Kiki

Peter’s brows jump together. He watches his mug as he fills it up. “No. Why?” 

You feel immediately stupid. You’ve overstepped. You’re nosy. You don’t mean to be. 

“I heard the door open.” 

No way to say that without sounding like a paranoid freak. You have a quiet door in a loud city. At nearly midnight, with sirens wailing and your neighbor singing in the shower on the other side of your wall, you shouldn’t have heard it. But you did. 

If Peter finds this odd, he doesn’t mention it. “Oh,” he says, dragging the word out long and slow. “Out as in out of the apartment. I thought you meant out out, like to the club or something. No, I just…I had a late night craving. Went down to the bodega to grab some chips.” 

You feel yourself frown. You hadn’t heard the door open again until a couple hours later, far longer than a trip to the bodega would take. But to ask more questions would be to admit you’d still been listening, so you don’t. Maybe Peter has some emotional attachment to a bodega in Queens. He said he was from Queens, right? 

Peter joins you in the living room. You’ve opened a window to let the air in, still warmish but getting cool enough that you can get away with running the fans and not the air conditioning, and Peter turns his face into the light as he settles in on the opposite side of the couch. You wonder if he’ll have his own dent in time, too. He doesn’t strike you as the type. 

“You were up late, too, huh?” he asks. The smell of his coffee mingles with the smells of wet pavement and car exhaust coming in through your window. 

“Sorry,” you say, before you can stop yourself, “I didn’t mean to pry.” 

“It’s cool. It’s not prying to make sure the door to your apartment isn’t left unlocked in the middle of the night.” Peter grins. Two dimples dive into his cheeks. “Were you doing homework then, too?” 

“No.” You don’t consider lying. It’s not something you feel the need to be private about, even with virtual strangers. “I just don’t sleep much.” 

Your roommate’s head tilts. The movement reminds you of a cocker spaniel. “Like, you can’t?” 

“I can’t,” you confirm. “Not usually, at least.” 

“Ouch. That sucks.” 

Peter’s sympathetic bemusement confirms for you that his reasons for being tired are not, in fact, the same as yours. Whatever they might be, you file it away as None of Your Business. You’ve asked, he’s told, that’s the end of it. You sleep not twenty feet apart, but Peter is a near stranger to you. You don’t have any right to his mysteries. 

“So,” he says into the silence that follows, “any classes today?” 

“Yeah.” You check the time on your laptop. Corner the page of your textbook. “Actually, I’d better go. It starts in twenty minutes. Do you care if I leave my mess on the coffee table?” 

Peter glances at your collection of pens and highlighters with a look that makes you think his version of mess might be different to yours. 

“Go ahead,” he says. “So long as you don’t mind my mess joining it.” 

“Of course not.” You zip up your backpack, relieved. 

“You coming back for lunch? I think I’m gonna go grab a bagel in a sec, I can bring you back one.” 

“Oh, that’s…” That’s too much. That’s more than roommate duties, and more than you want to return. “That’s okay,” you say, moving towards the door. “I packed a sandwich, I’ll probably camp out on campus between classes.” 

Peter raises his hand in a lazy salute. “Let me know if you change your mind.” 

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” You try to mirror him. It feels weird; you let your hand drop halfway through. The door shuts nearly silently behind you. 

—

Peter plies you with meatloaf when you return. He’s been to his aunt’s in Queens and brought back enough to feed a family of four. 

“It’s not…I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s a not world-renowned meatloaf,” he says, bringing a forkful to his mouth. “But it’s food and it’s free and I can’t eat it all by myself, so.” 

You’re not in any position to turn down free food. You sit on the couch next to him. Peter’s left the cushion by the window open, and you wonder if already you each have your own spot. The meatloaf isn’t bad. 

You talk about your classes. Peter’s studying biophysics and biochemistry, two words which mean nothing to you but apparently require lots of time spent at the labs on campus. He congratulates you on the achievement of getting matched with a roommate who will make you feel like you live by yourself; his classes are only getting started, but soon he’ll be in the lab most of the time. Though your own classes are far from easy, you don’t envy him. 

Peter doesn’t need any help from you; he finishes the rest of the meatloaf in that one sitting. 

—

You get into a rhythm quickly. On campus from your first class in the morning until your assignments (or at least the ones due the next day) are finished usually sometime in the evening, cooking at home, eating on the run, plasma donation on Thursdays at seven to make some extra cash, four scoops of coffee grounds in the machine because both you and Peter need it strong. Peter brings home more meals from his aunt. Her name is May, you learn, and after the third free dinner you write her a thank-you note for Peter to bring back to her. 

Your hot water goes out. Peter sweet-talks the landlord while you send stern emails to the leasing company until it gets fixed. You bring his laptop instead of yours to campus by mistake and have to meet up at a library to swap. Peter comes from the lab, half-jogging with plastic goggles pushed up into his hair and making it stick out in every direction. It’s endearing beyond reason. You make him a sandwich to take to class when he oversleeps. He comes to pick you up from the plasma donation clinic when you forget to eat beforehand. You develop inside jokes about the flickering light above your stove, and the erratic banging you think is your upstairs neighbors having sex, and the too-good-for-this-world cashier at the bodega on your corner. No matter how Peter tries to get you in on it, you refuse to develop inside jokes about his Aunt May’s cooking. 

It’s in the dull blue of a sleepless night in September, Aunt May’s pasta pomodoro still heavy in your stomach, when you hear the lock on your front door click. It’s a quiet sound, but you’re too antsy to miss it in your otherwise silent apartment. The door opens with a shush of air. 

You wonder if Peter is going out or coming in. It’s late, but not so late for the overworked grad student population. He warned you that he’d eventually be spending long nights at the lab. 

You don’t get up with any suspicions. You only want to make sure the door gets re-locked, and you haven’t heard the second click. 

There’s an odd sound as your bedroom door opens. Like plastic ripping or cast fishing line, blink-and-it’s-over. You step out to find Peter wrapped up in your largest blanket and absolutely covered in filth. 

You blink. 

Peter blinks back at you. 

“Jesus,” you say. 

“Nope, just me.” Peter grins, but it falls short of his usual. “Sorry, lame joke. My uncle used to make it. It was lame then, too, I guess.” 

“What happened to you?” 

“Uh, there was a small accident at the lab. You should be asleep.” 

“Small? Is that soot?” 

“It’s…it’s soot, yeah.” 

You’re reeling. You turn the kitchen light on to see him better. Peter’s left footprints in from your front door. There’s soot even in his hair, tinging it a darker color. “Was there an explosion?” 

He grimaces. “It was a super small explosion. Very contained. But, you know, chemicals. Volatile stuff.” You shake your head, baffled, and his expression softens. “It was freaky, but everything’s fine now. It’s late, you should go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.” 

Peter’s brow furrows; the lines are more pronounced with soot etched into them. “You weren’t? It’s almost three,” he says, as if to himself. 

“What’s with the blanket?” 

“The…oh.” He looks down. “Right, yeah. The lab actually took my clothes. They’re probably not contaminated or anything, but they’re being disposed of for liability reasons.” 

You look down at your blanket, covering him toe-to-chin, and back up at Peter. “They made you walk home naked?” 

Peter blinks. “Uh. No, no, not…totally naked.” 

You raise your eyebrows at him. 

“They gave us…lab coats?” His voice tips up at the end like a question and the corners of his mouth tip up with it, sheepish. He gives a little shrug. “It’s not super modest, but it’s what they had on hand. Sort of like a slutty nurse costume situation? I didn’t want to, uh, you know, scar you as you were coming out of your room.” 

“Right.” You frown, embarrassed of the heat you can feel coming to your face. “I…appreciate that.” 

“Anytime. But you can go to bed now, seriously.” Peter starts edging towards the bathroom. “Don’t let me keep you up, I know you have that nine a.m. tomorrow.” 

You wave him off. “I’ll be fine, we don’t have any explosions in my class. Are you okay? Is there anything I can help with?” 

“Nope! No help.” Peter’s voice pitches slightly when you step towards him. He draws the blanket tighter, walking backwards until his back bumps the wall and feeling his way into the bathroom. “It’s just that I’m really basically naked. Like, so, so naked, and it’s embarrassing, so you should just go to your room and I’ll shower and then we can, uh, probably just not talk about this, if you’re alright with that. Because I’m embarrassed. Okay?” 

“Okay.” You hold your hands up peaceably. “If you’re sure.” 

“Super sure.” Peter flashes you a smile before shutting the bathroom door. “Goodnight!” 

You go back to your room and sit with your head laid flat in the middle of your pillow, your bent knees making a tent of your covers. You listen to the shower running until it squeaks off at three-thirty. 

—

Your backpack feels heavier leaving the library than it did on the way to campus this morning. Your train runs less frequently after midnight, so walking is nearly just as efficient. It’s a long, slow trudge up the hill that leads from campus to your neighborhood, past empty university buildings and through dapples of pale streetlights. A raccoon stops riffling through a trash can to look at you as you pass. You raise a hand to let him know you’re a kindred spirit. 

It’s cliché, but you sort of love the city after dark. It’s less glitzy than people think. The city may not sleep, and neither do you, and apparently neither does Peter, but some people have to. The streets are relatively quiet, technicolor dulled into grays and blues that blur together as you pass them by. Somewhere out of view, a siren wails like a ghost’s cry. 

It’s the quiet that allows you to hear the schwick and rush of air that comes before feet hit the sidewalk beside you. 

You flinch hard. Nearly send yourself tumbling into the street, but a hand whips out to catch you before you can slip off the curb. Slippery red fabric with black latticework spanning up the wrist. 

“It’s okay.” Spider-Man steps back as soon as you’re steady. He holds his hands up. “It’s okay.” 

You put a hand to your heart, feeling it beating beneath your palm. “Jesus. Don’t you know not to sneak up on girls walking by themselves?” 

“Don’t you know girls shouldn’t walk by themselves?” Spider-Man counters lightly. 

You suppose you’re meant to feel chastened, except you are a girl, and you have to get places, you can’t have a chaperone at all times. Also, this superhero speaks in a deep, rough voice that makes you think of teenage boys trying to sound tough. 

“Is this really the most pressing thing you have to deal with?” you ask him. Spider-Man’s head tilts, and you gesture around you at the empty street. “Aren’t there any bank robberies happening? Or, like, serial killers on the loose?” 

He’s wearing a mask, and yet you could swear it’s like his eyebrows raise. “How common do you think those are?” 

You shrug and keep walking, though you’re careful not to put your back fully to him. Even Spider-Man could turn out to be a bad guy to be stuck alone with. “I don’t need any help,” you say. “Thanks for the tip, though.” 

He keeps pace with you. “Are you a student?” 

You look at him sideways. “Maybe. What makes you ask?” 

He taps the pin on your backpack. “The university has a walking buddy program, you know. So students don’t have to walk home alone after long nights at the library.” 

“How long have you been following me for?” 

“What?”

You narrow your eyes at him. You don’t like that he guessed you were coming home from the library; however, on the chance that it is a guess you’re not about to tell him he was right. 

“I’m just saying.” Spider-Man’s hands are up again, in a gesture of peace. “You should think about calling a walking buddy next time.” 

“Maybe I’d rather be alone than alone with someone who’s volunteered to learn the routes to people’s homes.” You throw him a pointed look. 

Spider-Man’s casual gait doesn’t falter, but he lets out something that sounds almost like a laugh. “Are you always this suspicious of people trying to help you?” 

“John Wayne Gacy was known to lure victims by promising help.” 

“But I’m…” The voice behind the mask changes, turning younger and less polished. He lifts his gloved hands haplessly. “...Spider-Man.” 

You shrug, not allowing yourself to feel bad. “I’m suspicious of people in general. And I don’t need help.” 

“Noted. Listen, can I just walk you to your building to make sure you get in safe? I won’t know your apartment number or anything.” 

You give him an appraising look. Spider-Man walks with a respectable distance between you, his hands swinging at his sides. It’s not like you could actually make him go away even if you wanted to, but you do think he would fuck off if you said no. Ultimately, that’s what makes the decision for you. 

“Okay,” you say, tacking on reluctantly, “thanks.” 

“Hey, all in a day’s work. Until there’s another bank robbery or serial killer, obviously.” 

Spider-Man turns out to be a half-decent walking companion. He offers to give you a lift instead—but once he clarifies what he means by lift and you swiftly decline, he only continues walking beside you at a New Yorker’s amble. He asks you about your classes. You admit to having fallen asleep earlier at the library, and then staying late to make up for the study time you’d missed. He tells you about how it feels to swing through the city at night; how there are some neighborhoods he likes better than others for their calmness, but of course by the nature of what he does he tends to stick to the noisier ones. Times Square isn’t only a hotspot for crime during the day, as it turns out. He says, in a light, kind voice, that he’s glad to have the break of walking you home. He enjoys the quiet of your little neighborhood, too. 

True to his word, Spider-Man lets you go at your building. He watches you walk up the front steps, waving when you turn around briefly before buzzing yourself in. You hear the schwick of his webbing shooting out just before the door closes behind you. 

You slog up the flights of stairs to your apartment, letting your backpack drop by the door and sending a silent apology to your downstairs neighbors right after. You feel lighter without it, but still your body all but drags you to the floor when you sit to take off your shoes. You turn at the sound of a door creaking open. 

Light spills out into the hall as Peter emerges in his plaid pajama bottoms. You wince. 

“Hey,” you say softly. “Sorry, did I wake you up?” 

“No.” He shakes his head, though you obviously did. His hair is all messy from sleep, sticking out in every direction. “Did you just get back?” 

“Mhm.” 

Peter makes a face highly reminiscent of a sad puppy. “You were on campus all day?”

You shrug, like what can you do? Peter’s a grad student, too; he’ll get it. 

But your roommate looks troubled. “Did you eat?” 

“I…” You blink, realizing why, besides the late hour, you might have felt so tired on your walk home. “I guess I forgot about dinner. I fell asleep for a while in the library.” 

“Yeah?” Peter’s already moving towards the kitchen. “Sit down, I’ll make you something.” 

“Peter, that’s okay.” 

“I’m not gonna have you passing out waiting for the microwave or whatever. Just sit down.” 

You find you don’t have much argument left in you. You’re dead tired, and the couch does look like a nice place to rest. “I thought we ran out of May’s lasagna.” 

“We did. I can’t cook as good as her, but I can whip up a half decent quesadilla.” 

You fall silent, resting your cheek on the back cushion of the couch and watching as Peter puts a thin slice of butter into a pan on your stove. Your teeth worry into your lower lip. 

“Doesn’t the library close at midnight?” he asks. 

“Two,” you correct him. “It’s open twenty-four hours during midterms and finals week, though.” 

Peter glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “It’s not midterms or finals.” 

“Hence why I got kicked out.” 

He makes a chuffing sound like laughter, familiar in a way you can’t place. “Can’t believe you stayed late enough to get kicked out.”

“I know, right? It’s like bar close for students.” 

“Are you really comparing yourself to people who get kicked out of bars?” 

“Hey, we’re both committed, just to different pursuits.” 

Peter hums, ceding the point. “I guess the only difference is that you got kicked out on a Tuesday.” 

“You think the barflies aren’t there on Tuesdays?” You give him a droll look. “Wisen up, Parker.” 

Your roommate casts you a glance paired with a half-smile. “You know productivity decreases with exhaustion, right?” 

You scoff. “You don’t get to talk about healthy sleeping habits. I know you work just as hard.” He brings you a plate with a neatly folded quesadilla on it, and you soften your tone as you take it. “Thank you.” 

Peter settles into his side of the couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table. He watches you take your first couple of bites. “I just think,” he says, “that if you pass out somewhere from sleep deprivation or low blood sugar or whatever, there might be some part of our lease agreement that says I’m responsible for that.” 

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Did you read that whole thing?” 

“Oh, hell no.” 

“Me neither.” 

“I’m only saying that it’s possible. Landlords love weird clauses.” 

You hum as you chew, playing along. “Okay. That’s fair. What if I kept a note constantly on my person that said this isn’t Peter’s fault, so that if someone finds me passed out you can avoid culpability? Would that make you feel better?” 

Peter’s lips twitch. He shrugs. “A little.” 

“Perfect. That’s what I’ll do, then.” 

“You could also just come home before some poor librarian has to kick you out. Or,” he goes on, “call me to walk you home if it’s late.” 

You give him a look. “I’m not going to call and wake you up so you can come get me every time I stay late on campus.” 

“I wouldn’t mind being woken up. I might be on campus too, and anyway I’d want to help.” 

“I don’t need help.” 

Peter frowns. “If you say so.” 

You nod, trying to smile to soften the rejection. You hold up what remains of your quesadilla. “This is really good, by the way.” 

Peter mirrors your half-hearted smile. “I learned from the best.” 

“Yeah, you did. I really owe May another card.” 

“You don’t owe May anything, and if she were here she’d tell you that herself.” 

—

You feel like something is amiss. It’s not a new feeling. Some nights, you can’t stop going over things you’ve done wrong. Times you said something you shouldn’t have, acted without thinking, didn’t act and regretted it, going back as long as you can remember. It’s enough to make you hate yourself. 

Other nights, like this one, you become convinced there’s something still yet to be done. You didn’t actually hit submit on that assignment. You’ve left the stove on. Your water bottle is sitting abandoned on your table in the library, begging to be stolen. Someone’s trying desperately to call you, but you clicked your phone to silent without realizing. 

The anxieties worm their way into your weary bones until the only option is to drag yourself out of bed and quiet them. It’s not like you were going to fall asleep anyway. 

Your building is old and creaky. You take care to walk on light footsteps into the kitchen, reassuring yourself forcefully as you go. The stove is off. The freezer is shut. The heater is not turned up so high that you’re going to be surprised by a heart-stopping electrical bill. The kitchen sink isn’t leaking. Your school things are just where you left them, heaped together in your backpack beside the door. The front door is…

The front door is unlocked. 

You know you locked it when you came in. You’re sure you did, because you don’t allow yourself to put your keys on the hook unless you have and there they are. You look towards Peter’s room. 

When you text him, there’s no chime you can hear.

YOU: Hey, are you home?

PETER: Just left, forgot my laptop on campus! Everything ok?

YOU: Yeah, it’s fine. The door was unlocked.

PETER: Shit. SO SORRY!!! 

PETER: U can lock it, I have my key.

YOU: It’s fine. Locked now.

PETER: Won’t happen again. Promise!

You double-check that Peter’s key is missing from his hook before actually locking the door. You think wryly that you and Peter may have synced in your sleeping habits; you always seem to be awake at the same times. Or maybe you were simply both such terrible sleepers to begin with that the comings and goings of the other don’t make much difference. 

You run through a few more checks before going to bed. The window that goes to the fire escape is latched. The oven is off. Your laptop is charging. 

Right next to Peter’s. 

—

The next night, you’re not woken by worries but by cold. You rouse from a fitful hibernation to find yourself coiled tight like a crab within its shell, knees pressed together and chilled nose hidden beneath your covers. Early winter seeps through your apartment like a frozen kiss. 

You take your blankets with you as you stumble out of bed, bleary-eyed. You feel the chill more when you leave your room, though less in the living room. The heat is supposedly on. Peter’s door is closed, but you knock to see if it’s woken him, too. There’s no answer. 

“Peter,” you whisper. 

Still nothing, and you knock again. 

“Pete, are you up?”

When another minute of this produces no response, you turn the door knob tentatively. You know it’s a massive invasion of privacy. You know that. But your apartment feels like it’s teleported to the Arctic, and for all you know Peter could be comatose with hypothermia right now. 

It feels all the more plausible when you open the door and the air that meets you is cool enough to make your skin pebble under your blankets. Peter really might have hypothermia. If he was here. 

But Peter’s bed is empty, and his window is open. 

You decide to leave it that way in case it’s how he needs to get back in. You take more blankets with you to go back to bed. 

—

There are few things you can think of which require someone to be out in the darkest hours of the night. None of them are reassuring. Things too illicit to be exposed to daylight, risky things, illegal things. 

If you’re being honest with yourself, you probably should have realized sooner. New York is expensive, and Peter doesn’t seem much better off than you are. You’re both full-time students without jobs; everyone has to supplement their income somehow. He probably makes more doing whatever he’s doing than you do pimping out your plasma once a week. 

Peter may not seem like the type, but you don’t have to be the type to do drastic things when you’re broke. Anybody could be doing anything. Some people do yard work, some people babysit, some people buy cheap shit and resell it on ebay; you donate plasma; Peter deals drugs, probably. It’s fine. It’s…well, it’s not fine, it’s dangerous, but you can understand it. He has access to a lab and pays for school with government grants. He had to be paying for your rent somehow. 

“Hey.” Peter returns to your table with a mug in each hand. “You good?” 

You let out a little hum. “Yeah, why?” 

“You just looked kinda spacey.” He sets your coffee in front of you. You pick it up, gratified by the way it sears your tongue and seeps sweetness into your tastebuds. 

You’ve taken to spending your Saturdays together at this coffee shop, The Daily Bean. It’s big enough in size that you can always find a table in some hidden corner if you look hard enough, small enough in popularity that regulars can still stare-shame anyone who talks too loudly when everyone else is trying to work. You and Peter like that it’s walkable from your apartment, and that the chairs are comfortable, and that every mug is unique so you can debate who got the better one when your drinks come out. The icing on the cake is that if you order a simple drink, refills are free so long as you bring back your mug. You keep asking Peter to go up to the counter because you’re worried the employees are going to get angry with you for abusing their policy by camping out all day, and no one can get angry with Peter.

And that’s sort of the sticking point, isn’t it?

Peter is a good guy. He’s nice, he works hard in school, he pays rent on time. Obviously he has this other thing going on on the side, but that doesn’t make you like him any less. It’s not fair that he should have to give up sleep and put himself in god-knows-what dangerous situations just to live. Lately, the crescents under his eyes are nearly as bad as yours. You’re worried about him. 

“You do photography, right?” 

Peter looks up, blinking, from where his attention had gone back to his laptop. He’s working on something he told you about during the walk over, some report of some sciency thing. You think he could tell you weren’t grasping it even as he explained it to you. 

“I take pictures sometimes,” he says, doing a side-to-side sort of nod. “Not really the same thing.” 

“But you’re good.” 

It’s not a question. You’ve seen the photos all over Peter’s room. They’re stuck to the walls with scotch tape like he’s not even proud of them, but they’re incredible. Candids of a graying woman you imagine to be Aunt May in different locations of the same lovingly cluttered home. Stills of people in the motions of their day, on the subway and lounging on front steps and smiling at dogs. Angles of the city that make you feel like you’re flying. 

Peter makes a face. “Eh…” 

You huff a laugh at his humility. “I’m just saying, have you ever thought of charging people for that?” 

“For…”

“To take pictures of them. Or to buy your pictures, either way.” 

“I don’t know.” Peter shrugs. He looks almost like he might be blushing. “I can’t think of anyone who would want to pay for that, and anyway I’m not sure I have the time to, like, monetize it or whatever.”

“I could probably help,” you say casually. Take a sip of your coffee to sell it. 

Peter watches you, unabashed in his staring even when you won’t look back at him. “Yeah? You’d do that?” 

You lift your shoulders. “Sure.” 

“How come?” 

You meet his gaze, though it sends tingles from your ears all the way down your spine to do it. The brown eyes waiting for you are just as warm and thrice as sweet as the drink in your hand. “Because I want to,” you say. 

Peter’s mouth kicks up in the corner. “Noted,” he replies. “Thanks.” 

You make a mumbly sound of acknowledgement, going for your coffee again. Your roommate’s grin worsens. 

“Hey.” He bumps your ankle lightly with his under the table. “You want to learn something about protein misfolding and Alzheimer’s?” 

“No.” 

“Yeah, you do.” Peter shuts his laptop, setting his elbows on it to lean closer to you. “So, when proteins lose their functional shape…” 

—

Lately, the only place you can find sleep is in places it shouldn’t be. Slumped over the table of a study room, in the chair of the plasma donation clinic, in your sunlit living room between classes. When Peter finds you, you’ve started a small puddle of drool on your textbook. The fluorescent lights of the library press at your eyelids, obscuring any awareness of time in a distant outside world. 

Peter says your name with something soft curled around the syllables. 

Your eyes burn as you open them to find him crouched by your chair, one hand on your textbook and the other floating a few inches above his knee like he’d been thinking of reaching for you. His hair is sticking up the way it does when he’s run his fingers through it. 

“Peter?” 

“Hey. Hi.” He clears his throat, blinking something away from his expression. “Glad you still know my name. Since, you know, you seem to have forgotten where we live.” 

“What’re you doing here?” 

“I’m hoping to save the librarians some hassle.” His mouth curves, pink and lovely, into a little smile. “Ready to go?” 

You peel yourself off of your textbook, allowing Peter to close a pencil in it to mark your page before dropping it into your backpack. You feel like you’re moving through molasses, back clicking as you stretch; you must have been sleeping deeply. 

“What time is it?” you yawn as Peter helps you into your coat. He shoulders your backpack without saying anything. 

“One-thirty.” When you blink blearily at the near-desolate library, he touches your shoulder gently to direct you toward the elevators. You try to take your backpack from him, and Peter only hikes it up further on his shoulder. “They’re gonna put posters of you up at some point. I think you’re here more than anybody else on campus.” 

You send him a droll, sleep-addled look out of the corner of your eye. “I don’t think you get to talk about staying out late.” 

He doesn’t look at you. “No? Why not?” 

“Because you’re always at the—” You yawn hugely. “At the lab.” 

Peter huffs a laugh. If it sounds a bit relieved, you’re perhaps too tired to judge. As you step into the elevator, he hits the button for the ground floor and steps back beside you to put an arm over your shoulders. “Touché.” 

You stand still in silent uncertainty as the elevator descends. This is closer than you and Peter have been before. It feels a slight shift from bumping elbows in the kitchen or accidentally brushing each other’s knees under your table at The Daily Bean, though maybe that’s just you. Regardless, it’s going to be a cold walk home; Peter’s body is emanating an enviable warmth through his coat, and you’re just sleepy enough to consider leaning a bit on him as you walk. You stay where you are. 

“How’d you know where I was?” you ask as the elevator doors open. Peter steps out with you tucked under his arm as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s almost two in the morning on a Thursday.” He waves to the librarian at the desk, pushing the front door open for the both of you. “Where else would you be?” 

“Ha ha,” you mutter. “But, like, how’d you find me?” It’s a big library. Five floors, dozens of tables, and you’d been hidden away in your own private corner chosen specifically for how rare it is for any other student to stumble across. You suppose someone outside might have seen you through the window by your table, but even that seems unlikely. It’s higher up than most people think to look. 

“I’m an efficient search committee,” says Peter. He adjusts his hold on you when the wind picks up and you step closer unconsciously, hand slipping down your arm to encourage further sharing of his warmth. “Cold?” 

“Yeah. It wasn’t this bad when I left.” 

He makes a half-smug humming noise; you feel its vibrations kiss the top of your head. “That’s what happens when you stay out this late, I guess. My Uncle Ben used to say nothing good happens after midnight.” 

“Have I called you a hypocrite yet?” 

“Only in implication.” 

“Well, you are.” 

Peter laughs, the sound wonderfully crisp. “Did you at least eat?”

“It’s not your job to feed me, you know.” 

“Seems like someone’s gotta do it.” 

“Well, for the record, I did.” 

“Glad to hear it.” 

Peter seems to gather that if you walk all the way home he’s going to end up carrying you for at least part of it, so you go down into the subway to wait for the next train. You fall briefly asleep on his shoulder waiting, and again in your seats once you get on. It’s a feat, considering you’re only a stop away on this line, but both times Peter rests his chin on the top of your head like he’s surrendered to the idea of keeping you there. 

It’s only after he’s half-dragged you up the stairs to your apartment and is digging your key out of your backpack (why he doesn’t seem to have his, you don’t bother asking) that you say, “I’m sorry you had to come all the way to campus to get me.” 

Peter makes a quiet scoffing sound, jiggling the handle until the door gives way. “I didn’t have to. I don’t mind, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

“You’re always doing things for me, though.” You shuck off your coat, tossing it over the back of the couch as he does the same with his. “You’re either making me food or picking me up from places or bringing me my stuff…” 

Peter’s eyebrow twitches, a teasing curve to his mouth that fits his voice to its shape. “So what, I’m not allowed to do things for you? You’re gonna rob me of that?” 

“Do you have a hero complex or something?” 

You think it’s obvious you’re teasing him back, but Peter’s expression flickers with something that makes you wonder if he didn’t catch the levity in your tone. He recovers fast. “Maybe.” 

“I’m just saying,” you try on a bit of sincerity, “you don’t have to.” 

“Hey, I know.” He moves closer, eyes dark in the low light. Neither of you have moved for a light switch, your apartment cast in the cool blue tones of the moonlight coming in the window. “I really don’t mind. I like doing things for you.” 

“But,” you ask, hesitating, “who does things for you?” 

Peter’s eyebrows lift slightly, as though he’s surprised you’d ask. When his voice lowers, there’s something about the roughness of it which tugs at a memory. “You do.” 

You feel yourself frown. Yes, you try to do things to make Peter’s life a bit easier, but that’s half out of a sense of gratitude for all he already does for you and they’re never really sizable things. A few extra pancakes left in the fridge when you know he won’t wake with enough time to make breakfast before class, a pack of twizzlers snagged from the bodega when you notice he’s running low. Is that as much care as Peter gets? It can’t be. 

You’re about to tell him that he deserves better, but when you open your mouth you realize he’s right there, and letting yourself list forward is just as easy. 

Peter kisses you like he’s breathing you in. Slow at first, the beginnings of an inhale, and then in great pulls. He cups the side of your face, stepping forward, crowding you, his other arm winding around your waist to keep you from falling when you move backwards into the couch and nearly tip yourself over the edge. A few seconds later and he’s changed his mind, sending you both over so you collapse down onto the cushions in a heap, him all on your side and you all on his. One sleepy, confusing tangle. 

“I thought you wanted me to go to bed,” you mumble against his lips. 

“Who said that?” Peter rolls you sideways, putting you to the inside of the couch so he can push your hair away from your face. “Tomorrow’s Friday. It’s basically the weekend already.” 

“Could’ve probably stayed at the library then.” 

“Too cliché.” 

His hand coasts up your back, and you find you’re out of cleverness. “Yeah?” 

“Mhm. Plus, what would the librarians think of you? You’re a big name over there.” 

“You’re such a hypocrite.” 

Peter sighs into your mouth. “Tell me about it.” 

—

Maybe it should be awkward, but it’s not. You and Peter already live together, already have your routines and your in-jokes and an ease of moving about each other in a small space, so adding kissing to the mix really doesn’t feel like so far of a leap. 

It’s not fireworks. Or butterflies or cartwheels or any of that. It’s…easy. Like slipping into a warm bath. You feel yourself unspool one inch at a time, until coming home from class to lay yourself down in Peter’s lap and go over flashcards with him is as natural as breathing. 

“It’d be over in Chelsea, so I could stay here and take the bus.” Peter’s got his glasses on, which always make you want to kiss him hard enough to get them all askew, and his hands are wandering your legs and waist as he talks, not helping matters. “And they’re doing this really cool stuff with ion channels that I could get involved in…” 

He’s telling you about an internship he’s applying to for the summer. You’re sitting in his lap trying to look engaged and not humiliatingly wanton. Really, you like the sound of this internship. It would mean you’d both get to stay in the apartment for the summer, since you’re returning to a previous internship in the city, too, and of the options Peter’s told you about this one offers the best pay. You may not understand ion channels or space radiation or half of what he talks about, but you love the idea of anything that might supplement his supplemental income. 

“Didn’t you say your internship’s in Greenwich?” Peter asks, touch coasting up your back. 

You hum in the affirmative. 

He grins, flashing a dimple you want to poke your tongue into (because you’re a nonsensical, depraved thing). “We could meet in the middle for lunch.” 

“That would be nice.” You give into your baser urges and lay a soft kiss on the side of Peter’s nose. The frames of his glasses dent into your cheek. “Where would we go?” 

“I know a good sandwich place on Eighth and Hudson,” he murmurs, pushing his glasses up into his hair to kiss you properly. Damn him. His voice hums against your lips. “Maybe lunches there sometimes, dinners at Chelsea Market.” 

“Chelsea Market?” You smile, and Peter’s quick to kiss the corner. “Are we made of money in this fantasy?” 

“Duh. We’ll have high-roller internships—” 

“Speak for yourself.” 

“—and those of us who are possibly being taken advantage of for their cheap labor and wonderful, perfect—” He mushes his lips to your face with each word. “—really very valuable brain will luckily have a lovesick biophysics intern to sponsor them.” 

You hum, sliding your finger along the curve of his glasses behind his ear. “Where am I gonna find one of those, you think? Should I start loitering on park benches reading genetics books and looking confused?” 

For someone so gentle and who spends so much of his time in labs, Peter is surprisingly strong. You’ve discovered this several times over now, enough to want to goad it out of him when you can, and still it surprises you to find yourself flat on your back against the couch cushions less than a second later. You’re giggling breathlessly before Peter even gets to you. 

“You think you’re so funny,” he mutters, a far cry from menacing as he smooshes wet kisses into the underside of your jaw. 

“Or I—I could try hanging around the three-in-one shampoo at the discount store—” Peter squeezes your waist, and you gasp out a laugh. “—or hoard all the city’s ramen so they come to me.” 

“Okay, you know I eat better than that, you traitor. Are you trying to get yourself cut off from my culinary resources?” 

You squirm, pushing at Peter’s hands and enjoying how useless it is. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“Also” —he breezes right past the threat, because you both know he wouldn’t— “if you have a problem with my hair, all you’ve gotta do is say something. Does it smell bad?” 

He sticks the top of his head in your face, the soft ends of his hair tickling your nose. You stick your face in dutifully to take in a pull. You know the scent of Peter’s three-in-one (you live together, you’ve read the bottle), but somehow his hair always manages to smell like fresh laundry, too. You have every intention of feigning shock and disgust, except you’re overtaken by a rush of affection and the teasing mood leaves you. 

You press your lips to his forehead. “It’s perfect.” 

“Wow. Even with three-in-one in there?” 

“I’m surprised, too.” 

Peter tilts his head up, bumping your noses together. “Guess you don’t have to go on the search for some other biophysics guy to fawn over you, then.”

Fawn. That’s exactly what Peter does, fawn over you, but it’s somehow worse that he does it knowingly. 

“Maybe not,” you say, “but you know I’m not just going to let you get my lunch every time.” 

“Oh, yeah? How are you gonna stop me?” 

“I don’t know.” You heave a long, thoughtful sigh. “I guess probably start selling your photos to make my own way in the world.” 

Peter laughs. “I think probably one of the most adorable things about you,” he says, lips to your cheek, “is that you think those are worth something. They’re all yours, pretty girl.” 

“They’re definitely worth something. I’m going to make millions.” 

“Sure you are.” 

“You’ll see, when I move out of this place into a penthouse and you’re still just scraping by on your measly STEM salary.” 

Peter watches you with an analytical gaze. You’re playing at levity, but he knows by now when you’re hiding your sincerity away, and he also knows what you’ve been pushing for for weeks now. 

“Why do you want me to sell them so badly?” he asks. 

You shrug. “Because,” you say, “I’ve never seen the city the way I do when I look at them. I think other people would like that, too.” 

He mushes your hip in his hand affectionately. “They’re not that original. I’d be one of a thousand people trying to sell pictures of New York.” 

“Yeah, but yours are good.” 

“You’re so stubborn,” he mumbles, pushing his face into yours to kiss you with a vengeance, “and cute. I just don’t have the time, sweetheart.” 

“I can set you up a website.” It’s not said in haste. You’ve been trying to think up ways to get this idea off the ground for a while now. “That way you don’t have to do anything, I’ll just list them for you and handle the shipping when people buy them.” 

Peter blinks at you. It’s clear he’s caught offguard, and it aches a bit that you offering to help him out is still so unexpected. You’ve been trying to do it more—though it’s near impossible to keep up with how often Peter helps you, and it seems like he ups the ante with every attempt you make—but you wonder if Peter will ever get used to the feeling of someone wanting to do things for him. You can relate to that particular discomfort. 

“Would that make you happy?” he asks after a moment. 

“It would,” you reply honestly. 

He hesitates. “I would want to choose which ones you put up. And I don’t want you to be disappointed if they don’t sell…” 

“I won’t be disappointed.” You wave him off, already reaching for your laptop despite still being trapped underneath him. “They’ll sell like hotcakes.” 

“What even is a hotcake?” Peter muses, though he moves when you nudge at him, allowing you to sit up and open your laptop. 

“Pretty sure it’s an old-timey word for pancakes.” 

“Do pancakes sell famously well?” 

You cut him a dry look. “Then they’ll sell like Mets merch, Peter. Is that better?” 

The distracted look in Peter’s eyes diminishes, replaced by a more familiar one. “I think you’re the hotcake they were talking about,” he says, smarmy. 

“Are you saying I sell?” 

“No! No. You know that’s not what I meant.” 

“Yeah, walk that one back, Parker.” 

—

You’re halfway to a dream about holiday break and Peter’s fresh-laundry smell when the fire alarm goes off. It knocks you out of your study fugue state and knocks your coffee clean over, making you gasp and fumble for your laptop. It’s gotten all over your lap, too, but you don’t have time to think about that, ignoring the burn and the shrill wailing in favor of wiping your keyboard off on your shirt.

A moment later, and the coffee is no longer your laptop’s paramount threat. The sprinklers go off. You stow your laptop in your bag, hugging the whole thing to your chest like you can shield it with your body. It’s then that you remember what a fire alarm means. 

You’re not the only brain dead, half asleep straggler in the library who hasn’t been quick to action. There are other students just now making their way to the stairwell door; you grab your notes and follow suit. 

The alarm is deafening in the stairwell. It bounces off the walls in a painful, ceaseless screech, punctuated by flashes of bright white light. Coming down from the top floor, you’re joined by a throng of others as you descend. People shove; a girl shouts her friend’s name; someone else stops by the railing, halting the flow around them as they try to make their way back up to some forgotten item. Most heads are ducked, the sprinklers still raining down and water dripping from chins and noses. You say an apology that gets swallowed up by the cacophony when you step on someone’s foot. You wince when someone else steps on yours. You curl around your backpack and keep going. 

You’re near the back of the push down the stairs, so when Spider-Man arrives your only indication is the change in tone of the shouting below you. Cheers go up with the siren’s shriek, and you peer over the railing just as a stream of webbing shoots past you, sticking to the ceiling. The spandex-clad vigilante follows it up. He goes slowly, scanning faces as he goes by. 

“All good? Everybody okay? Let’s make our way down in a neat and orderly fashion, folks. No need to push. Where’s the fire, am I right?” 

If he wanted to go put out the fire, or even to sweep from the top floor down to make sure no one’s still not evacuating, there are surely quicker ways, but you’re a bit warmed that Spider-Man is taking the slower route to check that you’re all okay. He’s risen nearly to you now, and while some of the students around you have stopped or taken out phones, you’re still trying to get out of here. Of course, now that you’re looking at Spider-Man and not your feet, you fall straightaway onto your ass. 

It’s embarrassing. You narrowly avoid hitting your chin on the stair railing; someone near you gasps. Your tailbone and your pride both feel terribly bruised. 

“Oh, shit. Hey. You okay?” 

It doesn't help matters that you’ve pulled Spider-Man’s attention, too. 

He swings neatly over the very railing that nearly concussed you a moment earlier, reaching down to pull you upright. 

“Yeah, you’re okay. Nothing feels broken, right?” He skims touches over your elbows, your waist. It’s all too much at once, an overwhelm, but you step away quickly when he lays a probing hand at the small of your back. 

“What?” Spider-Man’s voice rings with concern just loud enough to be heard over the alarm. “That hurt?” 

You’re shocked speechless. Does he just go around touching everyone like that? It feels intimate to you. 

“Oh.” He seems to get it. His demeanor changes, a few more inches of space appearing between you. “Sorry. Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine,” you say. 

“Can I, uh.” He looks up in the direction he was heading, then back to you. “Can I give you a lift down?” 

You feel yourself frown. “I can make it on my own.” 

Spider-Man breathes out a dry chuckle. “I forgot how suspicious you are of people who want to help you.” 

You blink, biting your tongue against the question that rises to it. You remember me? It’s difficult not to feel flattered, but you’re also just baffled. Spider-Man saves dozens of people every day, and yet he remembers a conversation with a girl he only walked home on an uneventful night?

“Just let me take you to the ground floor,” he asks. “I won’t be able to relax if I think there’s some injured bootstrapper hobbling their way down the stairs.” 

You don’t remember deciding to agree, and you certainly think you’re going to argue his bootstrapper label more than comes out, but you find yourself clinging to spandex-clad and surprisingly warm shoulders a minute later, Spider-Man’s hold far from unwelcome now as he lowers you gently to the ground. 

“Come on,” he says, ignoring the people who stop and stare in favor of guiding you outside. 

You think it’s probably a good sign that there isn’t smoke visibly pouring out of any windows you can see. The library’s fire suppression system may have worked fast enough to put the fire out before it grew too large. Spider-Man keeps you close, maneuvering you both through the gathering crowd and past the arriving firefighters to the curb across the street. 

“What happened here?” he asks you, something achingly familiar about the gentleness of his tone as he looks down at your lap. Whereas most of your clothes are speckled with dampness from the sprinklers, across your thighs is a dark, prominent splotch. 

“Coffee,” you answer resignedly. 

He hisses. “Hot?” 

“Not cold.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No, not really. I think the sprinklers cooled me off.” 

You try on a smile there. You think maybe Spider-Man mirrors it, his tone lightening some. 

“Is your butt okay, too?” 

“My butt’s none of your concern.” 

“Hey, I concern myself with every butt in this city. You’re all under my care.” 

It feels ridiculous, laughing while your university library is still being evacuated and alarms are still going off. It’s also nice. The laughter gathers like bubbles in your chest, fizzing and popping and disrupting the tension in there. You wonder if this is how Spider-Man does what he does, if it’s what makes him so good at it. 

“I’m fine,” you tell him. 

“Promise?” 

“Yeah. Don’t you need to…” You look at where the firefighters are running into the building. 

Spider-Man follows your gaze. “Yeah,” he says, though he doesn’t move. He glances between you and the building a few more times, fingers twitching at his sides. “I, uh.” 

“Thanks for your help.”

The dismissal is clear, and it seems to snap him out of it. 

“Right. Okay.” He finally takes a step back. “Stay put, okay? Don’t go anywhere. I’m serious. Just, I have to—you stay here.” 

“Okay,” you say. He’s already shot away on a web, and with the sirens and the shouting, you aren’t sure if he hears you. 

You aren’t sure why Spider-Man would ask you to wait. Does he plan to come back? He seemed flustered; he might not have meant it. You’re resting your head on your knees with eyelids growing heavier, but it seems rude to leave when someone rescues you and then asks you to wait up. 

“Hey.” You jolt when a hand lands on the back of your neck. “Hey, hey. It’s just me.” 

Peter’s a sight for sore eyes. His grin is tentative as he sits on the curb beside you, all soft brown eyes and hooked brows. The apprehension goes out of you in an instant. 

“Hi,” you say, warmth filling your chest. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” Peter rubs between your shoulder blades, looking you over. “What happened?” 

“There’s a fire in the library.” 

“Yeah, I think they put that out.” He offers you a small smile. “I mean what happened to you? What’s this?” He sets a hand to your thigh, over the wet spot on your jeans. His brows rise. “It’s warm.” 

“Yeah, I…” You shake your head, breathing out a sigh. “I knocked over my coffee when the alarm went off.” 

Peter frowns. “Ouch.” 

“How’d you even know about the fire? I thought you were at the lab tonight.” 

“I, uh.” He seems distracted, still looking concernedly at your burnt jeans. “I saw it on the news.” 

“Already?” 

“Yeah, the school sent out a text alert. Hey, don’t you want to get those pants off?” Peter gives you a look in exchange for the one you give him. “Not like that, you delinquent. Get your mind out of the gutter. I mean let’s go home and put some ice packs on your or something, okay? Are you good to walk?” 

You’re shaking your head before he’s finished talking. “Pete, I’m fine. But I have to…” The words shrivel up, humiliated with themselves, before leaving your mouth. 

Can you really tell Peter that Spider-Man asked you to wait here for him? Peter might like you well enough to make out from time to time, but you can’t imagine they make rose-tinted glasses thick enough to look past anything that sounds so pathetically made up as that. Why would the city’s favorite vigilante, with his very busy schedule, want you to stay put so he could come back for you after saving the day? It’s a good question. Peter said the fire is out; if Spider-Man was coming back, surely he would have already?

“What’s up?” Peter asks you. His voice is gentle. “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” You shake your head to clear a nagging thought. “Let’s go home.” 

You stand on your own, though Peter’s hands hover while you do and he gets an arm around you as soon as he’s allowed. You walk tucked close to his side, his thumb rubbing absently over your hip. 

“How’d you know I was gonna be here?” 

“Well, it’s quarter to midnight on a Friday. I was gonna go around checking the clubs first, but…” 

“Asshole.” 

“Nerd.” 

“...Did you really come looking for me?” 

“Duh. And it’s not like I was far, the lab’s just across campus. Hey, did you hurt your butt somehow?” 

“What?” 

“You’re walking funny.” 

“I am not.” 

“Yeah you are, it’s like…it’s sort of a hobble. Did you?” 

“You’re making this up.” 

“I’m not! What happened to your butt?” 

“I am not hobbling.” 

—

You find out the next day that the fire was started by some idiots who tried to smoke and then freaked and tossed their still-lit blunt when they heard someone coming. If it had fallen onto the carpet or a table it might have gone out, but of course it landed right on the corner of a bookshelf, seemingly endless kindling spread out in front of it like the promised land. The fire was put out quickly, but not before most of that shelf went up and not without incurring water damage on everything else in the library. 

You read the news article and seethe while Peter applies burn cream to your legs, doing it for you because he claims you’re neither gentle nor patient enough with yourself to do it nicely. His touch is featherlight. 

It’s Saturday, and so Peter succeeds in cajoling you into spending the day in bed, napping and touching and musing in whisper-soft voices about what you might order for dinner, but Sunday you heed the university’s call for help. 

The library is all but destroyed. The carpet needs to be ripped out, some of the furniture needs to be recovered or replaced, hundreds of books need to be inspected and salvaged. The librarians and janitorial staff can’t do it all themselves. 

You may be selfish (Peter calls it single-minded), but this isn’t something you’d normally concern yourself with; you’ve got your own shit to deal with, impending exams and a now-glitchy laptop that could use some attention. It bothers you that this was your library, though. You’ve spent a lot of time tucked away in its stacks, Peter’s spent nearly as much navigating them to come drag you home, and if the fire had been more serious you could’ve been in real trouble. You feel like you owe it something, a little bit. At least a few hours of your time. 

Peter comes to help, because Peter doesn’t need a sense of obligation to step up. He’s made of better stuff. 

You go through the shelves with other volunteers, sorting books into bins based on how damaged they are. Peter gets tasked with bringing old furniture out into the sun, stuff that should have been replaced decades ago but the school is still going to try to save, even if it’ll probably smell like mildew forever. You get periodically distracted when he walks by with some musty armchair and you can see the shapes of his biceps through his shirt. At lunchtime you run home to make sandwiches, and you and Peter eat them on the same curb he found you sitting on two nights prior, the sun on your faces and breaths clouding in front of your mouths.

You call it quits when it gets dark, though some of the volunteers switch the lights on and stay. Peter buys you both hot chocolate on the way home. He waves you off when you try to pay and teases you about being extra careful because you’ve already had enough hot drink incidents for one week. 

Despite knowing you have heaps of studying left to get through, you feel strangely energized. Peter sits down in his couch dent when you get home and pulls up his notes, and you can’t stop thinking about the library. There’s got to be a more efficient way to dry the books. Who’s making sure the staff gets meals, when they’re there supervising all day? And surely there’s a more durable flooring than carpet to put in a library. If they take it down to the hardwood, and then people donate old rugs to help swallow sound…

You go back. It becomes a part of your routine. You go to class, you study, you help at the library, you bring Peter something to eat at the lab, you study some more. Peter goes for dinners at his Aunt May’s and comes home with tupperware intended specifically for you. At night, he tries to help you fall asleep, experimenting with different things he’s read to see what works. On some of those nights you end up faking it so that he feels accomplished. Most nights, you don’t, so that he’ll stay with you for longer before eventually saying he has to go to the lab or to the bodega or to wherever before slinking off. Those nights you think you sleep the least, though it’s hard to be sure. 

You and two other students haul a donated couch up the library stairs. You learn how to wedge paper towels between the pages of the most waterlogged books, a tedious but rewarding process. You get friendlier with the librarians than you ever have been, which Peter finds ironic considering you spend half the time you used to there. One of them is married to one of your professors, and your efforts earn you a bit of extra credit, a small miracle you’d never have dared to hope for. 

“What’s this?” Peter asks one afternoon at The Daily Bean. You’re meeting between classes for a quick study session; you haven’t seen him since you left him sleeping early this morning to go to the library. Rain falls in gentle patterings outside the window, fog clinging to the panes. Autumn is having its last hurrah. Thanksgiving is next week, and the city tends to grant everyone’s wishes for snow soon after that. The last of the leaves have been shaken from the trees, and now they squelch rather than crunch under your feet. 

You look at where Peter’s turned your hand to the side. “Oh.” You roll your eyes, rubbing at the white so that it flakes off. “It’s paint.” 

“They’re making you paint now?” 

“Yeah. I guess they figure if they’re already gutting so much of the building, may as well do a full remodel.” 

“Is it starting to feel like they’re just using you for free labor?” 

“Oh, definitely,” you laugh. 

Peter’s dimples frame his smile in parenthesis. “You don’t seem mad about it,” he says. 

“No, I’m resentful.” 

“You are?” 

“I am.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yup.” 

“You seem resentful.” Peter’s grinning for real now, his eyes warm. Sometimes you think you’d say anything to get him looking at you like this. It’s addicting. “You seem ready to revolt.” 

“I might.” You take a sip of your coffee. “No, I don’t know. I don’t mind it.” 

“Aw,” he says. “You’ve gone soft.” 

“I have not. Don’t think I’ve abandoned my get-rich-quick scheme. The website is up.” 

Peter blinks. “My website?” 

“My website,” you correct him, teasing, “since you won’t sell your own photos yourself. I’m just waiting for the go-ahead from you on which ones to put up.” 

“Yeah,” he says, quieting. “We can do that.” 

“Soon?” 

“Tell you what, pretty girl.” Peter takes your hand, kissing the side of your pinkie just before the paint starts. It sends goosebumps all the way up your arm. “You find some time to pencil me in between your studying and being the school’s go-to laborer, and we’ll do it.” 

You have to look away from your roommate’s sweetheart brown eyes. He’s still holding your hand. “I’d probably have less studying to do later if we actually did some now.” 

“You can’t study now. This is a date.” 

“It is?” 

“Yeah, duh. Did you think we were actually going to study? That’s just how I get you to come to these things, loser.” 

—

“Is it, like, the suit and tie kind of dinner or the nice sweater kind?” you ask.

Peter’s exhale suggests he’s trying to be quiet about his amusement, but not very hard. “You could show up in yoga pants and my sweaty t-shirt, and she’d still think you were gorgeous.” 

“Could you try to be a little less biased?” 

“If I was being biased, I’d tell you to wear my sweaty t-shirt and forget the pants.” 

“Peter, I’m serious.” You step out of your room and into the hall where he can see you. “Is this going to be okay, or should I pick something nicer?” 

Peter turns around from where he’s standing in front of his own mirror trying to subdue a cowlick. He’s wearing a sweater and jeans, which is reassuring. It’s also new. You’re used to seeing Peter in his pajamas, or in rumpled sweatshirts he threw on in a rush to get to class, but this is…well, your roommate cleans up nice. His handsomeness is no surprise, but the new effect on you is. The green of his sweater somehow makes his eyes look an even softer color as they take you in. 

“You look beautiful,” Peter says. 

Your cheeks tingle at the bald reverence in his tone. You finger the hem of your dress. “It’s okay?” 

“Come on.” He huffs a laugh. “Are you kidding me?” 

“No.” But Peter looks like he wants to eat you, and he’s dressed more casually than you are, so you think you have your answer. You move on before he gets any ideas. “I’m thinking of trying to throw together a pumpkin pie,” you say, going to check on your rolls in the oven. Peter tails you. “I’d have to run to the bodega, though. Do you think we have time?” 

Peter leans against the counter. “What would you have to get?” 

“A pie tin, crust, pumpkin puree, eggs, and…um, I think there might be milk…” You take out your phone to check. 

Peter steals it from your hand, kissing the frown that comes to your lips. “Don’t sweat it. Your rolls are going to be more than enough.” 

Your frown persists. “It feels rude to only bring one thing and let her do everything else.” 

“It’s not rude. Are you kidding? Aunt May’s had me mooching off her since forever, she’ll be psyched that you brought anything at all.” 

“I already owe her for probably a dozen meals.” 

“Sweetheart.” Peter puts his arms around your shoulders, drawing you into a lazy hug. “You’re freaking out.” 

“I’m not freaking out.” 

“You are. And it’s sweet,” he allows, kissing your temple, “but you don’t have to. May’s already obsessed with you. She’s asked me, like, six times this week if you like green bean casserole.” 

“I like anything she makes,” you mumble. 

“I know. Kiss-ass.” 

You can’t deny it. You want Peter’s aunt May, this woman who’s fed you for the better part of a semester and now invited you to Thanksgiving at her home, to like you, obviously. And part of you suspects that Peter’s reassurances aren’t entirely empty. It’s hard to imagine anyone who raised a boy this kind being anything but loving and generous. You’ve seen pictures of Aunt May in Peter’s room; she has eyes remarkably like his, considering they’re related by marriage, and smile lines etched onto her face the way only genuine warmth can scar. It’s not so much that you’re worried she’ll dislike you for wearing the wrong thing or using the wrong fork, but she’s something to Peter and it’s becoming harder to deny that Peter’s something to you now, so you can’t help but want to make a good impression. 

“Not trying to be a kiss-ass,” you murmur, circling your arms around Peter’s waist, “but you look really nice.” 

Peter smiles. “See, that’s exactly the kind of thing a kiss-ass would say.” 

“I know. It was a risk I had to take, because I needed to tell you.” 

You get squished to Peter’s chest. You suspect it’s so you won’t see him fluster. 

“Don’t tell her the rolls were frozen, okay?” you plead. “The story is I made them from scratch.” 

“Right. With, like, yeast and wheat?” 

“And whatever else goes into bread, sure.” You squeeze him back, but your grip slackens when Peter hisses. “What?” 

“Nothing.” His voice buoys with false levity. “Sorry.” 

“Peter, what?” You retreat enough to see him, hand skimming up his side. “Are you hurt?” 

“It’s nothing,” he says again. His hand comes up to cover yours when it lands on his ribs, and you know without asking that’s the sore spot. “I just, I fell yesterday. I’m a little bruised up.” 

You look up at him. Your concern feels like a tender thing, like your guts are spilling out into the space between you. It makes you a bit sick. “What happened?” 

“I was, uh, skateboarding.” 

“You were skateboarding.” 

“Yeah.” Peter’s shrug looks bashful. “I haven’t done it since high school. Turns out it’s not exactly like riding a bike.” 

You don’t know if you believe him. You want to. You really want to, you want to think Peter would never lie to you, but you know already that he does. It used to be something you could ignore, but now it makes you too sad to bear thinking on. 

“Please be careful with yourself,” you ask him. 

Peter catches the sobriety in your tone. “I’m fine,” he says, more sincerely now, cupping your face. “I won’t do it again. Anyway, maybe I’m tougher than I look, did you ever think of that?” 

You chuff a laugh. “You’re not.” 

“Mean.” He kisses you. “You’re a meanie.” 

“Kiss-ass, meanie. Pick something to call me and stick with it.” 

When you arrive at Aunt May’s, she already knows who you are, but Peter introduces you anyway. This time, he calls you his girlfriend. 

—

On occasion, when you know Peter’s gone on one of his late-night errands, you also take the opportunity to do away with the pretense of sleep. Finals are nearly done. There’s nothing you can do for the library at night, though repairs are nearly completed and the school expects for it to reopen at the start of the spring semester anyway. There’s really not much for you to do, but your head drives you out of bed with an itchy sense of urgency nonetheless. 

This time of year, your apartment is well lit all through the night. The wattage of the city has increased tenfold, lights of white and red and gold twinkling at all hours to entice tourists and holiday shoppers into storefronts. Peter insisted on getting you a cheap tinsel tree, too. It glows warmly in the corner of your living room. 

You hear Peter’s window slide open somewhere around two-thirty. It’s a bit earlier than he usually comes back, but you hope he’s in to stay. You know Peter knows that you wake up to find him gone at least some of the time; but you don’t ask, and so neither does he. It’s…an ache. 

You imagine the silence sometimes like a physical thing, a weight balanced on a string that stretches between the two of you, pulled tight. You feel it some times more than others. You hear the slide of Peter’s window, and the string tugs at the center of your chest, impeding on your breathing room. A dull, familiar ache. 

You know from experience what will happen now. Peter will sleep in his room for the rest of the night. You might hear another few sounds—a shoe being tossed into the closet, the groan of bedsprings. He’ll come out in the morning to find you—maybe asleep, maybe still awake—on the couch, and he’ll chide you between playful kisses so as not to seem too serious, and you’ll pretend not to resent his hypocrisy, though really it’s not the hypocrisy you resent. 

You don’t expect him to come out of his room. 

You almost wouldn’t know it was him if not for the way the figure steps carefully over the squeakiest of your floorboards. Peter is wearing sweatpants and a bulky hoodie, so rumpled you almost wonder if he threw them on just now. He cracks the door to your room, peering inside. 

“Peter?” 

Peter turns on his heel lightning-fast. “Hey,” he says. He looks flustered, face mostly in shadow but the whites of his eyes are lit in your tree’s glow. “Hey, hi. What’re you doing up?” 

“I couldn’t sleep.” Your voice sounds shockingly normal for the tension crackling through the room. Peter shifts on his feet. “Are you okay?” 

He shrugs, giving a quick shake of his head as though unsure why you’d ask. “Yeah, I’m just—I had a weird feeling, so I wanted to see if you were okay. Nightmare, I guess.” 

“Oh. Sorry.” 

“So you are?” 

“Huh?” 

“You’re okay?” Peter’s acting twitchy, and it’s making you nervous. Of the two of you, he definitely seems the least okay. 

“Yeah, Pete,” you say gently. “I’m fine.” You open your arms in invitation, and Peter hesitates a moment before stepping forward. It’s a bit of an awkward hug, you half twisted to reach over the back of the couch and him bent over to get to you, but you make the most of it. 

“What’s going on?” you murmur, raking your fingers through the hair at his nape. It’s sweaty, like he’s been running. You don’t really anticipate a genuine answer to your question, but it feels important for Peter to at least know you care enough to ask. 

You feel his head shake. “Nothing,” he says. He gives you a squeeze, some other half of an excuse probably already on his tongue, but before he can get it out you both jerk apart. 

“Ow.” Your skin burns where Peter’s wrist pressed to it. 

“Shit. Sorry, baby, let me see.” 

You turn around, allowing him to pull the collar of your sleep shirt down enough to look at it. “What was that?” 

“I have, uh. I was just tinkering around with something in my room—you know me, tinkering—and this thing I was messing with sort of exploded. I didn’t realize it was still hot, I’m sorry.” He blows a bit of cool air on your skin. You turn to try and see for yourself. “Hold on, I think we still have some of that burn cream.” 

But in turning, you can now see the light on his face. “Peter,” you breathe. 

Peter must hear something in your voice, because he stops mid-pivot. The weight between you heavies. You feel the strain on your lungs. 

“What happened to your face?” 

His expression twinges. You wonder that it doesn’t reopen the cut on his lip, or if that slow seep of blood is all it can muster anymore. Your boyfriend’s jaw is marred with an ugly splotch of color, already darkening in the center. The cheery glow of your Christmas tree shows in unforgiving starkness the dried blood crusted around his nostrils and the bruise of his nose. 

“This?” Peter smiles, and now his lip does reopen. He hardly seems to notice. “I, uh…well, it’s embarrassing, but I fell out of bed.” 

“Peter.” Your voice thins. 

“I know, it’s so stupid. Didn’t put my arms out to save myself or anything, just boom—face to floor.” 

“Peter,” you say again. “Just tell me what happened. Please.” 

“I’m telling you.” He’s smiling still, like you’re silly, his silly girl, but you can see the strain around his eyes. “Babe, I think you’re more tired than you notice. Let’s go to bed, okay? I actually have to go out and get a replacement part for the thing I exploded, but—” 

“Don’t.” Your eyes are burning. You see Peter see them, his smile dissolving at the edges. “Please just tell me the truth. Who’s doing this to you?” 

“Sweetheart—” 

“No, I—I got it at first, because we’d just moved in and you had no reason to trust me. It wasn’t my business, and I got that. I didn’t—I was fine with letting you do whatever you wanted to.” Tears blaze hot paths down your cheeks, but you refuse to break Peter’s stare long enough to wipe them. “It just seems like it keeps getting worse, though, you know? Or maybe it was always this bad and I just didn’t know, but now—I don’t know, I don’t really know what this is, but it’s different than it was at first. We’re not strangers anymore, right? You can trust me. Please, I just—” Your voice splinters. “I just want to help.” 

Peter’s looking at you with something desperate in his expression. You can see the whites of his eyes again, and his chest is moving like he’s breathing harder than he needs to. He takes a step back, and the string between you pulls taut. It feels sharper than an ache now. 

“I have to—” 

“Don’t go,” you cut him off. 

Peter’s face pinches. “I have to. I have to, I’m sorry. Please go to bed.” 

“Why?” Your shoulders jump, something in you crumpling as you realize there’s nothing you can do to make him stay. Your nose runs. “Just stay here.” 

He glances toward his bedroom, then back at you. He must have left the window open; you can feel the night chill beginning to permeate your apartment. Peter’s fingers twitch at his sides. 

“Please,” you try again. 

Sirens wail outside, and Peter takes another step away from you. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I have to go right now. I’ll be back, okay?” 

You don’t reply, watching through blurred vision as he goes. 

It takes you less than a minute to come to a decision after that. You’re still leaking from your eyes and nose, so you grab a wad of toilet paper from the bathroom, cramming it into your pocket before throwing on a sweatshirt over your sleep clothes and shoving your feet into shoes. 

Peter’s not on the fire escape when you stick your head out his window. You have no clue how he climbed down so fast. You push the window closed and go out the front door. 

Your neighborhood is less quiet tonight. The sirens that make up the city’s constant white noise are closer than usual, louder, echoing down alleyways to reach your peaceful cluster of buildings. You think half-humorously that they might create an opportunity for Spider-Man to pay a visit; maybe if he’s not too busy, you can get him to help track down your runaway boyfriend and scare some sense into him. 

You hate to think of what could compel Peter to come back out here tonight, when he was already so beat up and he clearly didn’t want to. You don’t understand what role he could play. Is he making things for someone? Is that why he had that exploding thing on his wrist? Peter’s skilled, and smart, but you don’t think he’d get mixed up in anything that required him to pass off dangerous technology to anyone who wouldn’t be responsible with it. Unless he had to, at least. 

You’re so furious with him. You tear off a square of toilet paper, blowing your nose. If he gets any more hurt than he already is, you’ll tell Aunt May on him, you swear to god. 

It’s almost funny, considering how much better lit the streets are, that you don’t notice anyone around until the gun is at your back. 

“Purse,” says a voice at your ear. 

“I don’t have one.” Your voice wobbles, but mostly because of the whiplash. Christ, what a shitty day. “I don’t have anything on me.” 

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” The gun presses harder into your back. “Phone, then.” 

“I don’t have one.” 

“Don’t lie.” 

“I don’t! I left it at home.” 

“You know what—” 

“What?” Comes a voice from behind you both. A familiar voice. 

For a millisecond, you could swear it’s Peter, your heart clenching, but you turn after the mugger does to find Spider-Man standing a few feet away. As soon as the gun is trained on him, white webbing jams the barrel and it’s cast harmlessly to the side. 

“I don’t think she’s lying, man.” Spider-Man moves toward you, firing webs on the way that plaster the mugger’s feet to the concrete. “I think you just picked the wrong girl tonight.” He jerks his head at you, and you get his meaning instinctively, stepping out of the way as he moves close enough to give the mugger a shove. The other man goes careening backwards. As soon as his hands land on the ground, webs ensure that’s where they stay. 

Spider-Man takes your elbow in hand, guiding you away. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m…” Something’s nettling you. You wish for Spider-Man and he appears, is that how it works now? You have the feeling like you’re forgetting something. “This is where I live.” 

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound very amused. “I know, but why are you here? What’re you—” He pulls the waist of your pajama pants up from where they’ve started to slip. “Sweetheart, it’s freezing out. Couldn’t you at least have put on a real coat?” 

Sweetheart. 

Your voice sticks in your throat. 

“Your fingernails are gonna fall off,” Spider-Man goes on in a familiarly chiding tone (playful, so as not to seem too serious). He walks you out of the alley, ignoring the calls of the man stuck to the pavement. “What do I have to say to get you back inside? I’ll come with you, how’s that?” 

“Peter?” 

Spider-Man looks over at you. Eyes of all white, and yet everything said in the tilt of his head. “I was going to tell you when I got back,” he says, still walking towards your building, “but of course you had to go out and find trouble. You probably think I’m full of shit now.” 

“Peter,” you say. Not a question this time, but an exhalation. Something released. 

“I’m not making it up, though, I really was going to tell you. I would have told you before I left, but there wasn’t really time, I could hear the cops having a shootout and I really felt like I had to go—I actually only came home because my web-shooter caught a stray, so I needed a backup…” 

You’re reeling, you think. Or swooning. You’ve never figured out the difference. Spider-Man’s (Peter’s. Spider-Man’s?) hand has found its way around your waist, keeping you propped up against him. Silly, to be treated like you’re the delicate one when you know for a fact he’s all bruised and bleeding under that mask. There are probably other injuries you don’t know the half of. 

When Peter stops, you don’t understand why until you realize you’re standing in back of your own building. You’ve crossed streets without noticing. 

“I thought we’d take the fast way up,” he says. 

You manage a “hm?” before he’s tightening his grip on you and you’re sling-shotting up six stories. Peter sets you down on the fire escape. You grip the railing when he lets you go, the cold metal digging into your palms as he jimmies open his bedroom window. He has to gently uncurl your fingers to usher you inside. 

It’s clear one of you is more practiced at going in and out of windows than the other. You half-crawl onto Peter’s bed, stumbling a bit in an attempt to avoid getting your shoes on his pillow, whereas your boyfriend slips gracefully through and is laying down before you’ve managed to turn around. He pulls the window shut so that it hardly makes a sound. You wonder if it’s habit. 

“You okay?” Peter asks as he pulls off his mask. 

You stare. “Me?” 

He looks chastened, but says anyway, “Yeah, sweetheart. You’re shaking a little.” 

“I’m…” You reach for him. Your fingertips lay themselves over the bruised bridge of his nose. Peter’s eyes are sorry. “I’m surprised.” 

“You also just had a gun pointed at you.” 

“So did you. You probably have guns pointed at you all the time.” 

He shrugs, as though this is more or less true. “Are you mad?” 

“I don’t know what I am,” you admit. “Probably, a little.” 

“Is it okay to ask for a hug?” 

“Am I going to hurt you?” 

“No,” he promises, reaching forward to bring you to him. His lips mush to your cheek. “It looks worse than it is. Perk of the spider mutant thing, I heal fast.” 

You’re still careful with him. You hug him with your arms around his shoulders, feeling the strange texture of the webbing spread over his suit. There’s a strangeness to your senses; it feels like a tuning fork has been struck, everything reverberating and trembling its way into alignment. Your heart trembles with it.

“This isn’t what I was expecting,” you hear yourself say. 

“It’s not? I sort of thought you had it all figured out.” 

You shake your head. 

“Well, you’re taking it a lot better than I expected. If that helps at all. I kind of thought you might freak out.” 

“I don’t know how much freak out I have left.” You intend to stop there, but the next admission comes tumbling from your mouth unbidden. “I’ve been worrying for a long time.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Peter sounds genuinely apologetic, and so doting it makes your chest tight. He rubs your back like he can feel it happening. “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t want to drag you into this, but then it seemed like you were gonna find out no matter what, and…honestly, I just thought I’d get matched with a roommate who didn’t give a shit.” 

“Bad luck.” 

“Yeah, maybe. Not really.” He pulls back enough to kiss you, bumping his nose against yours affectionately. “Hey, maybe it’s too soon, but there might be a pro to the whole dating Spider-Man thing.” 

You look at him. A face you know as well as anything, and from the neck down a suit you’ve seen mostly in news clips. He’s your boyfriend; he’s Spider-Man. He’s your boyfriend who’s Spider-Man. 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“If you really like those pictures in my room, I can bring you to the places where I took them from. It’s not, ah, something most of the public can access. Special privilege only.” 

“Oh.” You nod slowly. “Yeah, that’s cool.” 

“Too soon?” 

“Maybe. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that you work for the cops.” 

“Uh, okay, I don’t work for the cops, I work with them. I’m not some narc.” 

The incredulity in his tone is so distinctly Peter that you come back into yourself. All of the trembling pieces settle into alignment. 

“Right, it’s just. I don’t know.” Your lips give a small tug. You see a familiar amused curiosity ignite in familiar warm brown eyes, and you press a quick kiss to his lips before delivering the news. “I’ve been picturing you more or less at odds with the law. I was pretty sure you were a drug dealer.” 

Two Months Earlier

“Hi,” Peter rushes into your apartment, breathless and flustered as always. You get a firm kiss to the cheek before he disappears into your bedroom. 

Laughing slightly, you peer around the corner and try to get a glimpse of him. “Everything okay, Petey?”

You get a slight hum of acknowledgment before he goes back to what sounds like rustling through papers. Shaking your head, you bring the popcorn bowl over to the couch and wait for him to reemerge. 

It doesn’t take longer than a few minutes until he’s strolling back toward you, a slightly cocky pep to his step. You narrow your eyes at him but fail miserably at holding back a grin. “Whatcha up to, Parker?”

“Who, me?” He shrugs, playing dumb as he jumps over the back of the couch, landing on the cushion beside you. You spot something folded in his hand before he tries to hide it. 

With little warning, you lunge forward, reaching for his hand. “Hey!” He jumps back, unable to hold in his laughter. “That’s cheating, you know?”

You don’t acknowledge him, grunting in frustration as he holds his hand further and further away from you. “Alright, well, what happened to no secrets?” You push, slightly embarrassed at how breathless you sound. 

“Oh, wow,” his hand comes up, cupping your jaw as he pulls your face closer to his. “That’s playing dirty,” he whispers. You can’t subdue your smile, inching closer until your noses are brushing. 

“You like it when I play dirty.” Peter’s eyes widen, a visible flush on his face as your lips just barely brush together. The whisper of a kiss. He was so focused on that, he failed to notice you ripping the paper from his hands. 

He groans as you lean back on the couch with a triumphant grin. “You’re too easy, Parker,” you tease. 

He props his chin on your knee, “Only for you.” 

“Oh God, you are so cheesy.” He opens his mouth, a stupid grin on his face. You pinch his lips together and laugh, “Don’t say it again. For the sake of our relationship, please.” 

You release him and he presses a quick kiss to your hand before leaning back. “Well,” he nods toward the paper in your hand. “Don’t you want to see what you’ve won?” 

Excitement bubbles inside you as you unfold the small piece of paper. The print’s slightly smudged from your wrestling match, but when you bring it closer, you can’t help the sharp gasp that escapes you. 

“Peter!” He’s smiling widely, posture relaxed and completely smug as you gush. “I can’t believe you managed to get tickets.”

“One of the guys in my lab knows someone at the museum. He owed me a favor,” he shrugs it off like it’s not a big deal. Like he didn’t just get you into one of the most exclusive exhibitions in Queens. 

He lets out a slight grunt when you toss yourself at him, arms wrapping like a vice around the back of his neck. You can feel the exhale of a laugh as he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, arms quick to wrap around your waist. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling back slightly to get a proper look at him. He keeps his grip firm, reluctant to let you get much further. 

“You know I’d do anything for you,” he tells you and he has all the conviction of a man who really believes it. 

“That’s a big promise,” you smile. “Sure you can keep it?”

“‘Course I can.” When you lean in to kiss him this time, you make sure it's real. Not the whisper of a touch, but something deeper as he pulls you into his lap completely. You don’t think you’ll ever get over how wonderful it is to be loved by Peter Parker. 

“Christ,” you blow into your gloved hands and hope some of the warmth bounces back to your face. You knew it was going to be cold today, but you hadn’t thought it would be a problem. Peter had said he was going to meet you outside the museum, but it’s already been fifteen minutes and you’re losing feeling in your nose. 

He does have a mind going 100MPH most days. Usually, you like to give him a leeway on timing. But it’s absolutely freezing today and snowflakes have just started falling. If you were with your boyfriend, this would be like a scene out of a romcom. 

Instead, it’s about to be a nature documentary on wild stood-up girlfriends freezing in Queens tundra. 

Pulling out your phone again, you bite the thumb of your glove and tug it off. You’ve sent Peter about twenty messages, none of which have even so much as gotten a ‘read.’ You try calling him this time, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear as you hurriedly tug your glove back on. 

“Hey, this is Peter, you know what to do.” 

You roll your eyes at his voicemail. “It’s your girlfriend, Pete. But, I swear, if you make me wait any longer in this damn snow, I’m going to be your ex.”

“Good thing you don’t have to wait.” With a squeak, you whip around to find Peter standing behind you. You slap his shoulder and he bounces back with a laugh. The tip of his nose has been nipped red by the cold and his cheeks aren’t much better. 

“You’re lucky I like you,” you snap. 

“Extremely,” he agrees, not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice. It softens you slightly. When you can feel your fingers again, you’ll consider forgiving him. He throws his arm over your shoulder, struggling slightly with the scarf triple-wrapped around you. 

Glancing down to hang up the call, you see a little news notification pop up. 

Spider-Man & Molten Man Spotted in Times Square

“What’re you looking at?”

You shake your head, tucking your phone away. “Nothing.”

You send him a smile that he returns eagerly. He passes the staff your tickets and opens the door for you as you step into the museum. You’d like for the first thing you appreciate to be the gorgeous mural on the wall in front of you. But you are far more interested in the blast of heat coming from the vents above. 

“Oh, thank God,” you grumble, blocking the door as you greedily soak up all the warmth you can. 

“Come on, bug,” Peter laughs, tugging you along so the line of people can get by. “We’ll get you an overpriced coffee at the cafe.”

“You’re paying,” you tell him sternly. “I still can’t feel my nose.” 

“Deal.” Peter doesn’t hesitate, just leans down and presses a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. It’s the type of thing you used to see others do in public and gag. 

You’d think about how you would never be one of those touchy-feely couples. Peter makes it feel so natural, though. As if you’ve been together all your life and this is just another one of your daily routines. 

The giddy smile on your face is wide and can’t even be hidden behind your scarf as you lean into him. He chuckles as he pulls you closer, taking you toward the cafe. “What do you want to see first?”

“I read online that they’ve got a bunch of Monets by the south entrance, we’ll go there and then circle back to the front.”

“You’ve had this planned since you saw the tickets, haven’t you?”

You laugh and shake your head. “Since I read about the exhibit. Remind me to thank you again when we get home.”

Peter glances down, brows raised with a cheeky look on his face. You snort and push his face away. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did,” you tease. Peter laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you get in line for a coffee. You don’t even feel like you need it anymore. You’ve been warmed inside-out just by Peter’s presence. 

God, when did I become such a cliche?

9:50

where the hell are you

they keep talking about distillation columns and thermo-something

you know I don’t understand nerd

Checking the time on your phone for the nth time, you feel your leg begin to bounce. Something uncomfortable has tied itself around your stomach, squeezing until you can’t stand one more sip of your beer. 

Peter’s labmates celebrate around you. They keep jostling each other’s shoulders, talking in technobabble. You have never felt as stupid as you did when Marcy asked you what your thoughts were on a plug flow reactor. Whatever the hell that is. 

You’d just said, “Oh, yeah, they’re great.” She’d smiled and slowly backed away, eagerly jumping into the next conversation. 

It’s not that they’re not nice people, but this clearly isn’t where you’re meant to be. Not without Peter, at least. You’d promised to come thinking, oh, you know, that your damn boyfriend would be here. 

10:30

Peter

Please

I feel so stupid

Nausea is thick in your throat as you hunch over the bar. Peter’s friends have all moved to a table, but you didn’t feel like following. It’s not like they were talking to you anyway. They didn’t know how and you didn’t either. 

“This is so stupid,” you mutter, dragging your hand down your face. You push away your empty beer and find yourself drawn to the TV, looking for any sort of distraction. 

It’s the news and, of course, Spider-Man’s swinging around the city again. His suit is bright against the night sky, and there’s an odd shape on his head that’s catching the snow. Leaning forward slightly, you snort when you see he’s wearing a red beanie. 

“Of course, New York gets the weirdo for a hero,” you mutter. You grimace as you watch Spider-Man get punched down by a man who looks like he’s made himself a megazord. Pulling back the sleeve of your blouse, you sigh at the time. 

There’s a tight pinch in your chest as you slide off the barstool. 

11:02

I’m going home

You debate saying anything else but decide not to. Tugging on your winter attire, you stop by the others’ table and bid them all goodnight. They’re nice enough to say bye, but you’re pretty sure they thought you had already left. 

The wind pushes against the bar’s door as you make your way outside. Snowflakes are quick to whip at your cheeks, landing in your lashes and melting into your scarf. You pull the scarf tighter and trudge forward. 

The cold isn’t bothering you any more than your absentee boyfriend is. You’ve always been gracious with Peter about being late. It’s a chronic sickness for him at this point and you’ve been around it the majority of your life. 

But it feels different now that you’re dating. Waiting outside an arcade or a restaurant for a friend isn’t a big deal. But when you’re sitting on your own at a table in a crowded restaurant, that’s absolute humiliation. 

He’s been dropping the ball a lot more lately and that hurts. But he hasn’t given you any other reason to worry about the state of your relationship. So, despite the sting, you’ve resolved to just swallow down the embarrassment and keep on going. 

You hear a small thud behind you and your hand instinctively goes to your purse. Swallowing thickly, you keep walking, hoping it’s nothing more than your paranoia. Then you hear the crunch of snow behind you, the clear footsteps matching your pace. Your hand wraps around the mace Pete bought you and you whip around on them. 

To your absolute horror, Peter’s standing behind you. He throws his hands up and lets out a nervous laugh. “Okay, an hour late is really bad, but please don’t mace me.”

You tilt your head and give him a flat look. “Two hours, actually.”

His face screws up and you cross your arms. “Sweetheart, I am so sorry.”

You shake your head and turn back around. “Forget it, Pete. Just go celebrate with your friends.”

Peter jogs to catch up with you and darts in front of you, a frown on his face. “Wait, no, come on. Why don’t you head in with me?”

You let out what can only be described as a guffaw and push past him. “And suffer through more questions about plug flow-whatever’s? Pass.” 

“Plug flow reactors?”

You glare at him over your shoulder and he fails horribly at hiding the amused look on his face. “Trying to speak nerd with them was humiliating, Peter.” His face softens at that and he reaches forward to pull you closer. 

Out of pure stubbornness, you should resist. But standing outside in the cold is making you desperate for Peter’s insane body heat. “Come inside, just for a little while,” he brushes a hair off your cheek and smiles softly. “I swear, I’ll teach you all our science jargon.”

You roll your eyes, but he knows he’s won when you sink into him. “You’re way too persuasive,” you snap. Peter does his best to lace your mittened hands together as he turns you back toward the bar. 

“Yeah, but you love me.”

“Unfortunately,” you glare at him, but your smile gives you away. 

For once in your relationship, you’re the one running late. Something you know Peter is about to take far too much joy in. He’s already sent about fifteen texts. The majority of them bemoan being all alone and then asking if this is how you always feel. Those were followed by an influx of apologies. 

You’re not thinking about the texts, though, as you jog down the street. You spot Peter waiting outside the diner, leaning against the wall. He’s got his phone in his hands, fingers moving rapidly across the screen. 

Sure enough, you can hear your phone ding with yet another passive-aggressive text. “Would you quit it?” You demand, completely out of breath, as you stop in front of him. 

He tosses his head back dramatically and groans. “God, finally. I thought you were just going to leave me out here to freeze.”

“Would serve you right,” your brows furrow. “When’d you get this?” You flick the edge of the red beanie shoved over his hair. 

Peter shrugs and readjusts it. “I dunno, I’ve had it forever.” You frown, biting your lip as you think. You swear to god you know it from somewhere, but you must’ve just seen Peter in it before and forgot. 

He holds the door of the diner open for you and lets out a relieved breath as you both step into the warmth. You would feel bad for him if he hadn’t done this to you five times within two weeks. 

“How come you wanted to…” The go to this place so bad trails off into a laugh. You should have known when he kept badgering you about coming here. 

Plastered floor to ceiling are comic book characters, clips from the stories, and various forms of memorabilia. You’re absolutely surrounded by a hundred different fandoms, and you’re honestly surprised Peter hasn’t had a heart attack yet. 

“I really should have seen this coming.” 

Peter laughs and leads you over to an empty table. A busty woman with a purple leotard stares you down from where she’s painted on the wall. You give Peter a flat look and he flushes. 

“I mean… the name is Strips.”

“Oh, seriously, Parker. Why would my mind immediately go to comics? I was worried you were taking me to a strip club or something.”

Peter wrinkled his nose and frowned. “That’s way too on the nose. I’d take you somewhere classy like Jumbo’s Clown Room.”

Your lips part and you just shake your head. “I don’t want to know if that’s a real place. And if it is, I don’t want to know how you found out about it.”

“Blame Flash,” he mutters as a waitress comes over with a coffee pot. 

You smile and thank her as she walks away. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve gotten a chance to tell you about this, yet.” Peter perks with interest and a wide smile blooms on your face. “You know how I was trying forever to be Professor Beeter’s TA. The position never opened but,” you trail off slightly as the people behind you start getting loud. 

“Oh my god, he is wrecking this place!” Frowning, you glance over your shoulder and take a look at what they’re watching. Someone’s phone is propped in the middle of the table and you see yet another ridiculous villain punching through the Chrysler building. 

Rolling your eyes, you settle back in your seat. “What was I saying?”

“Um,” Peter’s leg bounces under the table and his gaze shoots toward the door. “I’m not sure.”

You frown, watching him warily as he grows more antsy. “Oh, it’s about Professor Beeter. He offered me a-”

“Sweetheart,” he interrupts you and jumps to his feet. “I’m so sorry, but I just remembered I promised I would help May today.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. 

“What? Peter! You wanted to come here!” He’s already running out the door. You watch, astounded, as he races past the window like hell’s nipping at his heels. You sink back into your seat with a stunned expression and your heart aching. 

Clearing your throat, you look up to find your waitress giving you a pitying look. She offers you a sympathetic smile that only makes you sick to your stomach. Grabbing your bag and coat, you jump out of the booth, rushing outside. 

What the hell is going on with him? You think, glaring down the street where Peter had gone. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you swallow down a lump in your throat and decide to just head back home. 

After his abrupt exit, you haven’t heard from Peter all day. You’ve sent him a few texts, checking in on him and asking about May, but you only got one answer before he went AWOL. 

You:

Everything good with May?

Petey:

Yeah

Her pilot was out had to make sure she had heat

After that, you’ve gotten nothing from him. Also, as far as you’re aware, May doesn’t use gas for heat. Peter hooked her up with better appliances forever ago. 

It’s as you’re dialing May’s number that you have to try and convince yourself you haven’t gone total psycho girlfriend. It’s perfectly normal to want to check on your boyfriend. Especially after how he was acting today. The line only rings a few times before she picks up. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, May.”

She says your name and you practically hear the smile in your voice. “Hey, sweetie. How are you?”

“Fine,” you answer quickly. “I just wanted to be see how Pete’s doing?”

She’s silent for a moment too long. She clears her throat and you frown at the pitch of her voice. “Oh, yeah, Pete’s fine. I’d let him talk to you, but he’s busy right now.”

You hum, fingers twisting your hoodie (Peter’s hoodie) strings as your stomach ties itself into a knot. “Right. Uh, what’d he say he was helping you with, again?”

“Cleaning out the gutters. Apparently, it can be a fire hazard or something, I’m not sure.”

Your body goes cold while something venomous rushes up your throat. “Okay,” you can barely hear your own voice. “I’ll let you go, then.” You hang up before she can respond, phone slipping from your hand and clattering to the ground. 

“Oh, my god,” you let out a panicked whisper, smoothing your hands over your hair as you try to think of a reasonable explanation. But there are no anniversaries, no birthdays, nothing special coming up that he might be lying about for a surprise. 

You’re honestly more shocked that May would lie to you. Growing up, she’d always seemed like the type of woman to protect a girl from sleaze-bag boyfriends. 

So maybe that means Pete isn’t doing anything bad. Maybe she’s covering for him for a good reason. 

So, why can't you think of one damn reason May would lie to you?

You don’t want to start spiraling for no reason. People lie, not just boyfriends, and not always for insidious reasons. Plucking your phone off the floor, you call Gwen. She’s usually good at pulling you out of your head when you start getting bad. 

The phone rings a few times before she finally answers. “Hey, what’s up?”

You frown and cross your arms across your stomach, trying to keep the nausea down. “Why do you sound so out of breath?”

“What?” She clears her throat but that only makes her sound worse. “No, I’m not. Did you need something?”

“Uh,” slightly taken aback by her tone, you struggle to find the right words. 

“Gwen!” Your heart beats ruthlessly against your ribs as your entire body stills. 

“Is that Peter?” You know it is. You could pick his voice out of a crowd if you were blindfolded. 

Gwen lets out a tense hum. “Yeah, it is. Uh, he was helping me with some chem stuff. So, I gotta go. Call me later, yeah?”

She’s hanging up before you can say anything else. Your hands are trembling as you set your phone on the table. Squeezing your throat to try and keep the lump back, you shake your head. 

There’s a reasonable explanation for everything. Right?

The nausea’s still coiled tight around you by the time Peter gets to your apartment. Your eyes are staring blankly at the wall, the only light coming from your window. You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying there. Trying and failing to sleep as you consider all the reasons Peter might have lied to you. 

Why he would be with Gwen instead of you. 

You hear him padding through the hall and shut your eyes, tugging the blanket slightly over your head. 

“Bug?” He calls softly. He’s quiet as he approaches the bed. He brushes a hair off your cheek and leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “You awake?”

Part of you wants to tell the truth. She wants to spring up and start laying into him, demanding to know why he lied. And the other half, she’s a coward. So, you stay curled into a ball, eyes closed, and pretending like you’re not falling apart. 

Peter lets out a low groan as he settles in your bed behind you. It takes everything in you not to jerk away when he wraps his arm around your stomach, pulling you into his chest. The last thing you want right now is to have him touching you. But saying that requires being awake. 

And that’s more painful than a sleepless night. 

Peter wakes up slowly, his body aching after last night. He’s not sure who decided a “living robot” was a good idea. But his ribs are paying the price. 

Stretching, he ignores the twinge of pain along his side. His arm gropes blindly along the sheets, searching for you, for your warmth. When his fingers brush against the wall, he reluctantly opens his eyes. 

He frowns when he realizes you’re not in bed beside him. Turning toward the rest of the apartment, he doesn’t hear you. You’re not in the shower or humming in the kitchen. 

With something cold settling inside him, he gets out of bed. “Sweetheart?” He calls out, hoping to hear you answer. It’s Saturday, and while it’s never been something you’ve both spoken aloud, traditionally, you spend all day in bed together. Just crashing from stressful weeks and overloaded uni schedules. 

“Bug?” He tries again, wandering through your apartment. He already knows, deep down, that you’re not in here. But he doesn’t want to accept it. He’s barely had any time for you this week and he was really looking forward to just being lazy with you all day. 

In the kitchen, pinned to your fridge, he finds a pink note with his name on it. 

Prof. Beeter asked me to come in. Someone messed up last week’s research log

Should be home for lunch <3

The only thing stopping him from spiraling is the little heart at the bottom of the note. He knows it’s silly, but he’s slightly worried that you’re mad at him. He can’t explain where the feelings are coming from, but it's gnawing along the back of his mind. 

Peter glances at the clock and groans. It’s only 9, and lunch to you is usually 2 O’Clock. He’s not sure if he’s patient enough to last that long. Peter glances at the note again and leaves it on the counter to go get dressed. 

He had Professor Beeter last semester and they got along pretty well. He’s sure the older man wouldn’t mind Peter bugging you for a little while. 

Still heavy with the feeling that he’s done something wrong, Peter brought along your favorite sweet treat from the cafe on campus. Hopefully, that will soothe his worries and give you a boost for the day. He knows you look forward to Saturdays just as much as he does. 

Peter’s heading toward the lecture hall when his brain finally catches up with the rest of your note. What research were you talking about? You hadn’t told him you were a part of any projects. 

He’s always yapping to you about his labs. He figured you would do the same. Maybe it’s new, he thinks. 

Pushing open the door, he spots you immediately. You’re at a desk, papers and books piling all around you. There are three other people with you, each of whom he has a vague recollection of. 

“I mean, I don’t even know how we’re supposed to salvage this.” Your voice sounds strained, completely pulled taut. Peter frowns, wishing he could just take your problems and shoulder them for you. 

“It’ll be okay,” one of the girls assures you. 

You finally lift your head from your hands. “Twelve pages with zero references, we’re going to be at this all damn day.” Peter draws back slightly, suddenly wondering if this is such a good idea. 

He knows how testy you can get about school. Especially major projects. Sometimes just leaving you alone seems to work better than smothering. But, then, before he can back out, one of the girls, he thinks her name’s Mila, catches sight of him. 

“Peter?” She calls out. Your eyes instantly snap to him. If he thought you were angry at him before, he does not feel any better now. Your gaze is sharp, lips in a flat line, and there’s absolutely nothing on your face except perpetual irritation. 

“What’re you doing here?” You snap and your voice is way sharper than he was expecting. Holding his hands up slightly, he approaches slowly. He doesn’t want to treat his girlfriend like a stray dog, but you look ready to go for someone’s jugular. 

“I thought you might want something to eat. Figured you didn’t have any time before you left to get something.”

Mila and the other girl both aw over him and it gives him the briefest amount of hope. But then you’re shoving out of your chair and storming toward him. Peter swallows roughly as you approach. He almost wishes he were fighting that living-fire guy right now. 

You snatch his sleeve in your hand and drag him back toward the door. “Peter, why are you here?” You demand, voice lowered so the others can't hear. 

He frowns and shrugs helplessly. “It’s Saturday, we always spend Saturday together.”

You cross your arms, a sharp, derisive look on your face. Okay, definitely mad. “Oh, so you can remember dates now? What’s next? Are you going to show up on time for once?”

“Hey,” he objects, hoping to lighten the mood. “I was on time yesterday.”

Your eyes narrow and something on your face goes blank. He can’t place it exactly, but it’s like there’s a wall where he can usually read you so well. “Yeah, doesn’t count if you ditch me ten minutes later, babe.”

The venom in your voice makes him take a step back. He looks down, knowing you’re right. But he doesn’t want you any more mad than you are, instead of addressing it, he nods toward your desk. 

“What’s going on here?”

“We’re working on the dementia research project with Professor Beeter.”

Peter wants to light up, to hug you, and congratulate you for finally getting an in with the professor you’ve been trying to work with since last year. But you deliver him the news so flatly he feels like you’d only get more mad.

“You didn’t tell me about that,” he says instead. Which is very clearly the wrong answer, by the way you back off with a sharp scoff. 

“I’m not sure when I would have, Peter. I got placed two weeks ago and I haven’t seen you for more than an hour since then. Besides, when I tried to tell you yesterday, you fucking bolted to May’s.” You pause, and your lips curl up into something cruel. “Or was it Gwen’s place? Sorry, I can’t remember which lie you bullshited your way through.”

Peter feels his heart drop to his feet. It’s like a film goes over his eyes as his mind scrambles for any explanation that isn’t ‘I was busy beating up a robot with a weird, creepy human brain in it.’ Because he’s pretty sure that would be grounds enough for you to dump him right now. 

You really don’t give him a chance, either way. You snatch the bag from his hand and the smile drops from your face. “Thanks for the visit. You can go now.” You turn back toward your teammates without another look at him. “Hungry?” You call out to Mila.

She gives a hesitant nod and you toss Peter’s pastry at her. “Dig in.” Even when you sit down, you don’t look up from your books. Not even a twitch as he opens the door. 

Peter walks out, still slightly numb from the whole… argument? Did that even count as an argument? Or was that just you finally calling him out?

You’ve let him get away with a lot and maybe he took advantage of that, but he’s worried you might have the wrong idea. He doesn’t know why you would bring up Gwen, but the tone of your voice was so accusatory that he feels sick to his stomach. 

Yes, he was at her house last night. But that’s because he needed to be stitched up. She’s known about Spider-Man since high school. It was either bleed out or have her use her beginner's sewing kit. 

Peter lets out a shaky breath and runs his hands through his hair restlessly. You’ve both gotten into worse fights before. It’s not like you were a perfect couple. Surely, you could find a way to get over this. He just needs a half-decent excuse for his lying.

Peter perks up as he hears you step into the apartment. He glances at the clock and grimaces. You’re going to be pissed that you had to stay there until 6, fixing someone else’s screwup. When you round the corner and see him, he hears you let out one of the most exhausted noises he’s ever heard from you. 

“Peter,” he finally turns to meet your eye. “Why are you here?”

His chest clenches as he forces a smile. “I figured you would be hungry.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Are you ever at your own place?”

Ouch. “I just wanted to make you dinner. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as it’s done, bug.”

You shrug off your jacket and take a seat at the kitchen island. Peter takes your silence as agreement and goes back to stirring the pasta. When you speak again, his ears practically touch his shoulders. This dreadful feeling in his stomach has just been mounting all day. He feels ready to vibrate out of his own skin.

“Peter, where were you last night? I want the truth.”

Peter’s hand clenches around the spoon and he keeps his back to you. “Went over to May’s to help around the house and then I saw Gwen.”

You let out a loud scoff and your hands slap against the counter. “Did you all get your stories straight? Am I hearing the right lie, now?” 

Peter drops the spoon and turns to face you. He expects anger, maybe sadness. But you’re not giving him anything. You’re just… cold and Peter hates it. He’s seen you use that look before. It’s always been directed at people you don’t care about. You don’t hate them, you don’t love them, you just… don’t care. He doesn’t want to be someone you don’t care about. He can’t be. 

“Look me in the eye,” you command. “Tell me the truth.”

Peter takes in a steadying breath, doing his best not to make it obvious. “Sweetheart, I swear, I went to help May with the heat and the gutters. Gwen called and she needed my help on her chemistry project. I’m sorry that I got home late-”

“I can’t,” you clear your throat and the way your voice cracks makes his heart ache. “I can’t believe that you’re just going to stand there and lie to me.”

He shakes his head and takes a desperate step forward. “No, bug, I’m-”

You hold your hand up and his jaw snaps shut. “You’ve talked Peter, now it’s my turn. I have put up with a lot from you. If anyone treated me the way you do, you know what you would tell me?”

He opens his mouth and you shoot him a look that makes him shrink into himself. “Do not answer that, I am still talking. You would tell me to cut them out. If someone doesn’t respect my time, my dates, if they lie straight to my fucking face, then that’s not someone who deserves to be in my life. You are never on time, if you even show up at all.”

He wants to object, he really does, but he knows you’re right. Still, you must sense his apprehension. “Scroll through our texts from the past two months. It’s just a block of me asking where you are and telling you how stupid I feel. Then you show up, make everything better, and I just let you get away with it. Because I have known and loved you for so long, I let you disrespect me. I can handle missing dates, I can handle not being on time, always being at my place and never letting me over at yours. But I can’t do this, I can’t just swallow down you lying straight to my face. Getting your aunt and my best friend involved in this is sick, Pete. What do you expect me to think when Gwen’s lying about why you’re at her place?”

“No, sweetheart,” he finally speaks, rushing toward you, voice breaking on something desperate. He reaches for you, but you jerk back and he swears something cracks open inside him. “I would never.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Why would I ever believe you?”

Peter flounders. He tries to think of anything. Anything that isn’t a lie and isn’t the truth about who he is. But his mind is blank. The panic flooding through him is overriding anything that might get you back, might get you in his arms again. 

You suck your teeth and give him a jerky nod. “Why do I feel like I’m losing you?” He whispers, afraid that if he speaks any louder, he might actually cry. 

“I think this has been happening for a long time, Peter. It’s just your first time realizing it.”

No, no, he can’t handle that. He can’t handle knowing that this awful, barbed feeling ripping through him is how he’s made you feel for so long. But he can’t just spill his guts and tell you everything. 

Right after Gwen had discovered him, it was like the bad guys had a missile lock on her. She kept getting thrown into danger, nearly dying, because of him. He can’t be the reason you get hurt. He can’t live with that. 

But he’s hurting you either way and for once, he can’t think of a way to make this all smooth over. 

You take in a sharp breath and turn away from him. You walk to the stove, turning off the burner as the food begins to smoke. “I think you should go, Peter.”

“Bug,” but he doesn’t have anything to say and you still won’t look at him. He just wants you to look at him. He feels as if you did, if you saw how sorry he was, something here might be fixed. 

“I’m going to take a shower. When I’m done, I expect you to be gone.” You toss the pot in the sink and head down the hall, not another word spared for him. And Peter…

He just spirals. Every mistake, every time he showed up late, just pummels into him as he realizes this is all his fault. 

You turned off your phone yesterday. The missed calls and texts from Peter were bordering on obnoxious and you couldn’t take it anymore. Even Gwen kept trying to call you. Kept texting you that it’s not what you think. 

But did they ever offer any other explanation?

No, they fucking didn’t.

So, not only did you lose your boyfriend, the man you’ve been in love with as long as you’ve known him. You also lost your best friend. 

Best. Week. Ever.

Sick of being sad in your bed, you decide to go be sad outside. Maybe just grab a pint of ice cream from the bodega and lock yourself inside your apartment for the rest of your life. That sounds like a decent plan. 

Leaving your phone, you grab your keys and some cash. It’s still cold outside, though the snow has calmed down a little bit. It soaks through your tennis shoes, now, seeps along the hem of your sweatpants. No part of you can be bothered to care about that as you trudge toward the shop. 

It’s unusually quiet as you walk inside. Usually it’s a lot busier this time of night. Maybe the universe decided to give you a break. 

Digging through the freezer section, you frown when you don’t see your favorite flavor. You turn toward the shop owner, Al, who has gotten used to you coming down here the past few days. “You guys don’t have any more Turtlesaurus Rex?”

Al’s silent and you frown, finally turning to fully face him. A man in a black jacket lingers by the counter, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Al gives you a tense smile, and your brows furrow as dread picks at you. 

“All out. Maurie down the street might have some.” There’s something about how wide his eyes are that’s making you think you probably should have brought your phone. Especially because you definitely just saw the handle of a gun in that man’s jacket and you really need to call the cops. (Even though they probably won’t do anything.)

“Yeah, I’ll go check over there.”

“Have a good night.”

You try not to sound stiff as you return the sentiment. But you’ve barely made it to the door when you hear the distinct sound of a hammer being pulled back. 

“You think I’m stupid?” What a wonderful time this would be for a freak in red and blue spandex to show up. 

You turn slowly and shake your head, absolutely zero idea how to defuse this. 

“I think the lady’s just being polite. Personally, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone encapsulate the term ‘mouth-breather’ so well.”

Your eyes widen, and you whip around to see Spider-Man standing at the entrance of the bodega. What the fuck is your life? 

“Hey, jackass,” you hiss, and his head whips toward you. “Who’s he pointing the gun at?”

Spider-Man shrugs, “What gun?” You barely have a second to blink before a thick white string is twhip-ing past you and jerking the gun out of the man’s hands. 

“Smartass,” you mutter under your breath. 

“I think you mean, ‘thank you, Spider-Man for saving my life,’” you shoot him a flat look and walk out of the bodega. Maybe it’s time to just accept that you’re not meant to be in the outside world. You’re better off cocooned in your bed. 

There are no robbers there. No cheating boyfriends and conniving best friends. 

About a minute later, you hear rapid footsteps approaching. “I don’t have a purse, phone, or wallet.”

“Wow, great mugger-deterrent. I totally don’t want to rob you now.”

You plant your feet in the snow and hear Spider-Man let out a sharp breath as he skids around you. “I thought you were the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Not the quippy, neighborhood pervert who follows girls around at night.”

Spider-Man lets out a noise that can only be described as a guffaw. “I’m making sure you get home safely. Since clearly you don’t care. I mean, who walks around this late at night without mace at least?”

“Me,” you tell him flatly. 

“Pretty girls shouldn’t be walking around here on their own.”

Your lips curl and you gag as you continue toward your apartment. “Okay, first of all, totally not helping with your creep angle.” He groans and you almost laugh at the defeated sound. “Also, I’m fresh off a break-up, so keep the compliments to yourself.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Spider-Man quickly jumps in front of you and you frown as he blocks your way. “Breakup,” his voice is pitched so high, you swear it almost sounds familiar. “You broke up with someone?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“R-really?” He tries to lean against a lamppost, slips, and then straightens awkwardly like he meant to do that. “Because you know sometimes people think that it’s just a break and not a breakup, you know? Big difference. Are you sure this isn’t just a break?”

He’s talking so rapidly you can barely understand him. It doesn’t help that he’s got that mask on, so you can’t try to catch the words on his lips to decipher them. You think you might have gotten half of that word-vomit.

“Well, I’m the one who did it. I feel like I should know.”

“Does he?” He holds up his hands, quick to correct himself. “Or she? Spider-Man doesn’t judge.”

“Oh, good to know, he’s a pervert, but at least he’s an ally.” You push past him. “Look, if he doesn’t know, then he’s a lot stupider than I gave him credit for.”

You hear a low, “Ouch,” behind you and figure you might be being a tad harsh about Peter. But what the hell would Spider-Man care?

“You know,” Spider-Man continues after you. 

Jesus, he’s like a damn dog.

“I’ve always believed that everyone deserves a second chance.”

You glare over at him and swear you see the eyes of his mask turn down. You’ve never seen a mask emote before; it’s incredibly bizarre. “Do they deserve a second chance after sleeping with your best friend?”

Spider-Man shrugs, throwing his hands in the air. “Do you have evidence that it happened, though?”

“Dude,” you snap. “What do you care? And what other evidence would I need besides the fact that he wouldn’t tell me the truth? If there was nothing to hide, why would he continue to hide shit?”

You hear his inhale of breath and shake your head, holding your hands up. “No, you know what, no. Alright? I didn’t get my Turtlesaurus Rex and I am not going to listen to some weirdo in a unitard give me relationship advice.”

“Unitard?” He scoffs. “I’m not a weirdo.”

“Oh, yeah?” You call over your shoulder. “Then stop following me home!” It takes a few minutes to believe he’s actually gone and you can finally breathe again. What weird ass fever dream was your life turning into?

You sit on the ledge of your roof’s building, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You’re scrolling through all the texts Peter’s sent you in the last three hours. There are at least fifty of them. But it’s the one at the end that really catches your eye. 

Is this really it? Are we done? Bug-

You stop reading at the nickname and put your phone down. Reluctantly, Spider-Man’s words from the other night pop into your head. Some people think it's a break, not a breakup.

How could Peter not have gotten the message by now?

“Fancy meeting you here.”

You let out a screech and jolt forward. Arms winding wildly as you try to regain your balance. The city tilts below you until something’s latched onto the back of your shirt and you’re suddenly being pulled into a firm chest. 

“Why would you sit on the edge?” Again, his voice gets an impressively shrill pitch. 

Shoving away from him, you whip around and slap his shoulder. “Why would you scare someone sitting on the edge?”

You can hear his sharp intake of breath before his argument fizzles out. “That’s what I thought Spider-Boy-”

“Man.”

“Whatever.” You walk back to the edge and rewrap yourself in your blanket. With a pointed glare over your shoulder, you hop right back on your perch. Spider-Man lets out a world-weary sigh before he jumps up beside you. 

“You know,” he drawls. “Most people say thank you when a superhero saves you.”

“Oh,” you laugh. “Is that what you are, now? A superhero?”

“Dude. What is your problem?” His voice goes so flat, all humor sucked out of it, that, for some weird reason, it’s the first thing he’s said to get a real laugh out of you. He seems just as confused as you are if the way he tosses his hands up means anything. 

“I cannot figure you out.”

You shake your head and brush a stray curl from your eyes. “It’s not you, Bugboy-”

“Rude.”

“It’s life,” you spread your palms out, gesturing to the sprawling city across from you. “Just broke up with the love of my life. Lost my bestie. The research project I’ve been trying to join for a year is falling apart at the seams. Oh, and I almost got shot yesterday.”

You point your face to the sky and let out a dramatic sigh. “God hates me.”

There’s a light nudge on your arm and you look over to see that Spider-Man’s moved closer to you. “God doesn’t hate you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Because I didn’t let you get shot. I’d say that’s pretty damn lucky.” You snort and from the mask, you think he’s… pleased? It’s really hard to tell. 

“I guess that’s fair.” 

Spider-Man lets out a satisfied hum as he turns to the city. “You gotta stop being so hard on yourself, bug.”

Your entire body goes still. Your eyes widen as they stare down at your lap, adrenaline rushing through your blood as you turn toward Spider-Man. “What’d you say?” You ask, voice so low you’re surprised he even registers it. 

He shrugs, “I said to stop being so hard on yourself.”

“No, you called me something. What’d you call me?”

“Bug,” Spider-Man drawls and you swear you’re going crazy because that voice is painfully familiar. “You called me Bugboy, I thought it would be fair.”

It’s too hard to distinguish whether this swooping feeling in your stomach is relief or disappointment. And you hate yourself for not knowing which one you want it to be. 

“Right,” you scoff and rub your eyes. “I’m going crazy, now.”

Spider-Man lets out a long sigh as he watches you. “You kind of seem like you’re having a mental breakdown. Maybe, I don’t know, get off the edge of the very tall building.”

“Oh, don’t tell me Bugboy’s got a crush.”

Your lips curl at his scoff. “You’re impossible.”

Feeling only slightly guilty for the hell you’ve given him, you slip off the edge and get your feet planted firmly on the ground. “Better?”

He surveys you suspiciously before nodding. You pick your phone up off the ledge and, for some reason, are compelled to open up the texts with Peter. You should have guessed how nosey Spider-Man was going to be about it. 

“That the ex?”

You shoot him a flat look as he kicks his legs over the ledge. “Yeah. That’s the ex.”

“So, what are you going to tell him?” He motions toward the last text. “Break or breakup?” Your mind snags on how Peter called you bug and Spider-Man’s weird slip-up before you force yourself to dispel the thoughts. 

“Breakup. I guess I should have made it more clear.” Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you shoot Spider-Man a look. His back has gone weirdly tense and you frown. “Hey, you’re a guy. How’s the nicest way to tell him it’s done.”

“Don’t.” His voice is clipped, almost angry. “He’ll get the hint. Trust me.” 

Your brows furrow as you eye him warily. “Are you okay?”

“Gotta go. Superhero business, you know?” You shrug, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s already leaping off the ledge, thwip-ing his way to the building across from yours. 

“Weirdo,” you scoff. 

You figured that after Spider-Man’s abrupt departure on the roof, that would be the end of it. But, no, it’s only gotten worse for you. He’s everywhere now. He’s somehow more consistent than your ex ever was. 

Walking home from late research sections, look who wants to be a walking buddy. 

Heading to the bodega for a midnight snack, somehow, Spider-Man had the same idea. 

Your life is now a Sunday comic strip in the paper. It’s like there’s some sadistic artist out there exploiting your misery for humor. It’s not just him, either. It’s the month. In all your drama with Peter, you’d failed to keep up with the dates. 

Now, freshly single for the first time in a couple of years, you sit alone preparing yourself for the next week. Valentine’s Day is Saturday, which means suffering through pink streamers all over campus and girls walking around with gift baskets lovingly curated by their boyfriends. 

“I don’t like how often I find you on this ledge.”

You spare a glance over your shoulder and smile. “I don’t like that you still haven’t learned not to scare me.”

“Touche,” Spider-Man breathes out, taking quick strides toward you. “You seem tense. Feel like sharing? I’m a great listener.”

“Nothing big, just Valentine’s Day. I’ve had a boyfriend for so long I forgot how bitter and annoying it is for single people.”

“Tell me about it,” he sighs. 

“Really? The Spider-Man is single?”

“I appreciate the surprise in your voice, no matter how forced it is.” You let out a wry chuckle and you swear you can hear a smile in his laugh. 

“Probably a good thing, though. I can’t imagine any girlfriend would be happy with the amount of time you spend on this ledge with me.”

“No,” he agrees,  “probably not.” The next noise he lets out is soft, tired in the kind of way that resonates with you. For the most part, your interactions are shallow. There’s banter, stupid quips, and then he’s off. You don’t usually hear something so real from him. 

“Freshly single?” You ask. His head whips toward you and you shrug. “I recognize the misery of your sigh. It resonates within my withered heart.”

Spider-Man swats your shoulder lightly and you grin. “Yeah, it’s fresh. I still don’t think I’ve accepted it.”

You prop your chin in your hand and smile at him. “What level of not accepted are we talking here? Stalking? Or just crying over Instagram posts?”

Spider-Man goes quiet and you pull back. He recognizes the suspicion on your face and waves his hands. “No, no, no, this doesn’t count as stalking. Not really. I mean, it’s consensual?”

He sounds more unsure of himself at the end than you did. “Let's just not talk about that,” you offer. “I don’t think I want to know what your idea of consensual stalking is.” Spider-Man snorts and you shake your head. 

A billboard across from you catches your eye. It’s Gwen’s favorite band, an announcement that they’ll be coming through soon. There’s a sharp ache in your chest when you remember you can’t just text her about stuff like that anymore. 

“Gwen would love that,” you say, almost without thinking. 

But what’s worse is when the man beside you doesn’t think either. “Oh, yeah, she would.”

Consensual

Stalking

Oh. My. God. 

Your entire body stiffens as you turn to Spider-Man/maybe your ex-boyfriend. He doesn’t seem to realize his slip-up and that just makes you freeze up. You don’t know what to do. You can’t just blindly accuse him of being Peter. If you start hinting at secret identities, he might stop talking to you. 

Loathe as you are to admit it, you’ve begun to enjoy his company. The main reason being he reminded you of how it was with Peter before you guys started dating. 

Oh, Jesus, you’re gonna throw up off the ledge of your building. When the pavement below seems to swim up to you, it’s time to slip off the ledge. Slowly, fighting off the vertigo of your discovery, you drop back to safety. 

Spider-Man watches you, head tilted in question. “Um, I have to go.” You search for an excuse, but none comes. “Yeah, I have to go.”

“Oh,” he seems taken aback, but doesn’t comment. “Alright. I’ll see you later?”

You let out a noise between a hum and a squeal as you rush back into your apartment building. Your mind is racing while you scramble through the door of your apartment. Like a detective, you flit through different memories, red string connecting each one as you start to line up Peter’s disappearances with Spider-Man's greatest hits.

Every missed date, every time he showed up late, it was all right there. But you never thought to connect it because… Well, why would you? Peter is Peter. He’s not a superhero. He definitely doesn’t have webs. Please, don’t let him have webs. 

Scrambling for your phone, you dial the first number you can think of. It’s barely ringing before it’s getting picked up. “Gwen,” your voice is incredibly shaky as you try to calm yourself down. “I’m going to ask you something and if you don’t tell me the truth, we’re never talking again.”

Spider-Man/Peter Parker/ex-boyfriend-

No, no, too many titles. Peter has not been around in the past week. Not as his alter ego, and not at his lectures. Unfortunately, a lot of your schedule seems to intersect and the majority of your day is spent hiding in a hoodie and trying not to make eye contact. 

But there hasn’t been any of that at all this week. 

Maybe Gwen told him you know. He’s probably losing his mind right now. 

But, no, she swore she wouldn’t and you know she’s not going to risk hurting your friendship again. Though you did profusely apologize for ever thinking that she could do that to you. And then she berated you about thinking she would ever be attracted to Peter. 

Which… Ouch. 

It’s Saturday, which used to mean days spent with him. Instead, it now means watching people get all mushy on Valentine’s Day. That used to be you, disgustingly in love, kissing way more than you should in public. 

Now, you watch it all on the subway with that same old glare you used to have before Peter. You’re thinking about him a lot more than you want to. Especially given that he’s supposed to be an ex. 

After your long speech on respect and boundaries and honesty, you should be completely over him. But it sort of makes sense now. Especially after Gwen told you what happened to her when she found out about him. 

Peter wanted to protect you. You can understand that. But it doesn’t just erase all of the pain you felt while you were in the dark. You let out a low groan, ignoring the people around you as you walk home. You just keep going in circles over and over again. 

The streets around you begin to thin out the closer to home you get. You’re still so deep in thought, you don’t notice the man dangling in front of you until your forehead is smacking into his. 

“Ow,” you hiss, pressing your palm to the bruise that’s probably already forming. Backing up, Spider-Man, Peter, is dangling from the small overpass, upside down, as he waits for you. 

“Dude,” you drawl. “How long have you just been hanging out here?”

He shrugs, “An hour, maybe.” Only in Queens would people pass by a dangling man in spandex and not question a thing. 

One of his hands is tucked behind his back, and the other is holding onto his webbing. “Here,” he says. “I’ve got something for you.”

He untucks his free hand and passes you a bright pink, smothered in glitter, Valentine's Day card. You can hear his proud smile as he asks, “Be my Valentine?”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you shake your head with a low laugh. This is the dork you fell in love with. The boy you swore you would follow anywhere. It’s not his fault he’s such an idiot, not really. 

Something soothes the ever permanent ache in your heart as you imagine the smile he’s probably got plastered on face. God, you bet he’s so proud of himself for this silly little Valentine. 

A deep longing echoes through you and you reach up, going for the edge of his mask, when he reels back. “What’re you-”

“Relax, Parker,” you whisper. He goes completely still and you take hold of the mask. 

“Did Gwen tell you?”

“You did, dumbass. You know, you’re really bad at the whole secret identity thing when it comes to consensually stalking your ex.” He lets out a low groan as you peel down his mask, just enough for his lips to be visible. 

Pulling back, you take his face in your hands and smile. “Do you want me as your Valentine, or not?”

“What do you think, bug?” With a soft laugh, you lean forward and press your lips to his. It takes a second to get the angle right, what with his chin brushing your nose and all. But you don’t need perfect, you just need him. 

Pulling back, he’s got a goofy grin on his face and you smirk. “Parker?” He hums as you fix his mask. “If you ever lie to me again, I’ll cut a hole in the crotch of your unitard. Or, worse second option, I’ll tell Jonah Jameson where you live. Got it?”

He goes still and you raise a brow. “You’re not joking?” You shake your head, expression flat. “Yeah, I got it, sweetheart.”

Smiling, you press a kiss to his cheek and step back. “Be home by six,” you tell him. “And bring some takeout.” You walk around him as he swings himself back up to the top of the overpass. 

“I love you!” He calls after you. 

“I know you do, Bugboy!”

𝘞𝘦 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘜𝘱 𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                  ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 We've been here before and we'll be here tomorrow 💿

a/n: this was meant to be angstier but, well, I started writing him in the Spider-Man “voice” and folded like a wet paper towel

“Hey…” Nancy’s voice shifts you back into the present. She’s standing at the foot of your bed, soda bottle in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. You lift your jaw just enough to acknowledge her presence, eyes quickly scanning the scene.

“Your mom said you hadn’t been out much, so I wanted to bring your favorite. Chicken sandwich, extra pickles, no tomato, right? And a Coke, of course.”

You turn your head away, nodding once. “Yeah, that’s great. Thanks, Nance.”

She half-smiles, placing the contents onto your crowded nightstand and slowly approaching you, kneeling on the floor. “We all miss you, y’know? I know school starting tomorrow may be hard, but I think you should try to go.” 

She means well; you can tell that much. Nancy would never try to make you do something out of her own selfish desires. And, to a point, she is right. You have a couple more months of school left; then you never have to step foot in Hawkins High ever again. 

If only it were that simple, though.

Because now, not only do you have to attend school with the same assholes who make your life a living hell, you now have to do it alone. Sure, you have the party, but it’s not the same. 

Nobody's going to walk down the hallways holding your hand, obnoxiously loud and completely unashamed of it. Nobody's going to lean against your locker and make stupid comments just to get a smile out of you. Nobody's going to slip notes into your textbooks or steal fries off your lunch tray while insisting he was "saving you from yourself."

Nobody's going to be there. 

The realization still hits you at random. Like a punch. Like a car crash. Like waking up every morning and having to remember all over again.

Nancy watches your face carefully; she's always been good at reading people.

"You don't have to stay all day," she says softly. "Just... maybe try first period. See how it feels."

You let out a dry laugh. "See how it feels?"

Nancy's shoulders sink slightly. "I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant." Your eyes stay fixed on the wall. "It's just funny."

The word funny comes out sounding anything but. "You know what's gonna happen tomorrow?"

Nancy doesn't answer.

"People are gonna stare."

Your throat tightens.

"They're gonna whisper."

You look down at your hands.

"And they're gonna talk about him."

The room falls silent, because you both know exactly who him is. Not Eddie the person. Not Eddie who spent three hours teaching Dustin how to play guitar. Not Eddie who drove halfway across Indiana because you casually mentioned wanting to see a meteor shower.

No.

They're going to talk about Eddie Munson. The freak. The murderer. The devil worshipper. The missing suspect. The monster. The version of him Hawkins created because the truth was too complicated.

Nancy looks away first. You hate that; you hate when people do that. When they can't even argue because they know you're right.

"He isn't dead." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

Nancy freezes. Because nobody talks about it, not really. The Party knows. Steve knows. Robin knows. Nancy knows. Your parents know because they had to. And that's it.

The secret sits between all of you like a loaded gun. Two states away. In a hospital room. Machines breathing and blinking and keeping time. Eddie Munson: twenty feet from life, twenty feet from death. And nobody knows which direction he's moving.

"He isn't dead," you repeat quietly.

Nancy's eyes soften. "I know."

"No, you don't." The words come out sharper than intended. You immediately see the hurt flash across her face.

But you're too tired to apologize. Too angry. Too exhausted. Too everything.

"Everyone keeps acting like he's gone."

"Nobody thinks that."

"You do."

Nancy shakes her head. "I don't."

"You do." Your voice cracks. The first crack all day, the first sign that maybe the anger isn't holding as well as you thought. "Because every time someone talks about him, they use the past tense."

Nancy goes silent. 

"'He was funny.'" Your eyes burn.

"'He was brave.'" Your fingers curl into the blanket.

"'He loved you.'" A laugh escapes you. "Like he's already dead."

You stare at the ceiling while Nancy stares at the floor. And neither of you says anything for a long moment.

Finally, she speaks first, "Have you talked to Dustin?"

You immediately scoff. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because he doesn't want to talk."

Nancy gives you a look. "Dustin always wants to talk."

You shake your head. "Not anymore."

And that's the worst part, because Dustin Henderson used to talk constantly. Now every conversation feels like pulling teeth.

Every answer is one word. Every smile is fake. Every joke sounds rehearsed. The kid who used to light up every room he walked into now looks permanently pissed off at the world. You understand why, you really do. Because every morning you wake up angry too.

Angry at Vecna. Angry at Hawkins. Angry at the government. Angry at every stupid machine keeping Eddie alive while refusing to wake him up.

Some days you're even angry at him. For being brave. For being stupid. For staying behind. For making the choice he made. But it wouldn’t be Eddie without some stupid decisions, right? 

A month into the school year, you'd developed a routine. Not because things had gotten easier, just because people could get used to almost anything, even misery.

You woke up. You got dressed. You ignored your reflection. You went to school. You came home. You stared at the ceiling until sleep finally dragged you under, then you did it all again.

The hallways of Hawkins High felt different now. People had moved on from the "earthquake", from the deaths. From the nightmares...at least on the surface.

But grief had settled into the cracks of everything. You saw it every time you looked at Dustin. At first, everyone had hovered around him. Mike. Lucas. Will. His mom. You.

The entire Party treating him like he might shatter if somebody breathed too hard. The problem was that Dustin Henderson hated being treated like glass. So eventually everyone stopped, everyone except you.

Not because you thought he was fragile, but because you knew exactly how much energy it took to pretend you weren't. You saw it in the way he walked through the halls now: head down, shoulders tense, jaw constantly clenched.

The bright-eyed kid who used to wave his arms around while talking now kept his hands shoved into his pockets. The kid who used to laugh loud enough to get yelled at by teachers now barely spoke in class. And whenever somebody mentioned Eddie, you saw it.

The split-second flinch to the immediate anger. The way he looked like he wanted to swing at somebody. So you stayed close.

Not hovering, just nearby, close enough to step in when necessary. Which, unfortunately, was becoming a full-time job.

"Dude, seriously, stop." You grabbed the back of Dustin's jacket as he attempted to launch himself across the cafeteria.

"LET GO OF ME."

"No."

"He's literally asking for it."

Across the room, Jason Carver's former teammates sat laughing at a table. One of them made a dramatic devil-horn gesture when he noticed Dustin looking. The others laughed. Dustin immediately tried to commit murder, again.

You hauled him backward. "Dustin."

"He called Eddie a freak."

"He always calls Eddie a freak."

"Exactly."

"Dustin."

"Let me hit him."

"No."

"One punch."

"No."

"Half a punch."

You sighed. "No such thing."

He groaned loudly as you dragged him toward the exit doors. "You're worse than Steve."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"It is today."

The second the cafeteria doors shut behind you, Dustin yanked his arm free. "Why do you keep stopping me?"

You stared at him. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." His face was red, eyes bright with anger. "Nobody does anything."

"Dustin—"

"They say whatever they want." His voice cracked. "They get to talk about him like he's some psychopath and everybody just lets them."

The fight immediately left your body, because there it was: the real reason. Not anger, pain.

You leaned back against the wall. "He thinks he knows who Eddie was. But we know the real him, and that's what matters"

Dustin looked away. "It doesn't matter."

"It does."

"No." His laugh sounded bitter. "It really doesn't."

The hallway fell quiet. Students passed by, lockers slammed, a teacher yelled somewhere in the distance. But neither of you moved.

Finally, Dustin muttered, "I should've been quicker."

Your heart dropped. "Dustin."

"I should've."

"You know that's not true."

"How?" His voice rose immediately. "How do you know?"

You pushed away from the wall. "Because if you had gone back, you'd be dead too."

"Maybe."

"No."

"DON'T."

Several students turned to look. Dustin lowered his voice immediately, but somehow it sounded even worse. "Don't tell me what would've happened."

You swallowed. Because this conversation? Is one that kept coming back, the one neither of you ever won.

"He was alone."

"Dustin."

"He was alone, and I was too injured to get there quicker."

Your throat tightened, because you'd thought the same thing. A thousand times. Ten thousand. Every night. Every morning. Every second in between. But you couldn't let him live there, not forever.

"You know what would've happened if you went back? If you tried to step in?"

Dustin crossed his arms. "What?"

"Eddie would've thrown you through a wall and made you leave."

His mouth twitched, just barely. The smallest crack in the anger.

"He would've. You know he would've"

Dustin rolled his eyes. "Probably."

"Definitely."

"He would've called me a little shit."

"Absolutely."

The corner of his mouth lifted, then immediately fell again. But it was something. You'd learned to count those moments.

The knock came a little after nine. You almost didn't hear it.

The cigarette balanced lazily between your fingers as you sat on the front porch steps, wrapped in one of Eddie’s old hoodies despite the lingering warmth of September. The neighborhood was quiet. Crickets sang somewhere in the distance, and a dog barked a few houses over.

For the first time all day, your head had finally gone quiet. Then came the knock. Not on the front door, but on the porch railing. You turned your head and immediately sat up.

"Dustin?"

His left eye was swelling. There was blood on his lip. More smeared across the collar of his shirt. One knuckle looked completely split open.

"Dustin, what the hell happened?"

He shrugged the world's most Dustin Henderson shrug. "Got into a fight."

You stared. "A fight."

"Yeah."

"Dustin."

"What?"

"Dustin."

His eyes rolled. "Oh my God, please stop saying my name like that."

You stood up. "What happened?"

"Some guy."

"What guy?"

"Some asshole."

"What asshole?"

"The usual kind."

You sighed. Of course. Of course it was that. You already knew before he even said it. The bruises. The expression. The way he was trying way too hard to act normal. Somebody had said something about Eddie. Again.

You moved aside and jerked your head toward the porch steps. "Sit."

"I'm fine."

"Dustin."

"Okay, Jesus."

He sat. You disappeared inside long enough to grab a first aid kit from the bathroom before returning. The second you sat down beside him, he groaned.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"You aren't my mom."

"Thank God for that."

He snorted.

You grabbed his chin before he could protest and turned his face toward the porch light. The split lip looked nasty. Nothing broken, probably. Hopefully.

"You should see the other guy."

"Did you win?"

A small grin appeared. "Barely."

"Proud of you."

"Thank you."

"You shouldn't have done it."

"I know."

You dabbed antiseptic against his lip, and he hissed. "Ow."

"Good."

"You're mean."

"So I've been told."

The conversation faded after that. You finished patching up his knuckles while he stared out into the darkness beyond your yard.

Eventually he spoke.

"I miss him." The words came so quietly you almost missed them.

"I know."

Dustin swallowed; you could see the tension building in his jaw. The way he was trying to keep himself together. The way he'd been trying for months.

"He would've loved this."

You glanced over. "What?"

"The fight." A watery laugh escaped him. "He would've thought it was hilarious."

You smiled despite yourself. "He would've bought you ice cream afterward."

"Exactly."

"And told everyone you won way harder than you actually did."

Dustin nodded. "Exactly."

"I hope he wakes up," he whispers.

You looked down at the bandage wrapped around his hand. "So do I."

"No." His voice cracked. "I really hope he wakes up."

And there it was, the thing neither of you ever said out loud. Because hoping meant acknowledging the possibility that he might not.

The possibility sat in the corner of every room. Every conversation. Every hospital update. Every phone call. Nobody wanted to look at it, but it was always there.

Dustin wiped aggressively at his eyes, angry at the tears before they even fell.

"I just..." His shoulders shook. "I just need him to wake up."

Your chest tightened. "Dustin."

"He deserves to." The tears came anyway.

"I know."

"He deserves to see Wayne again."

"I know."

"He deserves to play another show."

"I know."

"He deserves—" His voice broke completely; the rest of the sentence never came out.

You wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer immediately. No hesitation, no questions. Because some hurts couldn't be fixed, only carried. And for a few minutes, Dustin cried.

Hard enough to let some of it out, enough to breathe again. Eventually he leaned back, red-eyed and embarrassed. You pretended not to notice, a kindness the both of you appreciated. Then his gaze landed on the cigarette still burning between your fingers.

"Oh."

"No."

"What?"

"No."

His eyes narrowed. "You know what I'm gonna ask."

"Absolutely not."

"Come on."

"No."

"One hit."

"Dustin."

"One."

"No."

"I'm basically an adult."

"You are fifteen."

"Close enough."

You laughed. "Not even remotely."

He groaned dramatically. "Please."

You stared at him, then at the bruises, then at the exhausted expression. Then back at him.

"This is a horrible idea."

"Probably."

"A terrible one."

"Definitely."

"You better not tell anybody."

His face lit up as you handed it over, immediately regretting every life decision that had led you here. Dustin took the cigarette, trying very hard to look cool. Trying even harder to look experienced. Then he inhaled.

A second later, he nearly died. The coughing started instantly, while you doubled over laughing.

"Oh, my God."

"SHUT UP."

He coughed harder. "THAT'S DISGUSTING."

"You're such an idiot."

"Why do people do that voluntarily?"

"Excellent question."

Dustin handed the cigarette back as if it had personally betrayed him. You were still laughing when the phone rang, freezing you both. You exchanged a look, then stood.

"Probably my mom."

"Probably."

The phone continued ringing. You stepped inside, crossed the living room, and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

Static. Then, "Get to the Wheelers."

You blinked. "Steve?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Mandatory meeting."

"What happened?"

"Can't say."

"Steve."

"Can't say."

"Steve."

"Nope."

"What kind of mandatory meeting?"

Steve sighed. "The kind where everyone needs to be here."

“Fine.”

The second you walked into the Wheeler basement, you knew something was wrong. Not apocalypse wrong, not Upside Down wrong, just...wrong.

Everyone was there. Mike sat on the couch, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Will was beside him, staring holes into the carpet. Lucas and Max occupied the recliner, knees bouncing anxiously. Robin was pacing. Nancy stood with her arms folded. And Steve—

Steve looked like he was about to deliver the world's worst speech. The second Dustin entered behind you, the room went quiet. A sinking feeling settled into your stomach.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

Nobody answered, which was answer enough. Dustin immediately turned around. "Nope."

"Dustin—"

"Nope."

"Dude, just sit down."

"Nope."

Steve stepped forward. "Dustin."

"What?"

"Sit."

Dustin looked at the room, then at you, then back at the room. His face twisted immediately. "Oh, my God."

"Dustin—"

"You guys are serious?"

You rubbed a hand down your face. "Steve."

"We just want to talk."

The words sounded rehearsed, which meant they probably were.

Dustin barked out a laugh. "Oh, this is an intervention."

Robin immediately pointed at him. "Okay, don't call it that."

"It literally is."

"It isn't."

"It literally is."

"It isn't."

"It definitely is."

"Can everybody just sit down?" Nancy asked.

Against every instinct in his body, Dustin finally dropped onto the couch, and you sat beside him. Steve cleared his throat, then immediately looked uncomfortable.

"We're worried about you."

Dustin stared, blank-faced and silent as Steve continued. "You've been getting into fights."

No response.

"You're getting detention almost every week."

Nothing.

"You skipped three classes last Thursday."

Dustin finally spoke. "Four."

Steve blinked. "What?"

"It was four."

"Dustin."

"I'm just correcting you."

You could practically feel Mike's patience evaporating. "Dude, that's not the point."

Dustin turned toward him. "Then what's the point?"

Mike opened his mouth, hesitated, then realized the only way out was through. "The point is you're acting like an asshole."

The room immediately went still. You closed your eyes, because there it was, the exact wrong thing to say.

"Damn it, Mike."

"What?" Mike asked.

"Dude."

"What?"

Dustin laughed. "Oh, I'm acting like an asshole."

Mike groaned. "That's not what I meant."

"No, it is."

"Dustin."

"No, go ahead." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "Tell me how much I suck."

Nobody spoke, and the tension thickened. Lucas finally leaned forward. "Dustin, nobody thinks you suck."

"Then why am I here?"

"Because we're worried."

"About what?"

Lucas hesitated, and that hesitation said everything. Because nobody wanted to say it.

Nobody wanted to admit it. Nobody wanted to be the first person to acknowledge what everyone already knew.

You watched Dustin realize it in real time. Watched the anger drain away, and saw something else take its place. Something worse.

"You think I'm becoming him."

The room froze, and Mike immediately shook his head.

"No,” but it sounded weak.

"You think I'm becoming Eddie."

"Dustin—"

"No."

His voice rose. "You think I'm becoming some angry screw-up who gets into fights and skips class and ends up dead."

The word dead hit the room like a gunshot. Robin looked away. Nancy swallowed. Will stared at the floor. And Steve looked heartbroken. "Dustin."

But Dustin was already standing. "You know what's funny?"

Nobody answered.

"You all get to be worried." His voice shook. "You all get to sit here and talk about grief and healing and moving forward." The room fell silent. "But nobody asks me."

"I'm done."

"Dustin."

"No."

"Dustin."

"No."

And then he was gone, storming up the basement stairs. The door slammed hard enough to shake the room. You stood fast enough that your chair nearly tipped over.

"Seriously?"

Steve blinked. "What?"

"What?" The word came out sharp, months of anger suddenly finding somewhere to go. "What the hell was that?"

Steve's face immediately hardened. "We were trying to help."

"No."

You shook your head. "You were trying to fix him. And nice going, by the way. Real efficient work." 

By the time you got upstairs and outside, Dustin was long gone. You knew exactly where he’d be hiding, but you knew better than to provoke him when he was feeling this way. So, you leaned against the Wheelers’ house and sparked another cigarette.

You remembered how Eddie would always read you like a book; the mere sight of you with a cigarette tucked behind your lips always earned a “What’s stressing you out, sweetheart?” The thought of him tucking your hair behind your ear while he asked caused a teary-eyed laugh to escape you. 

“You okay?” Steve asked, popping around the side of the house. 

You laughed, pulling another long drag before answering, “Peachy.”

Steve shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and leaned against the siding a few feet away. The cigarette glowed softly between your fingers. The sounds of the Wheeler basement drifted faintly through the house. You already knew everybody inside was talking about Dustin.

Trying to figure out what went wrong. Trying to figure out how to fix him, like he was a broken appliance.

"You know," Steve finally said, "the intervention wasn't just for him."

You looked over. "What?"

His jaw tightened. "It was for you too."

Immediately, your expression darkened. "Excuse me?"

Steve sighed. "I knew you'd react like that."

"No, seriously." You pointed at yourself with the cigarette. "Explain."

"You've been letting him get away with everything."

You actually laughed; a short, humorless sound. "Oh, we're doing this?"

"Yeah." Steve straightened. "We are."

You stared at him, waiting.

"He's getting into fights every week."

"He misses Eddie."

"Everybody misses Eddie."

"Right, because you and him were so close."

Steve stared you down for a second, then continued.

"And every time he gets himself into trouble, you're right there covering for him."

You scoffed. "Because somebody has to."

"No." Steve shook his head. "Somebody has to be the adult."

You looked away, taking another drag, trying very hard not to lose your temper; it wasn't working.

Steve continued anyway. "He smells like cigarettes now."

Your eyes narrowed. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Steve."

"He smells like cigarettes."

Your stomach dropped, because of course he'd noticed. Everyone probably had. Dustin had only taken a couple of drags that night, but still. You knew where this was heading.

"You think I encouraged him to smoke?"

Steve gave you a look, a look that answered the question all by itself. 

You barked out a laugh. "Oh, my God."

"I'm serious."

"You think I'm corrupting Dustin?"

"I think you're both spiraling."

The cigarette trembled slightly between your fingers. You hated that he wasn't entirely wrong, and you hated it even more because he was saying it.

"That's rich."

Steve's eyebrows furrowed. "What does that mean?"

You looked at him. And suddenly all the anger you'd been carrying around for months rose to the surface; raw and ugly. 

"You wanna know what's rich?" Your voice dropped, dangerously calm.

"Maybe if you weren't trying so hard to play hero for Nancy..."

Steve immediately froze.

"...Eddie would've never had to."

The silence that followed felt radioactive. Steve's face went blank, then hardened fast.

"Don't."

"Oh, don't?" You laughed. "No, let's."

"Don't do that."

"Let's." You took another long drag, tilting your head back to exhale.

"I think the real reason why you're so pissed that Dustin is acting this way is that he's pushing you away. Which is funny, isn't it?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "While you were busy chasing tail and pushing him away, he found someone who actually cared about him and his interests. Kinda selfish to ask him to just fall back into your arms now, isn't it?"

His jaw clenched. "Eddie didn't have to play hero either."

The words hit you like a slap, causing your eyes to widen. "What?"

"He didn't."

Steve stepped closer. "He made a choice."

"He saved your life."

"He made a choice."

"He saved everyone's life."

"He made a stupid choice. And for what? The towns still fucked."

Something inside you snapped. The cigarette hit the grass; you flicked it away so hard it disappeared into the darkness.

"What did you just say?"

Steve immediately realized he'd gone too far. But it was already out there, already hanging between you. Already impossible to take back.

"He shouldn't have stayed."

Your chest tightened. 

"He shouldn't have been there."

"Steve."

"He shouldn't have gone back."

"Steve."

"He shouldn't have—"

"He did it because you couldn't!" The words exploded out of you. Steve physically recoiled. "He did it because somebody had to."

"That's bullshit."

"No." You stepped closer. "That's the truth."

His face darkened. "No."

"Eddie picked up the slack."

"Stop."

"Somebody had to save everyone."

"STOP."

The shout echoed through the quiet neighborhood, and you both froze, breathing hard. Months of grief. Months of guilt. Months of anger. All finally spilling out.

Steve ran a hand through his hair, looking absolutely exhausted.

"You wanna know what nobody says?"

Your stomach dropped because his tone had changed. This wasn't anger anymore; this was something worse, something bitter and ugly.

"Nobody says what happens if he wakes up."

You stared, not understanding. "What?"

Steve laughed, but there wasn't anything funny in it. "If he wakes up."

The words felt wrong, like hearing someone curse in church. If. If. You couldn't breathe. 

Steve looked away toward the road, toward the darkness, towards anywhere but you. "You think everything just goes back to normal?"

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. "Steve."

"No."

"Everybody keeps talking about him waking up like it's some miracle ending."

Your hands curled into fists. "Stop talking."

"But what then?"

"Steve."

"What then?"

His eyes found yours. "And before you say it, I know he's innocent." The words came fast now, years of frustration pouring out. "But Hawkins doesn't."

You shook your head. "Stop."

"Half the town thinks he murdered people."

"Steve."

"The cops still want him."

"Steve."

"And if he comes back—"

Your stomach twisted. "Shut up."

"—if he comes back—"

"Shut up."

"—he's still gonna be the freak."

The world narrowed. "Steve."

"He's still gonna be the murderer to them."

"Stop."

"And honestly?" The next words sealed his fate. "All it's gonna do is make everyone's lives harder."

You hit him, hard. The crack echoed across the Wheeler yard. Steve stumbled backward, completely shocked, one hand immediately flying to his jaw.

You'd never hit anybody before, not like that. Not with every ounce of anger in your body behind it. But this? This felt easy.

Steve stared at you, breathing hard, and you stared right back. Eyes burning, tears finally spilling over.

Months of grief. Months of fear. Months of watching the person you loved fight for his life hundreds of miles away. Months of pretending you were okay, gone.

"Fuck you, Steve." Your voice shook. "Fuck. You."

Steve didn't say anything. Maybe because he knew he'd crossed a line. Maybe because part of him agreed. Maybe because he saw the tears. You didn't care; you just turned and walked away.

And when Steve called your name, you didn't stop.

The ride to the hospital was a long, blurry mess. After Steve’s botched attempt at an intervention, you ran home and immediatley hopped in your car. The only person you wanted to see was five hours away, and nothing was stopping you from seeing him, even if that person couldn’t talk back. 

By the time you arrived, it was well after midnight. The familiar fluorescent lights of the hospital made your stomach twist the same way they always did. You knew the route by heart now. Past the front desk. Down the long hallway. Left at the nurses' station. Third door on the right.

You hated that you knew it by heart.

The room was dark except for the glow of the monitors. The steady beeping filled the silence as you stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind you. Eddie looked exactly the same as he had the last time you were here. Same pale skin. Same curls spread against the pillow. Same stillness that made your chest ache every single time you looked at him.

"Hey, handsome." Your voice sounded rough.

You dropped your bag onto the chair and moved toward him automatically, settling into your usual routine. The nurses knew you by now. They never stopped you when you came in. Half the time they left extra blankets in the room because they knew you'd end up staying all night.

You sat down beside him and reached for the brush on the nightstand. Carefully, gently, you began working through his curls.

"You're getting ridiculous, you know that?" you murmured. "I swear your hair is longer than mine now."

The corners of your mouth twitched. "You'd probably love that."

Once his curls were untangled, you reached for the small cassette player you'd practically worn out over the past few months. The tape clicked softly as it started playing. His mixtape, the one he'd made for you. The one you'd listened to so many times that every crackle and skip was memorized.

The music filled the room quietly. For a moment, you just listened. Then your eyes burned again. Because of course they did.

"You remember when you gave me this?" you asked softly. "You spent three days pretending it wasn't a gift because you were nervous."

A laugh escaped you. "You literally left it in my locker and acted shocked when I found it."

Your hand found his; cold and still.

"You were so bad at flirting." You stared down at your intertwined fingers.

"You know, I was thinking about that day at Lover's Lake. The one where you nearly tipped the boat because you were trying to impress me."

A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "You swore you knew what you were doing."

You laughed through your nose. "You absolutely did not know what you were doing."

The memory lingered for a second before fading. And suddenly the smile disappeared, just like it always did. Because every good memory ended the same way now. With the realization that it was a memory. Not something you'd get to experience again. At least not yet.

Your throat tightened. "Dustin's having a rough time."

Your voice dropped. "He got into another fight."

You rubbed your thumb across the back of Eddie's hand. "I think he misses you more than he knows how to admit."

The tears came before you could stop them. "He acts tough about it. Tries to be angry instead of sad."

You swallowed. "Guess he learned that from us."

Your gaze dropped to the floor. The words started spilling out before you could stop them, like they always did when it was just the two of you, him awake or not. 

"Everybody's falling apart, Eds."

Your voice cracked.

"Mike and Lucas keep snapping at each other. Robin's pretending she's okay. Nancy barely sleeps. Wayne calls every week asking if there's any change and I never know what to tell him."

Your shoulders slumped. "And Dustin..." You shook your head. "Dustin's breaking my heart."

The room remained silent, only the music answered. Only the machines. Only the steady reminder that he was still here. Still breathing. Still fighting.

You wiped angrily at your eyes. "I'm trying."

Another tear slipped down your cheek. "I'm really trying."

"I keep telling myself if I can just hold everybody together a little longer, you'll wake up, and everything will be okay."

You laughed. The sound was pathetic. "I know that's stupid."

Your eyes closed. "Some days I don't even feel like me anymore."

The tears came harder now. Months of grief finally finding somewhere to go.

"I punched Steve." A watery laugh escaped you. "There. Thought you'd appreciate that."

You sniffled. "He said some really awful stuff."

Your voice trembled. "So I punched him."

Another laugh, another sob. "Honestly, you'd probably be proud."

You covered your face. The ugly crying started then, the kind nobody ever talks about. The kind that leaves your chest aching, your nose running, and your entire body shaking. You stared down at the floor. At your shoes. At anything except him. Because looking at him hurt too much.

"I miss you." The words came out broken. "I miss you so much."

You squeezed your eyes shut. The tears wouldn't stop. "I need you."

Your shoulders shook. "Please wake up."

Nothing. Just silence. Just the tape playing softly. Just another night. Just another conversation that would never be answered. You dropped your head, staring at the floor. Crying too hard to even wipe your face anymore.

Then, a rasp. Tiny, barely audible. Your brow furrowed, and you froze. The room suddenly felt too quiet. Another sound, a rough inhale.

And then, "Hey..."

Your head snapped upward and every muscle in your body locked. For one horrible second, you thought you imagined it. Thought exhaustion had finally gotten to you. But then you saw it. His eyes. Open. Heavy. Groggy. Confused. But open.

Your breath caught violently in your throat. Neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed. Eddie blinked slowly. His gaze wandered around the room before finally settling on you. Even exhausted. Even weak. Even after everything, he recognized you immediately.

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Hey, pretty girl."

A sob escaped you; fresh tears immediately spilled down your face.

Eddie frowned weakly, or at least attempted to. His voice came out rough and scratchy from disuse.

"No crying."

You laughed and cried at the same time, completely unable to stop either. His eyes fluttered slightly, still fighting to stay open.

But the smile remained. "No crying, sweetheart."

The next hour felt less like reality, and more like some strange dream you were terrified of waking up from. You cried, a lot. Eddie was awake for maybe thirty seconds before you burst into tears all over again, which earned you a weak, sleepy laugh and a very groggy, "Jesus Christ, sweetheart."

Then you cried harder. Then a nurse came running in because your hysterical sobbing had apparently convinced half the floor that somebody was dying. Then doctors appeared. Then more nurses. Then you got shoved into the hallway while they checked everything.

And the entire time, Eddie never took his eyes off you, like he was afraid if he blinked you'd disappear. The second a doctor finally confirmed that yes, Eddie was awake, yes, he was responding appropriately, and yes, this wasn't some bizarre fluke, your hands immediately found the nearest phone.

The first call was Wayne. You barely got through the words. "He's awake."

The line went silent, then you heard Wayne start crying.

The second call was Dustin. You didn't even bother with hello. "Get in the car."

"What?"

"Get in the car."

"Why?"

"Dustin."

A pause. Then, "...why are you crying?"

You laughed, the first genuine laugh you'd had in months. "Just get in the damn car."

Twenty minutes later, every person you knew seemed to be squeezing into a hospital room designed for about three people.

Robin was crying. Nancy was crying. Wayne was definitely crying. Lucas looked like he was trying not to cry. Mike had completely given up trying not to cry. Will was standing quietly in the corner looking like he might pass out from relief.

And Dustin? Dustin hadn't left Eddie's side once. Not for a second. Not even when nurses politely suggested giving the patient some room, especially not then. You stood near the back of the room watching as Dustin practically sat on the edge of the hospital bed.

"You're an asshole."

Eddie blinked slowly. "What?"

"You're an asshole."

A weak smile pulled at Eddie's lips. "Good morning to you too."

Dustin's face immediately crumpled. "You suck."

"Dustin—"

"You suck."

Eddie's expression softened immediately, months of missed conversations suddenly sitting between them. "I know."

Dustin looked away. His eyes were already watering again. "You weren't supposed to do that."

The room went silent. Nobody interrupted, and nobody moved. Because this wasn't for them; it never was.

Eddie swallowed. "You okay, Henderson?"

Dustin laughed, A broken sound. "No."

Eddie nodded slowly. "Yeah."

Then Dustin did something that would've mortified him under normal circumstances. He hugged him, immediately and without warning. Without caring who saw, practically throwing himself against Eddie's side. You quietly slipped from the room before anyone noticed. Or at least before anyone besides Steve noticed.

The hospital coffee tasted exactly how hospital coffee always tasted. Like disappointment. You stood beside the vending machine, staring out the window while the paper cup warmed your hands.

The sunrise was beginning to creep over the horizon. Everything felt strange. Good, but strange. You still hadn't quite convinced yourself this was real. Footsteps approached; you didn't need to look up to know whose they belonged to. 

"Hey, Harrington."

"Hey." Steve stopped beside you. "You hit really hard."

You barked out a laugh, and Steve rubbed his jaw dramatically. "I'm serious."

"Oh my God."

"I think you rearranged my face."

"I barely hit you."

Steve stared. "Nancy literally begged to take me to the hospital. Or the dentist."

You snorted into your coffee. "That's embarrassing."

"It is."

A small smile appeared on his face, the first you'd seen in a while. Then it disappeared.

"Hey."

You looked over; Steve shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm sorry. For what I said."

The exhaustion in his voice sounded genuine. "I shouldn't have said it."

You stared down into your coffee.

"No." You swallowed. "You shouldn't have."

Steve nodded. "For the record."

You glanced over as Steve pointed toward the room. "If Munson finds out you broke my face, I'm telling him it was self-defense."

You laughed despite yourself. "You literally outweigh me by fifty pounds."

"And?"

"I'll hit you again."

“I’m sure you would.

Eventually the two of you made your way back down the hallway. The closer you got to the room, the louder the voices became. Robin. Dustin. Wayne. Mike. Everybody talking over each other, just like old times.

The second you stepped inside, Eddie's attention immediately snapped toward the door. Still pale. Still exhausted. Still looking like he'd been through hell. But awake.

A smile tugged at his lips when he saw you, then his eyes drifted toward Steve. His brow furrowed immediately. "Whoa."

The room quieted, and Steve froze. Eddie squinted, looking genuinely concerned. "Harrington."

Steve sighed. "No."

"What happened to your face?"

Steve pointed directly at you. "Ask your girlfriend."

A couple of weeks passed.

Not enough time to undo everything that had happened. Not enough time to heal months of fear and grief and nightmares that still woke everyone up in the middle of the night.

But enough for things to start feeling... possible again.

The doctors were cautiously optimistic. Eddie was still weaker than he'd ever admit out loud, still attending physical therapy, still complaining every single time someone reminded him to take it easy, but he was alive. Awake. Walking. Talking. Smiling.

Complaining. Which, according to Wayne, was the best sign of recovery they could've asked for.

The situation with Hawkins, however, was a little more complicated.

You'd gone straight to Hopper. He hadn't even let you finish your sentence before pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering, "Kid, I'm already working on it."

The whole story had been laid out in front of him. Owens had done what he could behind the scenes, Hopper had done the rest, and somewhere between paperwork, witness statements that would never see the light of day, and a whole lot of pulling strings that probably weren't entirely legal, the investigation into Eddie Munson quietly lost steam.

No dramatic public apology, no newspaper retracting everything they'd said, no magical moment where Hawkins suddenly realized they'd been wrong.

Just the charges disappearing. The warrants disappearing. His name disappearing from conversations. It wasn't justice, but it was enough.

Enough that Eddie could come home. Enough that he could enroll again. Enough that, after everything, he was finally going to graduate.

The morning he walked through the front doors of Hawkins High, the entire Party had insisted on escorting him in like he was some kind of celebrity. Dustin practically refused to leave Eddie's side for the entire day.

Eddie looked around the hallway with that same crooked grin you'd fallen in love with and whispered, "I still hate this place."

You laughed so hard you had to grab onto his arm. Months ago, you'd convinced yourself you'd never hear his voice again. Now he was complaining about school. Life was weird, wonderfully weird.

By the end of October, he'd started driving again. By November, he'd started playing guitar again.

The first time he picked it up, he'd only made it through half a song before quietly setting it back down, frustrated with how stiff his fingers felt.

You hadn't said a word. You'd just sat beside him, rested your head on his shoulder, taken his hand.

He looked at you for a long time before muttering, "You'll tell me if I suck now, right?"

You smiled. "I always did."

He rolled his eyes. "Brutal."

"You love me."

"I do." Then, after a dramatic pause, "But you're brutal."

Eventually the leaves started changing. The air turned cold enough that Eddie started stealing your jackets instead of the other way around.

One afternoon the two of you drove with no destination in mind until you ended up parked beside an open field just outside town. The grass had gone golden, the sky stretching endlessly overhead.

No monsters. No sirens. No hospitals. No machines. Just silence.

You spread out an old blanket and laid down first, staring up at the clouds. A second later, Eddie flopped down beside you with an exaggerated groan before immediately rolling over and pulling you against him.

You pressed your face against his chest, just because you could. His fingers absentmindedly combed through your hair.

Neither of you spoke for a while; you didn't have to. Eventually, he broke the silence, because of course he would.

"You know..."

"Hm?"

"I don't remember everything."

You tilted your head just enough to look at him. "What do you remember?"

He thought about it. "Bits."

"The bats."

You nodded.

"Wayne."

Another nod.

"I remember you crying."

You laughed quietly. "That doesn't narrow it down much."

"It really doesn't."

He smiled, then his expression softened. "I remember hearing your voice."

Your chest tightened. "When?"

"I don't know." His thumb brushed gently across your cheek. "It felt like every day."

You swallowed hard. "I talked a lot."

"I know."

"I told you everything."

"I know."

"I talked about Dustin."

"I know."

"I complained about Steve."

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I definitely know."

Your eyes stung. "I played your mixtape until I think I almost broke it."

His smile only grew. "I know that too."

You stared at him, confused.

"I heard you."

The world seemed to stop. "What?"

His voice was barely above a whisper. "I couldn't move."

"I couldn't answer." His own eyes had started to water now. "But I heard you."

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

"I heard every story."

Another.

"I heard you tell me about Dustin getting into fights."

Another.

"I heard you complain about hospital coffee."

You laughed through your tears, he reached up and brushed them away with his thumb.

"And..." His own voice cracked. "I heard you tell me you weren't giving up on me."

You couldn't speak; your throat had closed completely. So you just nodded a tiny, shaky nod.

Eddie smiled, small and tender. "You didn't."

"No."

"You could've."

"I wasn't going to."

"You should've."

"I wasn't going to."

Silence settled between you again. Then you leaned forward until your forehead rested against his.

"I would've sat in that hospital room for another ten years if I had to."

He shut his eyes, and a tear escaped anyway. "I know."

"I would've waited twenty."

"I know."

"I would've waited my whole life."

His breathing hitched.

You smiled through your own tears. "There wasn't really another option."

He looked at you for a long moment before leaning in and kissing you. Slowly, with no urgency and no desperation. Just gentle, soft enough that it felt more like a promise than a kiss.

When he pulled away, his forehead stayed against yours. "I love you."

You smiled. "I know."

He immediately frowned. "That's it?"

You laughed. "I love you too."

"Better."

Another kiss. Then another. One pressed against your forehead. Another against your temple. One against the tip of your nose just because he knew it made you laugh.

The sun continued sinking lower across the field.

Wrapped up in his arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, you realized this was something that would've seemed impossible a few months ago.

Who cutting onions!?!?!?!

I'm sorry, I had to write this, though. I had that fight scene with Steve in my brain for a while.

hope you all enjoyed :')

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Phase 1: Morning

Right. If only all that excitement in planning hadn't left you doubting and rethinking all night, which lead... to this.

In a quiet corner of the school library, slumped on a table, you slept peacefully, head laying on an open book. You could swear up and down this wasn't the idea. But you had a free period, and the sun coming in from the window was weirdly warm for winter, and your eyes were just so heavy... Yeah, you didn't really resist much.

On the other side of the school, aforementioned best friend was looking for you, whistling to himself. It was fairly easy to get a hold of you, especially at school; there weren't that many places to linger. After checking the music room, he went on to the easiest option, which was in his experience 99% of the time correct.

He started making plans in his mind. In a place so boring, the only good thing was annoying the single person he was sure wouldn't kick him to the curb. The grin he sported was worthy of the Grinch. He could sneak up on her, snatch her pen–

Or maybe not.

Eddie's smirk softened as he spotted you, and he quietly made his way over, carefully scooting into the chair beside you without a word. He just watched you for a moment, focused on the way your brow was slightly furrowed even in sleep, clearly having fallen out despite your best efforts to stay awake.

"Classic."

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and gently pushed a stray strand of hair from your face with the tip of his finger.

"You're gonna catch hell if one of the teachers finds you asleep in here, Sunshine." His voice was barely above a whisper, teasing but fond. Truthfully, he couldn't care less. But you...

He continued to observe you, his brown eyes roving over your peaceful face for a moment before he glanced around the library to ensure no prying eyes were watching. Coast is clear. He turned his attention back to you. "Hey, sleepyhead." He murmured, his finger gently tapping your cheek. "Wake up."

"Mmmhmm... five minutes..." you mumbled, scrunching up your nose.

Eddie chuckled low, leaning in closer until his voice was nothing more than a breath against your ear.

"Five more minutes and you're gonna have Old Lady Allister breathing down your neck about 'academic dedication' or some shit." His thumb brushed across your cheek, warm and rough. "C'mon, pretty girl. Up and at 'em."

It was a nice attempt, but all he received in response was a soft huff of breath, your mind stubbornly clinging to dreamland.

Eddie snorted at the way your brows furrowed even more, a small smile playing on his lips as he realized that you were actually drifting back into sleep. Maybe, he could let you sleep a bit more. For a moment, he just kept watching you breathe, noting every small detail of your face. He followed the lines of your features and shamelessly took advantage of this free chance to stare, his thumb continuing to brush gentle circles against your cheek. "Damn it, Sunshine."

He glanced around again, then with an amused shake of his head, he carefully pulled off his leather jacket and draped it over your shoulders. The library wasn't exactly the warmest place of the building, and even though you looked warm enough– in a pretty skirt nonetheless, his brain uselessly supplied– you could use another layer. He was always running hot, surely he wouldn't catch a cold just for this. Then he propped his chin in his hand, settling in for a few extra minutes of watching you sleep rather than waking you up.

"Guess I'm skipping more than just history," he muttered to himself. "Whatever."

A few minutes later, you so rudely interrupted his gratuitous show with a groggy blink, raising your head.

Eddie's eyes snapped to yours, and he repressed a laugh at the sight of your ink-smudged cheek before you even realized its existence. A soft smirk played on his lips as he watched you blink away sleepiness like some adorable little creature waking up from hibernation.

"Well look at that. The critter's waking up."

You squinted, feeling around the table for your glasses while yawning, "Ed? 'S you?"

He chuckled at your sleepy question, leaning back in his chair as he watched you pat the wood. "Yeah, it's me," he replied, his voice low and gentle. "You had yourself a little nap there, Sunshine."

Finally reaching the glasses, you rubbed your eyes with another yawn before putting them on, "I was sleeping so well. The sun was just perfectly warm and cozy..."

Eddie's heart skipped a beat at your sleepy action, the movement pushing the glasses up the bridge of your nose in the most adorably disheveled way. Unfairly cute. "The sun, huh?" he teased, his gaze lingering on your face.

"From the window, genius," you retorted in a quiet grumble, brain slowly turning back on. Shit, was your plan already off track? You didn't even get to start!

He laughed, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Whatever you say, Sunshine," he replied, his gaze drifting to your cheek. "You got a little something there," he pointed out, tapping his own cheek to indicate where the ink stain is on yours. "On your face."

Your eyebrows pinched. Something...? You wiped a hand on your cheek, and groaned at the faint blue lines on your palm, "Aw, shucks."

Eddie watched you wipe your cheek and inevitably miss, his smile softening at your frustrated expression. Without thinking, he reached out and gently took your hand away, using his thumb to wipe the ink stain himself. "Here," he murmured, his touch lingering on your cheek for a moment longer than necessary. He should really learn to keep his hands to himself. "Better?"

You peered at him over the frame of your glasses, "Thanks." While it might have seemed you were only looking at him, your eyes were actually scanning his appearance. His jacket. Where the hell was his jacket?

His heart fluttered at the way you were so attentively looking at him over those glasses, his thumb accidentally brushing against your cheek again as he pulled back. What exactly were you looking for? Did he have something in his teeth? He was pretty sure he brushed them this morning.

"No problem," he mumbled, suddenly very interested in picking at a loose thread on his shirt. "You... uh... you're welcome."

Your eyes narrowed, and then you noticed the weight of his jacket on your shoulders, mentally pumping your fist in triumph. Target one acquired. Somehow. Sheer luck, but hey, who cares?

Eddie extended a hand, fully expecting you to give it back but instead it froze in the air when you put your arms through the sleeves, wearing it properly, and burrowed into it, "Thanks for this too."

His eyes widened as you slipped his jacket on properly, sinking into it like it was the most precious thing you've ever worn. His stomach did a stupid little flip because Jesus christ, you smell like him now. His brain tripped over itself, "It's cold in here," he commented dismissively, but his voice came out rougher than he had intended.

You just hummed, picking at the edge of your book, nose peeking out from the collar of the jacket. Now, it was just a matter of waiting before you could go on with your plan. The problem was, would he let you hold on to the jacket long enough?

Meanwhile, Eddie was staring at you, unable to look away from the adorable picture you made with his jacket wrapped around you. He didn't think he could ever forget it, the pretty sight was starting to practically burn itself on his cornea. If you ever gave it back, maybe he shouldn't wash it. No. No. Bad idea. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he suddenly realized that he's in trouble. Big fucking trouble. "Hey, Sunshine?" he asked, his voice strained.

You placidly closed the book, thoughts already on the afternoon while gathering the scattered pens, "Hm?"

"You wanna keep it?" he blurted out, then immediately winced at how stupid that sounded. Clearing his throat, he crossed his arms, trying his best to salvage what he could, "I mean— I just... if you're gonna steal my jacket, the least you could do is return the favor sometime." Good recovery, Munson, he thought bitterly.That was smooth. Not.

You looked him up and down, looking like the embodiment of skepticism, "You do realize it's impossible for you to fit into anything of mine, right?"

Eddie's mouth quirked up at the comment, a low laugh rumbling from his chest. "Obviously," he teased, though there was no real bite to it. "I meant the thought, Sunshine. The gesture. Not like I could actually wear your pretty pastel sweaters or whatever."

"Ooh, pretty pastel sweaters," you parroted him mockingly. Annoying little bugger that he is. "You'd stretch it out anyways," you mutter, throwing the notebook and the pencil case in your backpack haphazardly before standing up, his jacket falling down to the middle of your skirt.

Eddie hummed as you threw your stuff in, mentally making a note to ask why the hell did it look like it was a second away from exploding. Just what did you put in there? Then, his eyes registered his jacket contrasting with the pastel skirt like some sort of weird fashion statement or a bad collage of a child. He couldn't deny that it looked kinda cute on you, and that thought made his stomach twist in the worst way. Stop looking at her, moron. "You leaving?"

"I'm hungry," you replied, tilting your head, "I want snacks. You coming?"

"Starving," he answered easily, pushing himself out of the chair and grabbing his beaten– and practically empty– backpack. He glanced at the way his jacket draped over you, sleeves swallowing your hands entirely, and something stupidly warm flooded his chest. "There's a vending machine by the cafeteria that actually works if you hit it with a textbook first."

You let out a low whistle, "Nice. Free food then." And a good way of stalling, you added in your head.

"Not free, Sunshine," he corrected with a smirk, falling into step beside you as you two headed toward the doors. "Just efficient. There's a difference." His shoulder brushed against your arm as you walked, and for a moment he considered linking his pinky with yours. Too cheesy, he shook his head. But his hand twitched anyway.

You adjusted the strap of your backpack, your thoughts so laser focused you forgot to reply, shoes squeaking on the linoleum when you stop in front of the vending machine. Your eyes narrowed behind the thick lenses of your glasses, scanning the options. The plan was important, but you didn't exclude the possibility of a pit stop for refueling... Yeah, this was totally calculated. Absolutely.

Eddie watched you intently, the frame of the glasses reflecting the fluorescent lights. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. "You gonna choose something or just stare death into those snacks?" he teased lightly.

"Shut up, this is a serious dilemma," you replied, grabbing your wallet. Why did it always have to end up at the bottom of your backpack? You dug your arm in practically to the elbow, huffing and grumbling until you finally felt the texture of the fake leather. "Ha ha!"

You counted the coins, fumbling slightly because of the cuffs of his jacket, "Chocolate bar or chips?"

Eddie didn't lift a finger to help, enjoying with a smug smile the muttered curses falling from your lips. Something about seeing his clothes on you while you drop coins like a puppy in too-big boots made his chest feel tight. "Chips," he said simply, leaning over and tapping the machine above the Doritos. "Trust me— you're gonna need the crunch. Helps me think during chemistry too."

You looked at him, and then smirked. "'Kay, chocolate it is then," you slot in the coins, punching in the number.

He rolled his eyes dramatically as you intentionally chose the opposite of what he recommended. He shoved his hands into his pockets instead. "Of course," he commented sarcastically, "you'd pick the sugar bomb instead of actual brain food."

"Sugar's better for the brain," you retorted, and then groaned when the bar stopped against the glass. Just your luck. And what's the best way to deal with a stuck snack? Kicking the machine, obviously, "Oh come on!"

Behind you, Eddie cackled loudly like a gremlin, "That's called karma! See, see, you should've bought the chips!"

He pushed off from the wall, stepping closer to you. "And kicking it never helps."

You ignored him pointedly, bending down to try and reach it from the bottom. You hoped the good old sticking your arm through the flap would at least move it, "Ugh."

Now, he truly did want to help, but then you went and gave him a view like that... He should look away. He really should. But instead, he found himself staring at the way your glasses slid down your nose as you strained, the soft sounds of frustration you were making. Yeah, he was totally checking out your glasses.

With a sigh, he crouched down next to you.

"Here, let me," Eddie murmured, his large hands gently pushing yours aside as he reached into the machine. His fingers brushed against the chocolate bar, and he managed to hook it out with his pinky. Then he sat back up, holding out the chocolate bar to you with a smirk. "See? That's how it's done."

"Fuck off, I was gonna reach it," you grumbled good-naturedly, snatching it from his hand. How dare he have those stupid long fingers.

"Uh-huh," Eddie replied sarcastically, pushing back to his feet.

After dusting off your skirt, you tore the wrapping open, cracked the bar in two and gave him half wordlessly. You bit into it without waiting for a response, almost moaning at the sweet taste, "That's the good stuff."

He stared at the broken chocolate bar in his hand for a moment, then at you. He caught you mid-chew, your eyes hidden behind those thick glasses, hair slightly disheveled, his jacket dwarfing you.

You blinked back, cheeks already full, "Whaf?"

He took a bite of the chocolate, not even arguing about sharing. Something about the way you just knew to split it without asking made his stomach do that stupid backflip again. "Aw, I knew you cared about me," he replied, annoying on purpose, but his voice was softer than he intended, crumbs from the chocolate on his lips. "And sharing is caring, Sunshine."

You rolled your eyes, leaning against the wall. "I gotta feed my leech," you commented with a shrug, licking your thumb.

Eddie's gaze followed your tongue against his will, and he had to physically remind himself to look away from the way you cleaned the chocolate residue. Don't be weird. The casual way you referred to him as a leech didn't even bother him— it was almost endearing coming from you.

"A leech," he gasped dramatically, taking a step back in mock offense. "Is that the only thing I am to you?"

His eyes were fixed on your lips now, tracking stray chocolate from the corner of your mouth. He wasn't even sure what he was asking anymore. You were just chewing chocolate in the hallway, wearing his jacket, and he'd somehow forgotten how to form coherent thoughts. What was a leech again?

You averted your eyes, pretending to be perfectly calm. Why's he staring? Please stop staring or I'm gonna have a heart attack. "Right," you hummed, pretending to actually think about it, "a limpet or a barnacle is a better fit."

Eddie's lips twitched with amusement, and he took another bite of his half of the chocolate bar, mostly to try and regain control over his wayward thoughts. "A barnacle," he echoed in a scandalized tone, maintaing the pretense. "So I'm just permanently attached to you, huh? No chance of being scraped off?"

You shrugged nonchalantly, eyes alight with mirth behind the lenses, "I tried. You're still here."

Something warm and dangerous unfurled in his chest at that, familiar and slightly scary. Still here. You made it sound like a complaint, but with the way you were still wearing his jacket— still sharing your chocolate, still walking beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world— he knew it was anything but. "Maybe you're not trying hard enough, Sunshine," he retorted, voice rough.

"Hm. What do you think I should do?" You pondered, pushing up your glasses, "Maybe if I forced you to listen to pop songs you'd drop me." It was fun, entertaining conversations like this, especially when you both knew there was truly no chance either of you would leave. The blackmail material was too much.

On the other side, Eddie's brain conjured the stupidest picture it could think of: you singing loudly (and badly) to some happy-go-lucky melody in the middle of the hallway. He nearly choked on his chocolate imagining that. The mental scene was so far removed from the real you— that genuinely thoughtful, often quiet and slightly awkward girl in his jacket— that he burst out laughing instead of answering your question seriously. "Fuck no."

It was your turn to subtly stare at him, admiring that ridiculously pretty smile of his, and forcefully moving your eyes upwards instead of following the column of his neck. You smiled to yourself at the sound of his laughter, taking another bite of the chocolate.

But Eddie caught the little quirk of your lips. And he mentally cursed– he's in deep. Like, fuck, he's in deep.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" he clicked his tongue, shaking his head in pretend disappointment, "Trying to leave the poor barnacle alone just to watch him suffer."

Your cheeks were still slightly dusted with pink from his earlier gaze, but you somehow managed to keep your voice normal when you retorted, "I always like watching you suffer. It's top tier entertainment."

He grinned despite himself, taking the last bite of his chocolate. "You're a fucking sadist, Sunshine," he said, but there was no real heat behind the words. He was too busy thinking about how he could get that pink in your cheeks again.

"Nah, I just like seeing you in misery," you replied, licking the remaining chocolate off your lips.

Eddie's mind blanked for a second before he could remember this was actually a two-way conversation and he wasn't a wall. Were you trying to send him to an early grave?

His eyes tracked your tongue automatically, following the slow swipe across your bottom lip. His throat felt suddenly dry, and it had nothing to do with the chocolate melting in his mouth. Fuck. You were just eating chocolate, but somehow it looked... Nope. Not going there.

Focused on teasing him, unaware you were already doing so, you continued on your train of thought. Who wastes a chance to mess with their best friend? "Like, watching you trip and and eat shit last week? That was absolutely priceless."

A genuine laugh burst out of him at that memory— him almost losing his teeth on the wet stairs while you stood there, trying to hide your smile behind those fucking adorable glasses. "You're welcome," he commented drily, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Ah, the good days," you sighed in an exaggeratedly nostalgic tone, like it had been fifty years ago instead of just seven days. Sweet tooth still active in full force, you fished a lollipop from your backpack, popping it in your mouth.

Eddie watched, fascinated, as you produced candy from your backpack like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Shut the fridge. How many things are you hiding in there? He reached out, snagging the stick of your lollipop between his fingers. "Share," he demanded flatly, like it was his right that if you had one, it was automatic he would too.

Regular protocol. You stomped on his foot to take back the lollipop, and handed him your backpack without even commenting, used to his constant requests. "Left pocket."

He whined petulantly at the 'mortal wound!' and then immersed himself in rummaging through the indicated pocked, his fingers brushing against various pens and an alarming amount of candy. He glanced at you; maybe he could see what was actually making a normal backpack weigh a fucking ton?

His metaphorical claws retracted at the sharp glare he received, "Okay, sorry, sorry. Jesus..."

He pulled out a small stash of lollipops instead, selecting a cherry one. He unwrapped it slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"So you just carry backup snacks for me?" he asked.

You grabbed the backpack, thanking every saint in existence he actually listened for once and didn't snoop through your stuff. You absolutely didn't look at the way he licked the lollipop. You. Did. Not. Why did guys always have to be gifted with the plumpest lips on Earth?

"Yup," you roll your own lollipop in your mouth, taking advantage of your free hands to put them in the pockets of the jacket, sinking more into it, "you always ask me anyways. Like a fucking raccoon."

Eddie laughed, the sound distorted from the candy. He pretended not to take great delight in the way you snuggled deeper into his jacket, your hands disappearing into the pockets. His pockets. His jacket. His everything, it seems. "A raccoon?" he repeated, lowering the lollipop. "A raccoon, Sunshine?"

"Pretty much," you gesture to him with the lollipop, counting on your other hand, "the hair. The black clothes. The thievery. The eyebags..."

"Eyebags?" Eddie parroted, mock-offended, but he grinned nonetheless. He caught the way your words just rolled off your tongue like you'd thought about this before. Little shit's been preparing for the question.

"I'll have you know these are mysterious shadows, not eyebags. Very sophisticated. But a critter like you wouldn't understand." He leaned against the wall again, twirling the cherry lollipop.

"Ha!" You barked out a sharp laugh, "sophisticated. Right."

He could tell you didn't believe him. Could see the way you were trying not to smile, the way your glasses were slipping down your nose again. Something warm and heavy settled in his chest— this weird, possessive satisfaction. You call him names, complain about him, but you're always here. Wearing his jacket. Literally feeding him.

The warning bell rang, interrupting your conversation. Students started filtering out of the classes, laughing and talking in groups.

Your lollipop clicked against your teeth. Holy shit, you did it. You managed to distract him long enough. Now you can keep the jacket at least until the end of the school day.

You pushed off the wall, trying not to look too giddy, "Time to go."

Eddie followed, his arm brushing against yours as he fell into step beside you. He was suddenly very aware of how comfortable you looked in his jacket. How pretty you looked in his jacket. Fuck.

"Hey, Sunshine?" he called out, loud enough so you could hear him through the chatter.

You walked through the crowd of students, gears in your head already moving, "Hm?"

"You gonna give me back my jacket anytime soon?" he asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. But in his mind, he was praying you wanted to hold on to it just a tad longer. In fact, he hoped you'd say no. He liked seeing you in his jacket. A lot. Too much.

"Oh yeah, about that," you smiled, mischief in your eyes, "you're not getting it back. See you!" You bolted before he could drag you back by the collar, snickering like a mastermind of evil.

Eddie froze mid-step as you disappeared into the sea of students, his jacket swallowed by the crowd. He stared after you for a moment, the cherry lollipop still between his teeth, before a slow grin spread across his face.

"Barnacle," he muttered fondly, shaking his head. "Fucking barnacle."

And somehow, he wasn't even mad about it.

Phase 2: Afternoon

Now, the next step had to be more calculated. Convincing Eddie of doing things he didn't want to do was always a feat, which meant the approach had to be simultaneously bolder and subdued enough that he wouldn't notice the manipulation. Thankfully, you had just the right idea on how to proceed.

After school, he was walking out of the building, almost dragging his bag, when he saw you leaning against the wall near the parking lot. Your backpack was slung over one shoulder and you were still wearing– shit, did you even take it off for five minutes?– his jacket.

You kicked pebbles absentmindedly, looking down at your shoes as you rehearsed the lines in your head. Pissing him off was easy enough, but doing it in a way that let you steer the conversation where you wanted was another.

Eddie approached you slowly, his heart rate picking up with each step. The low sun casted a warm glow on your face, making you look... different. Softer. Less like the girl who constantly bothered him. He stopped right in front of you, blocking your view of the parking lot.

You raised your head at the familiar shadow, "Finally. You always take ages to get out."

Eddie rolled his eyes at your complaint, "Well, maybe if you weren't always waiting for me, you wouldn't have to complain," he retorted, looking down at you with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh so you don't want me to wait for you?" You shrugged, walking forward and hiding your smug grin in the collar of the jacket, "Okay."

Panic spiked through him at your casual response, his hand instinctively reaching out to grab your arm as you tried to walk away. "Fuck no, that's not what I said," he muttered, pulling you back so you were standing in front of him again. "I just meant—"

You let him turn you around, smirk widening, "Ah, Ed, you're so gullible. You didn't even notice the direction I'm walking in."

Eddie narrowed his eyes at the expression on your face, realizing you were moving towards his van. You're planning something. His cheeks flushed slightly with embarrassment at falling for your little trick. "Real fucking mature, Sunshine," he grumbled, releasing your arm.

"Sore loser," you quipped, leaning on the side of the van, safe from the cold of the metal in his jacket.

Eddie watched you settle against his van, strands of hair moving with the wind and falling over those damn glasses sliding down your nose. He felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and fix them, but he pushed down the itch in his hands. Instead, he unlocked the van doors, opening the passenger side for you. "Get in before you freeze."

Your eyes glinted. Let's start the show.

You made a show of wiggling in his jacket, "Hm, but I'm comfy."

His eyes followed the movement of your jacket, his grip tightening on the door handle. You, refusing the warmth of the van? Suspicious as hell. "Sunshine," he warned, a twitch in his brow. "Get in the fucking van before I—" He paused, realizing he had no actual threat to back that up with. "Before I leave without you."

You knew he wouldn't. He'd rather freeze with you than leave. Your gaze zeroes in on the slight sign of frustration, and you batten down the metaphorical hatches, crossing your legs, skirt shifting over your thighs, "Hmmmm. Dunno."

His traitorous stare flickered down despite himself, catching the way the skirt shifted over those plush, pretty thighs– Fuck. He swallowed hard, kicking into silence the voice in his head whispering things he shouldn't be thinking. Like how he wants to bite your thighs. How soft your lips look. No no no. Nope. He wants to bang his head on the van.

"Sunshine," he grit out.

You blinked innocently, batting your eyelashes slowly on purpose, "Yeees?"

"Don't you fucking 'yes' me," Eddie pointed a finger at you accusingly, pulling out that glare that usually made other people nervous. Not you though. You just tilted your head, that innocent look never leaving your face. He could tell you were enjoying this– enjoying how flustered you were making him.

He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, realizing he's being manipulated by a girl who's half his size. A girl who looks fucking adorable in his jacket while she teases him mercilessly about a damn van ride. He should be annoyed.

"I'm not even cold," you shrugged, peeping at him from the rim of your glasses as you burrowed in his jacket, taking a long pause before adding the last strike, "I've got leg warmers."

Eddie stared. His brain grinded to halt so abruptly he fleetly wondered if you can her the noise. Stared at you in his jacket, batting those stupid eyelashes behind those stupid glasses while casually mentioning you've got stupid leg warmers under your skirt. Fucking. Leg. warmers.

"Fuck's sake," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. The image of your plump, supple thighs in leg warmers– get out of my damn head.

He was losing his mind over fucking leg warmers. Leg warmers! Eddie had officially hit a new low in his life– getting aroused by casual mentions of thermal clothing. He was about to tell you to fuck off and walk to your house yourself when you shifted slightly.

You scanned his reactions with clinical precision, and refrained from smirking at the clear victory. Hook, line, sinker. You tilted your head again, the tip of your nose numbed by the cold, "Where are we even going?"

"Home," Eddie answered gruffly, suddenly remembering he was supposed to be a functioning human being. "My place. Or yours. I don't give a shit." He leaned against the van, trying to regain a modicum of dignity. It didn't work. He just looked like a man who'd been mentally defeated by a girl in his oversized jacket. "You pick."

Bingo. At the magic words, you brightened up instantly, smile so wide he was almost blinded. Without wasting another second, you climbed in the van, "Okay. Lover's Lake then."

At the sudden one-eighty, he felt like he'd been played. Totally, completely blindsided like a fool. "Lover's Lake?" Eddie echoed, blinking as you settled in the passenger seat like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like you didn't just torture him for five minutes over a fucking jacket and leg warmers. "You wanna go to Lover's Lake?"

You didn't give him any explanation, simply replying, "Yep."

He spluttered, "Wha– it's freezing! Why the hell you wanna go there?"

No response.

Eddie stared in bewilderment at you for a moment longer before shaking his head and slamming his door shut. He walked around to the driver's side and climbed in, starting the engine. The van rumbled to life, and he pulled out of the parking lot without another word.

What the hell just happened?

Phase 3: Sunset

When you arrived at Lover's Lake, Eddie parked his van near the secluded spot where kids usually go to make out or drink underage. On his part, maybe he shouldn't have assumed. But could you blame him? Your weird behaviour all day had brought him to just hope for something.

He cut the engine and turned to look at you. "So. What's the occasion, Sunshine? You drag me out here for a date?" He said it sarcastically, but it covered for any tremble in his voice.

"Nope," you popped the word, and climbed out without saying anything else, leaving him dumbfounded yet again, directed down to the edge of the lake. You started another pep talk as you descended on the snowy ground. You're here, there's no going back. Pull yourself together.

Eddie watched you climb out and head straight for the lake's edge, that stupid jacket swallowing you whole. It took him a solid thirty seconds to scramble out and follow, because apparently he was a lost puppy now, trailing after a girl who wouldn't give him the time of day unless she was teasing him about his jacket or leg warmers. The wind bit at his face, but he could barely notice. He almost faceplanted twice while trying to reach you, feeling completely out of his element as his heart thumped loudly in his ears and his mind spiraled. What were you even doing here?!

Down on the shore, you dropped your backpack on the ground with a huff. Zipping it open, you were entirely focused on pulling out stuff to notice his fidgeting beside you. You pulled out a box while Eddie watched, his eyes almost popping out of his skull. Who the hell are you, Mary Poppins? "What the fuck are you doing?" He asked. "Are you gonna pull out a gun and shoot me?"

"No, silly barnacle," you grin, and open the box, "we're skating."

"Skating," Eddie repeated flatly, looking at the box like it might've been filled with poisonous spiders. "You wanna go skating." He stared at the ice skates, then at you, trying to reconcile the introvert he knows with the one who wants to go ice skating. Of all the things he expected coming here, fucking ice skating wasn't even remotely in the list.

But on the ground, you were practically vibrating with excitement. You did it, you brought him here. Now you just had to find the guts to finish the plan. You attached the blades to your shoes, and then grabbed his ankle without warning him, "Huh huh."

He stumbled, arms flailing around for balance as he's caught off guard by your sudden grab at his ankle.

"Sunshine, I don't— I never—" He started to protest, but your hands were already working on his shoes, and he realized this was happening whether he liked it or not. "When did you even get these?" he asked, watching you attach the blades to his sneakers with practiced ease.

"Oh, here and there," you shrugged, rummaging through the bag like it held the secrets of the universe.

Eddie's brain was still reeling. Eddie Munson, outcast, nerd extraordinaire, convinced hater of conformity and allergic to all things romantic (or so he tries to say) is about to go ice skating. Him. What? Had entered an alternate dimension and he didn't know? No. He was totally in a coma. He had an accident on the way here and was now hallucinating–

"Hey!" You pulled him out of his confusion, and threw a pair of gloves at his face, before putting on yours too, "Here."

He caught the gloves against his face automatically, staring at them like they were going to bite him. "You planned this," he deadpans, realization dawning. "You planned this whole fucking thing. The teasing, the jacket, the leg warmers—" He pauses, seeing you look up at him innocently. "The leg warmers, Sunshine."

"What, if I asked you would've said no," you smiled knowingly, and took out a coat too, the black wool warm and heavy, "and wear this."

Eddie's eyes widened. It was clearly too big for you, meaning it must fit him perfectly. Not only you made a whole scheme to get him here, but you thought about his well-being too. As if he wasn't already such a goner for you. His fingers brushed against the soft material before he realized what he was doing, and he scowled. "You're seriously telling me what to wear now? You know what this is? Betrayal. Mutiny. Treachery!"

"It's because I have your jacket, idiot," you grinned, zipping up the backpack and standing, "I can't let you freeze, can I?"

He sighed in exasperation, feeling like a victim to your whims, but he put the coat on anyway. Because despite himself, he didn't want to freeze his balls off out here. The coat fit perfectly, swallowing him whole just like your jacket swallowed you earlier. "Happy?"

"Come on," you elbow him playfully, hiding the nervousness. "I even got it black just for you."

Eddie's scowl deepened, pretending he hadn't felt another twist in his chest— the word 'black' and the way you said it like it meant something. Like that color is now specifically associated with him and only him. He looked down at you— the too-big jacket, your pink nose, the way your hair is messy from the wind— and suddenly Lover's Lake didn't seem so stupid anymore.

"Touching, Sunshine."

"Let's go, grumpy," you smile, taking his hand and pulling him on the frozen water. You held him tightly, screaming in your head that you were finally, finally doing this. No more wishing he'd hold your hand and mean it, no more trying to find hidden thoughts between the lines.

In front of you, standing on wobbly legs, was a malfunctioning Eddie. He let you pull him onto the ice because his brain had stopped working. Hadn't worked since you first put on his jacket, honestly. His skates clunked awkwardly against the smooth surface before he found his balance, but you were already gliding forward with that easy grace that suggested you'd been on the unsteady surface enough to know your way around.

"Sunshine, I don't—"

"Don't look down," you interrupted him, squeezing his hands as you moved slowly, gently, "bend your knees slightly. The more tense you are, the less you'll move forward."

He tried to relax his knees like you'd said, feeling stupid and embarrassed as he wobbled along the ice. You were like a damn baby swan compared to him— all graceful and shit while he looked like he was trying to walk on stilts. But most of all, he was trying to ignore the way his heart fired like an overworked engine at the smiles you were giving. The soft looks, with the sun behind you? So pretty he almost forgot about the risk of ice cracking. "I look like an idiot," he grumbled.

"No, you don't," you grinned, and stopped both of you in the centre of the lake, "and you haven't seen the best part yet."

Eddie stopped with you, looking around at the frozen lake. It was daytime, the sun slowly setting and casting everything in a soft orange glow, making it look like they were standing in a pool of orange juice. The ice was clear in some places, showing the dark water beneath. It was quiet out there—no one else around. Just you and him and the sound of the wind.

"What's the best part?"

You took a breath, ready to pull the move. You skated close to him, so close... You felt his eyes on you, the warmth exuding from him. You opened your arms, almost like you were going to hug him... And then you chickened out. Fuck! No! So. Stupid!

You dug your hands in the pocket of his coat instead, taking out two beanies, "Ta da!"

Eddie stopped breathing when you moved forward, his heart fluttering, like a bird trying to escape. But then you were just digging into his pockets again— this time pulling out two beanies— and suddenly all the tension drained out of him, replaced by amusement mixed with annoyance. He almost thought... He looked away quickly, focusing on the ice instead of your stupid face.

You berate yourself mentally, wishing the ice would crack open and let you drown. How could you do that? All those preparation, all those night spent thinking and then you do this shit? Are you stupid?? You put the beanie on, trying to recover, snowflakes clinging to your eyelashes as you looked up, "Damn, just in time."

He was still watching you, observing the snowflakes get caught in your eyelashes, and his annoyance melted away completely. Yeah, he shouldn't ruin this. He pulled the other beanie over his head without thinking, hiding his messy hair and making him look... cuter. He immediately scowled deeper to compensate. "You always carry two beanies?"

You bit your lip and took his hands again, attempting to restart your plan. You glided backwards while pulling him along, "Duh. One for me, one for the barnacle."

Eddie allowed you to pull him along, his scowl softening a little more. The icestands were slick beneath his skates, the wind was cold against his cheeks, and he was holding hands with a girl who calls him a barnacle. Life is weird.

You stared at him, watching his expression as you slowly skated, gloved hands snug in his.

He felt your gaze, intense, like there was something you were desperate to say. He made the mistake of glancing down, catching you staring. His face flushed red— not just from the cold— and he opened his mouth to say a joke, something sarcastic, anything! But he just... couldn't. You looked too cute with the snow in your hair, his jacket, your stupid beanie, all of it. I'm too weak for her.

"What?" he muttered, not looking away.

"Nothing," you replied, smile soft. For a second, you forgot all about the plan, and just existed. Simply, with him. In the quiet, enjoying such asilly thing. Your eyes took in every detail of his face, committing them to memory. Yeah, even if it didn't work... this was worth it. "I'm just having fun."

"You're weird, Sunshine," he said gruffly, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through him. Your eyes were burning through him in a way he couldn't manage, like instead of the normal setting sun, he was yours.

"Pot meet kettle," you retorted, and you got an idea. A risky, but possibly rewarding idea. Before he could react, you pulled his beanie down to his eyes.

Eddie's vision was suddenly obscured by the beanie, and he stumbled, catching himself on you instead of the ice. He was suddenly very aware of your hands on his chest, your face pressed against his wool coat. "Hey!" He exclaimed, trying to push the beanie back up without letting go of you.

Now or never. You took advantage of his temporary blindness, and leaned up. Your lips brushed against his for less than a second, a barely there touch, so feather light it could've been anything. You pulled back with a shaky breath, hesitantly trying to gauge his reaction.

Meanwhile, Eddie had frozen completely, heart stopping dead in his chest. Did you just...? Was that...? His brain short-circuited, hands gripping your arms tightly even though he wasn't falling anymore. The beanie was still pushed down over his eyes, but he could barely feel his own body at the moment. Every alarm he had was currently firing off in his mind, thoughts overlapping in pure panic. What did that mean?! What did you mean with that?!

You didn't say anything, anxiety growing every second he stayed still. Regret started to flood your mind. Was he not saying anything because he was looking for the right words to reject you? Fuck, what if he was disgusted?!

He stood there like an idiot, beanie covering his eyes, hands on your arms, brain completely scrambled. He couldn't tell if that had been actually a kiss or if he imagined it. Maybe he hit his head skating? But no, your lips were soft, and brief, and right there...

You swallowed hard, and gently tugged his beanie up, apprehensively searching his eyes, "Eddie?"

He blinked rapidly as light flooded his vision again. His mouth was hanging open slightly, expression completely stunned. He looked at you, the fear in your eyes. You're waiting for a reaction, expecting rejection probably, but... fuck.

"You—" Eddie's voice cracked embarrassingly. He tried to clear his throat, but all that came out was flustered squeaking. "You can't just— Sunshine, you can't just fucking—" He was searching for words, but all he could think about is how soft your lips were, how quick the kiss was, how he wants to do it again. Properly. All the garbled sentences in his head were not making any sense, and he felt like his logic had thrown itself off a cliff.

Your brows furrowed as you tried to understand his stammers. Was he rejecting you? Did he never want to see you again?! "What?"

His face turned beet red. He had an infinite vocabulary to describe a stupid wall of stone in campaigns and he couldn't even manage a single one to express himself, especially not when his brain was short-circuiting like this. He'd never felt more stupid. "The kiss," he blurted out. "Was that a real kiss or am I hallucinating because I hit my head?"

You blinked owlishly. It's gotta be a joke, you thought. But then you looked at his panic stricken face, clearly on the verge of vomiting out random words in hope something would stick, and you realized he was completely serious. It was so silly. So ridiculous. So him. Laughter bubbled up your throat, "Pffft–"

Eddie's expression worsened at your laughter. He felt dumb— like an idiot who just asked if a kiss was real or not. Like a cretin who didn't know anything about kissing. Which he was. He thought you were laughing at him. "Shut up."

All the fear you had, all the insecurities suddenly melted away like an ice cream in July, and the situation felt even sillier. "I'm sorry, Ed. I should've been braver," you smile, wide and happy.

His anger died immediately at the way you said 'braver'. Like you were nervous too? Like kissing him wasn't obvious or something gross? He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling shy. "It was barely a kiss," he muttered, trying to sound casual and totally not like you swiped the world from under his feet.

"I'm sorry," you repeated, full of warmth, eyes sparkling behind the frames of your glasses, "can I try again?"

Eddie's throat went dry. His hands were still on your arms, fingers pressing into the wool of his jacket. Your glasses were fogged slightly, snowflakes caught in your lashes, mouth pink from the cold. And you were asking permission. Like he wouldn't burn his guitar for you.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Yeah, you can."

You nodded, heart so loud you could barely hear him. Your hands held him too as you stood on the tip of your skates, pressing your lips against his in a gentle kiss, longer than before.

His eyes fluttered shut at the soft pressure. He stood stiffly, still in disbelief, but then your hands were cupping his face gently and he just... gave up. His hands slid up your arms to tangle in the back of your hair, tilting your head slightly as he kissed you back.

Finally.

The Eddie-proof plan to confess: Success!

Credits for the dividers: @saradika-graphics

“Comfortable?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Sober, Eddie was a chaos machine of flailing limbs and frantic energy. Moderately affectionate but in a way that usually involved aggressive headlocks or shouting over the music.

Drunk Eddie, you were quickly realizing, was a grade-A clinger. He was practically melting into your side, his nose nudging awkwardly against your hairline like a cat seeking warmth. It wasn't unpleasant - just deeply confusing. You were just a friend. The who was always just sober enough at the end of the night to drive home and make sure he didn't choke on his own vomit. You certainly weren't the one he nuzzled near a bonfire.

"And you’re heavy," you complained, though you made no move to actually stand up. "And you're breathing on me."

"You love it," he mumbled, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. The contact sent a jolt down your spine. He snuggled in closer, his fingers toying absently with the collar of your jacket. "Damn, you smell good. Better than this place. Smell like... I dunno. Vanilla and judgment."

"It's vanilla and 'get off me’.”

He laughed, a low rumble in his chest, and then his teeth scraped against the sensitive skin just below your ear.

It wasn't a kiss. It was definitely a nip.

"What the hell, Eddie?" You jerked back, your hand flying up to clap over your neck. You stared at him, wide-eyed. "Did you just bite me?"

Eddie blinked at you, his dark eyes hazy and unfocused, but a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. He looked like a wolf that had just cornered a rabbit. And he didn't look apologetic in the slightest.

"Maybe," he drawled, leaning back in, invading your personal space with zero hesitation. "You tasted good."

"I’m not a snack, Eddie," you said, trying to sound stern, though you could feel non-bonfire-related heat rising in your cheeks. "I’m a non-edible person."

Eddie’s unfocused gaze dropping to your neck, lingering on the spot he'd just assaulted. He reached out, his ring-clad fingers brushing against the mark he'd likely left. "You're just so... Biteable, though. It's a compliment. The highest form of flattery."

You rolled your eyes, pushing his hand away, though not as hard as you could have. "You're weird. What’s gotten into you? Christ, you’re never this handsy."

Before you could move, he ducked his head again. This time, he targeted your shoulder, his teeth sinking through the thin fabric of your t-shirt to pinch the skin beneath.

"Eddie!" You squirmed, half-laughing, half-shoving at his chest. "Knock it off!"

He released you, but only to rear back and look at you with that same intoxicated intensity. He reached out, tapping the tip of your nose with one finger.

"You're blushing," he whispered, delighted and conspiratorial. "My God, look at you. All flustered because I took a little taste."

"I am not flustered," you lied, taking a long sip of your drink to hide your face. "I just think you need to drink some water before you start trying to eat more of your friends."

"Friends," he repeated the word like it was a foreign concept, rolling it around his mouth. He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a second, the haze seemed to clear just enough for something sharper to shine through. "Yeah. Sure. Friends." He paused, then grinned, tapping his canine teeth with his tongue. "Friends who taste like vanilla."

"Stop saying shit I’m gonna make fun of you for when you’re sober, Munson" you said, swatting his hand away as it attempted to drift back toward your waist. He was relentless.

"Stop hitting me,” he whined. “It's rude. I'm just admiring."

"Well, stop admiring," you retorted, crossing your arms over your chest in a weak attempt to create a barrier. "And if you keep nibbling on me, I'm going to start charging per bite."

He barked out a laugh, despite the fact that what you said wasn’t that funny, throwing his head back. The movement caused him to list dangerously to the side, nearly taking you both off the crate. He righted himself by gripping your thigh, his fingers digging in hard.

"Yeah okay. I'll pay," he said with a solemn nod, his expression suddenly serious. "I have... Let’s see..." He patted down his vest pockets, coming up empty. "I have a half-smoked joint and a D20 that rolls critical hits seventy percent of the time. That’s high-value currency, sweetheart."

"Because it’s weighted, you cheater," you pointed out, rolling your eyes. "And I don't want your nerd dice. I want you to stop treating me like a chew toy."

"See, that's where you're confused," Eddie murmured, shifting his weight so he could crowd you once more. His knees bumped against yours, knocking them apart so he could settle impossibly closer. He smelled like whiskey and trouble. "Chew toys are for when you're teething. I'm a grown man with very specific oral fixations."

“That’s a disgusting way to put it.”

He leaned in, ignoring your words as his lips hovering just inches from your jaw. "And right now, my fixation is telling me that the skin right here -“ he poked the spot where your neck met your shoulder “- is screaming for attention."

"It’s screaming for you to back off," your breath hitching as his lips brushed the skin he was currently hyper focused on. It was a pathetic protest, and you both knew it.

"Liar," he whispered against your skin. "You're vibrating."

"It's stress," you insisted.

"It's delight," he countered, and then he bit you again.

This time, he didn't nip. He sunk his teeth in, grazing the sensitive tendon near your collarbone. It was hard enough to make you gasp, your hand flying up to tangle in his hair, ready to yank him back, but the sensation was shocking. Electric. You felt the scrape of his teeth acutely, followed instantly by the wet heat of his tongue soothing over the mark.

"Jesus, Eddie!" You yanked on his hair, forcing his head back. He looked dazed, his pupils blown wide, a smirk playing on his lips. "What’s wrong with you?"

He groaned at the pull on his hair, his eyelids fluttering. "Don't stop," he rasped. "Do that again. Harder."

"You’re actually insane," you replied, though your hand remained fisted in his curls, his head tilted back in your grip. He looked completely at your mercy, yet somehow he was the one calling the shots.

"I'm affection-starved," he declared, trying to surge forward again, but your grip on his hair held him firm. He seemed to enjoy the somewhat drunken struggle, his hands scrambling for purchase on your hips, squeezing with reckless abandon. "And you're so soft. It's annoying, really. How are you this soft?"

"I work hard on being soft," you released his hair and he slumped forward, his forehead thumping against your shoulder, defeated but seemingly right where he wanted to be. "Now sit up straight before you choke on your own tongue."

"Make me," he muttered into your shirt, the words muffled by fabric. He turned his head slightly, his nose pressing into the material right over your chest. "I'm comfortable. You're like my new pillow. A pillow that fights back."

"I'm gonna pour this drink on your head."

"No, you won't.”

"You are the most annoying drunk I have ever met."

"I'm not annoying," he argued, lifting his head just enough to look at you from beneath his lashes. His hand moved from your hip to trace the line of your jaw, his thumb dragging over your lower lip. The touch was surprisingly gentle, at odds with all the biting. "I'm just see something I wanna put my mouth on, and I act on it. It's called initiative."

"And what exactly do you want to put your mouth on?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, a trap you'd set for yourself.

Eddie’s grin turned wicked. He leaned in, nose brushing yours and eyes locking onto your mouth. "Everything," he whispered. "But I'll start with that pouty bottom lip you're trying so hard to hide. Unless you're gonna beg me not to?"

"I’d never beg you for anything," you managed, though your voice was breathless, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm that was practically louder than the heavy metal music that filled the air.

"Good," he said, his hand sliding around to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in the hair there. "Because I wasn't planning on listening that much right now anyway."

The air between you had shifted, thick and suffocating in the best possible way. Eddie didn't give you a chance to retort. He simply closed the distance, crashing his mouth against yours.

It wasn't exactly a gentle exploration. It was a collision that tasted like whiskey and cheap beer, a sharp, bitter burn that you instantly craved more of. His hand fisted in your hair at the base of your neck, tilting your head back to deepen the angle, and you went with it, your hands gripping the lapels of his denim vest to anchor yourself. You expected him to be sloppy, given the state he was in, but there was a desperate precision to the way he moved his mouth against yours - biting down on your bottom lip, just as he’d promised.

You gasped into his mouth, a mistake, because he took the opportunity to sweep his tongue inside, claiming the space with a confidence that made your knees weak. He groaned, a low, vibrating sound that you felt straight through your chest.

"See?" he mumbled against your lips, not pulling away enough to speak clearly. "Always knew you'd be good at this."

"Shut up," you breathed, though a part of you vaguely wondered how long he’d known you’d be a good kisser. But you didn’t ask - deciding to tug him closer by the collar to shut him up with your mouth. You bit his own lower lip, hard - and he hissed, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild.

"Oh, you play dirty," his voice was husky. "I respect that. In fact..." He dipped his head, bypassing your mouth entirely to drag his teeth along the sensitive line of your jaw. "I think I like it when you fight back. So feisty.”

"You're unbearable," you managed, but your head was falling back, granting him better access to the column of your throat. He was relentless, nipping and sucking at the skin, leaving a wet, hot trail in his wake. It was overwhelming - but you loved it. Hi weight, his scent, the sheer intensity of his focus. It felt nice to feel so lusted after - even if both of you were slightly drunk.

"And you're squirming," he noted smugly, his hand sliding from your neck down your side, his fingers digging into your waist. He squeezed, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast, sending a shockwave through you. "Why are you squirming, sweetheart? Am I bothering you?"

"Your teeth are sharp," you lied, your voice trembling as he found that spot on your neck again, the one that made your toes curl.

"You love it," he countered, biting down on the curve of your shoulder. He didn't let up this time, holding the skin between his teeth for a long, aching moment before releasing it to soothe it with his tongue. The contrast was maddening - the sharp pain followed immediately by the heat of his mouth. "You're vibrating again. I can feel it."

"Maybe you're just a delusional drunk," you shot back, though your hands were betraying you, sliding under his vest to trace the planes of his back through his t-shirt.

"Maybe," he allowed, dragging his mouth back up to your ear. He bit the lobe, tugging on it sharply.

He shifted, pulling you fully onto his lap, straddling him on the crate. The position was precarious, but he didn't seem to care. He wrapped his arms around your waist, locking you against him.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, suddenly sounding very sober and clear-headed as his nose tracing your jawline. "Tell me you hate it, and I'll stop."

You looked at him - hair wild, lips swollen, eyes burning with a challenge. He was waiting for you to push him away, to reel back into the safety of friendship. It was the weirdest dynamic you'd ever been a part of. Aggressive affection wrapped in layers of sarcasm and denial.

But you didn't push him away. Instead, you leaned forward, capturing his mouth in a bruising kiss, biting his lip again for good measure.

He laughed into the kiss, his hands tightening on your waist. You could feel him, hard and insistent beneath his jeans, but he made no move to grind up, no move to take it further than this violent, steamy make-out session in the corner of a dingy party. He just seemed content to consume you, to mark you, to exist in this chaotic friction.

"You're gonna have a massive hickey or two tomorrow," he murmured against your mouth, his hand sliding up to tangle in your hair again.

"So are you," you replied, your fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck and tugging. He groaned, his head falling back, exposing his throat to you.

★★★ July 1985. Hawkins, Indiana.

The air conditioner in Starcourt made the heat much more bearable, thank God. Outside, not even your thin tank top could keep you cool, so you’d concluded there were worse ways to spend the summer than working in the mall.

The music shop’s owner was an old man. Mr. Higgins knew just about every music artist and album ever recorded, but couldn’t be bothered to deal with people coming in looking for “that one song on the radio.” He loved music. Retail? Not so much.

But that was okay, because he’d found the perfect employee.

Your interview consisted of him quizzing you on every kind of music and genre available in the shop. Higgins even hummed a few tunes and made you find the corresponding cassette—because apparently, people did that a lot.

Lucky for you, he liked you. It helped that you listened to a bit of everything; that’s why he’d hired you. But also, you had good instincts when it came to giving recommendations.

The shop was becoming your happy place, and even you pitied yourself a little for being such a loser. Making friends had been hard lately. Being new was tough, and missing your old town—and your old friends—didn’t help.

But there was no time to be an angsty teen when you had to run the store. At least it was a fun job, and you got to practice your people skills. Maybe you’d make some friends before the start of senior year.

So far, though, the only person you’d really talked to was Robin, the girl from the ice cream shop. By the fourth time you went into Scoops Ahoy on your break, she had your order memorized.

Then she started showing up at the music shop during her breaks, gossiping about mall regulars and other employees. Or Steve, whom you were still a little intimidated by.

Thank God for fun girls, you thought.

★★★

On a hot Thursday afternoon, the very reason Mr. Higgins had hired an employee walked through the door.

Munson. Always with a swagger. Always with that smug expression on his face.

Whenever Munson came into the shop, he looked ready for battle. He loved to rant about why metal was the best genre to ever exist, and without fail, he’d start arguing with Higgins. The old man wasn’t in today, though—just you.

Despite having worked there for over a month and having seen Munson half a dozen times by now, it seemed like he’d only just realized you existed.

Strutting up to the counter, he wore a curious expression, eyes narrowed—though he still peacocked around, as always.

“Hi, uh…” He glanced behind you, like he expected Higgins to appear from the stockroom.

“Hi. Were you looking for something specific?” you asked, even though you already knew the answer.

Big brown eyes scanned your face, then your hair, then dipped downward briefly—either reading your name tag or checking you out. Either way, you were unimpressed. Deeply.

“...Higgins?”

“He’s not in today.”

“Huh. Right.” He looked oddly out of his depth. “Do you have the, uh… It’s this new metal band—”

Was this guy always this awkward?

“Megadeth,” you said calmly, nodding toward the shelf behind him. “New arrivals. Just came in.”

“Oh.” His eyes lit up. “So you know your stuff.”

A small frown tugged at your mouth. You weren’t a metal superfan—not at all. He’d just been asking about that damn album every week since it was announced.

With the cassette clutched in his ringed hand, eyes bright, and a crumpled bill tossed onto the counter, Eddie Munson left the shop content.

★★★

You could hear him before you even saw him.

Eddie Munson was noisy—not just because of the chains on his jeans, but the way he stomped like he had a personal vendetta against Starcourt’s squeaky floors. Or how he sang your name every time he entered the shop.

Even the bell on the door seemed louder when he came in.

It hadn’t taken long for him to come out of his shell around you. He put in a lot of effort trying to figure you out—even if he wasn’t nearly as subtle as he thought.

Basically, he was peacocking.

Higgins was simultaneously annoyed and entertained by his most irritating regular trying to chat up his best—and only—employee.

Munson gestured wildly, talked your ears off, followed you around while you organized shelves, and tried to rope you into conversations—mostly about music. He leaned all over the counter, so close you could tell whether he’d last smoked weed or tobacco.

“You have to admit metal is the future—anything else is just—”

He was determined to get under your skin, to figure out what made you bristle or laugh or blush.

The problem was… he couldn’t.

The only time he succeeded, he hadn’t meant to.

As usual, he flounced around the shop, flipping through records he’d already memorized, wandering shelves that hadn’t changed since the mall opened.

Then, with the stealth of a rogue and the innocent face of an angel, he slipped one cassette into his jacket.

Quiet. Confident. Undetectable.

Except when he turned around and flinched violently, a yelp dying in his throat.

Apparently, he wasn’t a rogue at all.

There you were behind the counter—eyes locked on him so intensely he swore you weren’t looking at him, but through him. Terrifying. And very beautiful.

That was all it took.

No pointing fingers. No yelling for security. Not even a frown.

You didn’t even blink.

He hadn’t stuttered like this since middle school—or blushed this hard since he’d slammed into his locker in front of a group of cheerleaders.

“I—I was just, uh—” Still, you didn’t blink. “I mean—c’mon, I would never—”

You raised one eyebrow.

“I’m putting it back! Look—see?” His voice cracked so badly he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

When he left, he practically sprinted to the door, cursing under his breath and nearly taking out an entire shelf of vinyl.

Dramatic. As always.

★★★

Instead of his usual two or three visits a week, Munson exercised uncharacteristic restraint and stayed away for a week and a half.

But Dio dropped what was arguably the best tape of the summer in August—and there was only one place in Hawkins that might have it.

So Munson armed himself with a mask of indifference and strutted into the shop as usual… except this time, he avoided looking at you entirely. If he didn’t see you, you couldn’t see him. That was the rule.

He definitely did not fumble with the Sacred Heart cassette, and his hands absolutely did not shake as he approached the register.

You rang him up without comment. As chatty as ever. (That is: not at all.)

Then, along with the Dio tape, you slid something else across the counter.

A cassette.

Not the one he was buying.

The one he’d tried to steal two weeks ago.

The blush bloomed from his ears to his face to his neck. His mouth fell open, and he was pretty sure he almost drooled onto the counter.

You didn’t seem surprised. You didn’t explain.

You did shy back slightly when he clasped both hands over yours, eyes wide and desperate—like a wet puppy about to beg.

“Fuck—shit—I mean—”

“You’re welcome, Munson.”

For once, he shut up.

He bit his lip and leaned over the counter even more dramatically than usual, still holding your hands, fighting a grin until he finally muttered:

“So… you do like me.”