter reached out and plucked the cherry from the top of the milkshake. He twirled it lightly between his fingers as if analyzing it.

"Did you know cherries are like… the universal symbol of something irresistible?"

"You just made that up," you replied, laughing, but leaning in slightly, curious about what he was up to.

"Maybe." He smiled in that signature way of his—half mischievous, half lovestruck—his dark eyes gleaming as he held the cherry out toward you, bringing it closer to your lips.

"But just to prove my point… try it," he murmured, his voice low and husky, as if keeping that moment just between the two of you was some sacred secret.

He held the cherry with an almost exaggerated gentleness, offering it to you. His dark eyes never left yours, but the closer you leaned in, the more they flickered down to your mouth. The intensity of it made the air around you feel heavier. He wasn’t even trying to hide how obsessed he was with your every movement.

And you knew it. Of course, you did. Still, you pretended not to notice, as if the only thing that mattered was the cherry he held just inches from your lips.

His lips curved into a lazy, teasing smile as you moved closer, hesitating just enough to make the moment even more charged. Your eyes locked onto his, and he thought he might have stopped breathing.

It was unbearable, the way your lips parted. You didn’t say a word, but that single movement felt like a perfectly crafted torment, made just for him. Peter felt his heart race, his stomach tighten. It was like you were reading his mind, like you knew exactly what kind of disaster you were causing by leaning in like that, your eyes shining, your mouth so close.

He couldn’t take it.

Just as your lips were about to brush against the cherry, Peter let it drop onto the table like it was completely irrelevant—and closed the distance between you in an instant.

His mouth crashed against yours with an intensity that made the world around you disappear. There was no hesitation, only urgency. The kiss wasn’t soft, wasn’t careful. It was hungry, like he had been holding this in for too long and simply couldn’t contain himself anymore.

His hand slid to your waist, firm and possessive, while the other rested on the back of the booth behind you, trapping you between him and the cushioned wood. His touch was warm, and the way he pulled you closer seemed to say everything he didn’t have the courage to put into words. Peter kissed you like it was the only thing that mattered, like everything in that moment depended on you being there with him.

You let out a small sound against his lips, and it only made him more desperate. The way he tilted his head, exploring every little movement, made it seem like he wanted to memorize every detail. His mouth was demanding, yet there was a hidden tenderness in it, as if, even in his urgency, he wanted to take care of you.

When he finally pulled away—just enough to look at you—Peter’s gaze was dark, heavy with something that felt both dangerous and so genuinely full of love that it made your chest tighten. His lips were parted, still flushed from the kiss, and his breath was ragged, almost as loud as the muffled sounds of the diner in the background.

For a second, neither of you spoke. You just stayed there, so close you could feel his breath against your skin, the heat of his body making it nearly impossible to think straight.

“That was…” you started, but your voice came out low, almost a whisper, which made the corner of his mouth curl into a satisfied smile.

“Necessary,” he finished, his voice rough and laced with humor, but there was something else there—something that said he would do it all over again without hesitation.

“Stealing kisses is a crime,” you said, but your voice was softer, like you weren’t really complaining.

“So is stealing hearts,” he replied, grinning, his dimples deeper than ever. “But luckily, I think you already gave me yours for free.”

You crossed your arms, pretending to be indignant, but the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered—made any attempt to appear unaffected completely useless.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, but the smile on your lips betrayed how lost you were in him.

“Impossibly irresistible,” he corrected, winking as he picked up the cherry and brought it to his mouth, holding it between his teeth. With an easy, almost lazy motion, he bit into the fruit, and the juice dripped onto his lips so effortlessly that you had to look away before the situation became even more dangerous.

He chewed slowly, savoring the cherry like it was a prize. His dimples appeared again when he smiled, the triumph so obvious that you couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m good at this,” he murmured, almost to himself, but the way his eyes stayed on you made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing.

“If by ‘this’ you mean being unbearable, then yes, congratulations,” you replied, biting your lip to keep from laughing as you looked away. But his hand was still on your waist, his fingers tracing small circles against your skin, and you knew that was the real problem. Because no matter how much you tried to hide it, you weren’t even close to resisting him.