FD:BLOODLINES

chapter two, lesson one ⭑

chapter three, hook and eye

chapter four, double booked ⭑

chapter five, interferences ⭑

chapter six, standard procedure

chapter seven, ykwim?

chapter eight, tell me when ⭑

chapter nine, talk 2 me

chapter ten, no other heart ⭑

Still, there was a weird sense of déjà vu standing outside Liz Allan’s house again. Same warm string lights flickering in the window, same throb of music and laughter spilling out through the cracks in the doorframe. The winter air nipped at your cheeks as you shifted your fingers to re-interlock them with Peter’s, your other hand buried in your coat pocket.

Peter stood beside you, both gift bags cradled in one arm—yours, which looked normal-sized and respectable, and his, which was noticeably bulkier and slightly crushed from the weight of whatever he shoved inside.

“Why is your bag so huge?” you asked, eyeing it. “Now I feel like I didn’t bring enough.”

Peter glanced down at it, then shrugged like he hadn’t just broken the ten-dollar limit. “It’s not big. It’s just… well-endowed.”

“Did you just call your gift bag well-endowed?”

He nodded solemnly. “Presentation matters.”

You rolled your eyes. “Size doesn’t.”

Peter grinned. “Bold of you to say when you’re dating me.”

You opened your mouth to respond—likely with something scathing—but before you could gag directly in his face, the front door flew open. Liz stood in the doorway partially barefoot, one sock sliding down her ankle and a half-full glass of something bubbly in hand. Her hair already looked slightly mussed.

“Drink the fuck up!” she shouted, grabbing both your wrists and yanking you inside like this had all been rehearsed.

You stumbled forward with a laugh, catching yourself just in time to avoid knocking into Peter. The paper bags he held crinkled as he adjusted his grip, one arm flexing slightly under their weight.

When you reached the kitchen threshold, Liz waved both of you in with grand jazz hands. “Bar’s open, lovebirds,” she announced, gesturing toward the kitchen island like she was unveiling a magic trick.

You stepped in and immediately slowed, blinking at the sheer spread in front of you. The island was covered from end to end with bottles, mixers, and seltzers stacked like a convenience store display. There were neat bowls of garnishes—lime wedges, maraschino cherries, salted rims—and Liz had even lit one of those tacky cinnamon-sugar holiday candles that made the whole room smell like a cookie factory.

“You,” you said, blinking at the setup, “make me genuinely concerned for your liver.”

Peter laughed behind you, the warm sound brushing the back of your neck. You felt his hand settle low at your back, just above your waistband. His fingers curled slightly against the fabric of your sweater as he leaned in, eyes scanning the lineup of alcohol like he was shopping.

From somewhere down the hallway, Liz called out cheerfully, “Some nights are made for bad decisions! For example: Christmas and New Year’s.”

You raised your eyebrows, deadpan. “Whose bright idea was it to combine those two?”

“Mine, bitch!” she yelled gleefully, and a doorbell chime echoed through the house. “Ooh—that must be Cindy!”

You watched her bolt from the kitchen like she was greeting a soldier home from war. Cindy barely had time to tug her scarf off before Liz swept her into a full spin-hug.

Turning back to the chaos of the island, you took in the crooked pyramid of Surfside cans and tequila bottles sweating under the overhead lights. A charcuterie board sat shoved between plastic chip bowls and mini corn dogs, looking extremely out of place. You cracked open a strawberry lemonade Surfside, the soft hiss of carbonation breaking through the music from the living room. You took a sip and let it fizz over your tongue before holding the can up, offering it blindly behind you.

“Want some?”

Peter leaned in, his lips brushing close to your ear as he took a sip. “This tastes like a Capri Sun.”

You smirked. “Mhm. That’s how they get ya.”

He edged in a little closer, the warmth of his body now brushing against yours. His voice dropped low, just for you. “I’ll be okay though. Fast metabolism. Y’know—radioactive spider and all.”

You snorted and gave him a look. “Lucky me. My boyfriend has superpowers.”

“Mmhm.” His tone turned teasing, light but cocky. “Super strength. Super speed. Super endurance. Comes in handy, huh?”

You groaned, shoving his shoulder. “You’re so annoying. Why are you so horny all of a sudden?”

“Am I wrong?” he asked, eyes twinkling, stealing another sip from your drink like it was owed to him.

You rolled your eyes and smacked his chest with the back of your hand, already fighting a grin. “I literally can’t take you anywhere.”

Before you could say anything worse, someone cleared their throat nearby. You turned, and there was Ned in the doorway, clutching two awkwardly wrapped presents and wearing a slightly crooked Santa hat. He had New Year’s glasses perched on his nose that made him look like a misguided youth pastor.

He blinked at you both like he’d just walked into a crime scene.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear the part about…” Ned waved vaguely between you and Peter. “You know. The, uh… stamina comment.”

Your hand flew up to your mouth, eyes wide, a snort escaping before you could swallow it back. Peter groaned beside you, dragging a hand down his face like he could wipe away the secondhand embarrassment.

“Dude,” Peter muttered. “Seriously?”

“No judgment!” Ned said quickly, shifting the gifts in his arms. “Happy for you guys. Love is beautiful, whatever. Just—maybe keep the sex metaphors away from the food?”

You wheezed out a laugh and leaned your head into Peter’s shoulder. “Or maybe you could stop eavesdropping, nosy.”

Ned looked around theatrically, whispering like he was smuggling government secrets. “Kinda hard not to eavesdrop when I’m the guy in the chair and I have to monitor everything.”

Then he stepped a little closer, lowering his voice and raising an eyebrow at you with a knowing look. His tone shifted from playful to pointed, his voice soft.

“So… I’m assuming you know?” he asked with a slight tilt of the head towards. “Like… know know?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, taking another sip of your drink as you leaned forward on your elbows, glancing sideways at Peter beside you.

Ned eyed the two of you with interest, head tilting. “Wait—so how’d this happen? Did you figure it out or did he actually tell you?”

Peter shook his head before you could answer.

You grinned, still a little warm from the alcohol. “You want the short version or the drunk girl version?”

“Oh wow,” Ned muttered. “How’d you not freak out?”

“She did freak out,” Peter said, nudging you with his elbow, a smile tugging at his mouth.

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up. Your dumb voice gave it away.”

Peter turned toward you with mock offense. “You didn’t know the first time we met.”

“I literally said you sounded familiar.”

“That doesn’t mean you knew.”

“I had a hunch,” you said, matter-of-fact, “and my hunches are always right.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, and he mirrored it back without hesitation, stealing another sip of your drink as retaliation.

“He barely even tried to disguise it,” you added.

Ned threw his hands up, looking personally betrayed. “Dude, are you serious? How am I keeping this secret better than you?”

Peter shrugged, turning back toward you. “Didn’t know you had my voice memorized.”

You gave him a look. “Of course I do. You’re my boyfriend, you dunce.”

“Not that it’s a competition or anything,” Ned cut in, “but I’ve known since, like, sophomore year.”

You raised your can toward him with a lopsided smile. “Damn. You’ve got seniority.”

“Damn right I do,” Ned said proudly. “I’ve seen things.”

Peter groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Please don’t elaborate.”

You smirked, about to prod Ned for whatever deeply humiliating anecdote he was clearly holding back—but Liz’s voice rang out from the other room like she’d just been handed a megaphone.

“White elephant in five!” she bellowed, loud enough to make the garland on the staircase tremble. She stood in the center of the living room, gesturing everyone over.

You groaned softly and took another sip from your drink. “The living room’s gonna give me PTSD.”

Peter raised a brow, shifting the bags in his arms. “Why? You didn’t have a good time with me in the closet?” he asked, smug.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Ned grimacing in disgust. You bit your cheek to keep from laughing and mouthed a quick sorry, which he responded to with a disappointed shake of his head.

“I did,” you said. “But the person I sat next to smelled really bad.”

Both boys instinctively sniffed themselves.

“You were both across the room,” you added, deadpan.

They exchanged a look. “Oh,” they said in unison.

You smirked and tipped your head toward the hallway. “C’mon. Before Liz starts roll call.”

Peter snagged a random, unopened can from the island and fell into step beside you while Ned trailed behind, still balancing his wrapped gifts like props in a sitcom.

As the three of you joined the slow-moving group funneling toward the living room, Ned leaned toward Peter and nudged his elbow. “You know this is the exact moment we realized you had game, right?”

Peter shot him a look. “Had game? I’ve always had game. You just never got to witness it firsthand.”

Ned snorted. “Yeah, and I thank God for that daily. You’re lucky she’s into nerds.”

“I’m charming,” Peter said, turning to you for backup.

You shrugged, sipping your drink. “I mean… I am here, aren’t I?”

“Seven minutes was just our hard launch,” Peter added casually.

Ned raised a skeptical brow but let it go, shaking his head as he wandered toward an open La-Z-Boy.

You didn’t say anything, just smirked. The lie still sat between you and Peter—the one where everyone assumed you’d made out in that closet, when in reality, you barely even touched. Just fake-moaned, squirmed around like idiots, and waited out the clock. You’d silently agreed to keep that part to yourselves. Partly because it was funnier that way. Mostly because explaining the trajectory from “seven minutes in heaven” to “casual hookup” to “not speaking” to “actually dating” would’ve required a whiteboard and a PowerPoint presentation.

“Hey, babe,” Betty called, wedging herself beside Ned. 

You and Peter squeezed into a barely-two-person section of the couch. His arm slid easily around your shoulders, your thighs pressing together. He dropped your gift bags at his feet, and you took another sip of your drink as the room hummed around you—overlapping voices, the fizz of a soda tab, a crash in the kitchen that definitely sounded like someone dropped an entire tray of cups.

Liz had pushed the coffee table to the center of the room, and people were settling into a circle—half on couch cushions, half on the rug—like some weird ritual was about to begin. You ended up half in Peter’s lap, your body angled toward his, his arm resting across your back, fingers absentmindedly brushing your arm.

Betty leaned in, her spiked cider already halfway gone. She nodded toward you and Peter, basically tangled together.

“This,” she said, gesturing between you two. “Adorable. Like I said.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. When you turned to Peter, he was already looking at you, pulling you a little closer. You leaned into him without thinking—his touch warm and easy. Betty raised her brows dramatically once Peter looked away, mouthing something about marriage and babies. You barely held back a laugh, hiding your smile behind your can.

Then Liz clapped, standing in the middle of the circle with the kind of energy only someone wearing a glittery cowboy hat and wielding a spreadsheet could possess.

“Alright!” she announced, slicing through the noise. “Ground rules are simple. Pick a number, open a gift, or steal one.”

Peter’s arm shifted, his palm flattening against the curve of your coat. His thumb brushed along your side, light but grounding. You barely noticed until Betty caught it from across the couch, her brows lifting again, lips tugging into a soft smile. She placed a hand over her heart and mouthed adorable again.

You rolled your eyes but felt your mouth tug into another reluctant smile.

“Okay,” Liz called, now wearing the cowboy hat with absolutely zero irony. “I’m calling numbers.”

She shook a Solo cup filled with crumpled slips of paper and passed it around. Peter squeezed your hip before reaching in. You followed, unfolding a tiny square marked with a smudged Sharpie “Six.”

“Who’s got number one?” Liz asked, scanning the group.

Across the circle, MJ raised a hand, her expression unreadable as ever. She sat cross-legged on the rug, chewing her gum like this was a documentary.

“Cool,” she said flatly. Her eyes drifted over the pile of gift bags and boxes until she plucked the sloppiest one—rainbow Santa sleds, scotch tape barely holding it together. She peeled it open one-handed, tugging the paper until she revealed a floppy gray elephant g-string, complete with a plush trunk and googly eyes.

There was a long beat of silence.

“What the fuck,” MJ said, expression unchanging as she held it up. She flicked the trunk experimentally—and it blared a tinny, obnoxious tune you couldn’t even place. Circus music, maybe?

MJ blinked. “What the fuck,” she repeated, now more confused than annoyed—but her mouth twitched.

“I need that,” Flash called from the couch. “Mine’s too big for regular undergarments.”

“Congrats on having the biggest micro-penis,” MJ fired back who immediately received an aggressive scowl from him.

“Who brought this?” MJ asked, still holding it away from herself like it might bite.

Cindy raised a hand, looking unapologetic. “Okay, in my defense—it was five bucks, and it came with a keychain.”

“You’re done,” MJ declared, tossing the waistband back into the box.

Peter leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “I had my eye on that bag.”

You gave him a look. “I’m glad you didn’t get it.”

He smirked. “What, you don’t think I’d look good in it?”

You took a sip of your drink, completely unfazed. “You’re cute, but I’m not trying to think about Zootopia when we’re having sex.”

Peter grinned. “Still gonna try and steal it, though.”

Naturally, the rest of the gifts only got weirder. Ned ended up with a bag of a hundred rubber ducks, which was arguably the tamest gift of the night. Flash stole a Bluetooth speaker shaped like a pineapple from Jason and paraded it around like it was a trophy. Cindy unwrapped a bag of gummy dicks you’d grabbed from Spencer’s on impulse. Brad, of course, went for the frozen DiGiorno Betty opened which somehow, was still ice-cold, and he cradled it like a prize roast.

You didn’t fare as well. After a few steals, you were left with a sad, toilet-shaped mug. A few other gifts passed hands until finally, it was Peter’s turn.

He let out a dramatic sigh, slumping forward like the moment had been haunting him all night. “This better be good,” he muttered as the room quieted slightly, all eyes turning to him.

You leaned back to give him space, sipping your drink as he approached the coffee table with theatrical dread.

Only one gift remained—a small, crumpled brown paper bag. Peter grabbed it without hesitation, peeked inside, and pulled out a Ziploc bag labeled PREMIUM AIR in bold Sharpie.

He stared at it.

“…Dude,” he said flatly. “Is this a fart?”

Across the circle, Flash was already losing it, face red with laughter. “Nah, man,” he wheezed. “It’s premium air. Just open it.”

Peter looked up, deadpan. “Flash.”

“It’s vintage!” Flash insisted. “Predates graduation. Get a whiff.”

“Absolutely not.” Peter pinched the bag like it was toxic.

“C’mon, it’s sterile!” Flash snickered.

“Yeah, because you’d know what sterile means,” MJ muttered from the rug.

Someone else grumbled, “So much for maturity.”

Flash rolled his eyes, flopping back dramatically. “Y’all don’t get comedy.”

Peter didn’t respond. He returned to the couch, dropped the biohazardous bag at his feet, and turned to you.

With everyone’s turns complete, the game dissolved into casual chaos—side conversations, mock trades, and people parading their weird prizes. You stayed curled into Peter’s side, his arm draped across your shoulders, fingers brushing your arm now and then. You talked about nothing—the weather, the subway, whether lava lamps counted as furniture or decor. Your legs tangled together like they’d done it a hundred times. His voice stayed low, his breath soft against your ear, and the rest of the party blurred around you.

Gradually, the room began to shift. Some people trickled into the kitchen, others drifted upstairs or out to the porch. The couch cushions shifted as bodies disappeared, and the volume mellowed to a low hum—laughter echoing faintly from the hallway, the edges of the party softening.

You glanced at the clock.

11:54.

You leaned closer to Peter, voice low beneath the buzz of the room. “Hey. Wanna get some air?”

He turned to you immediately, eyes soft. “Yeah. Of course.”

He shifted to stand, balancing his weight with one hand on your thigh for a second before scooping up the oversized bag he’d brought his gift in.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why do you still have that? We all threw our trash away.”

He shrugged, casual. “I like to recycle myself.”

“Look at this environmentally friendly loser over here.” you pointed at him with your thumb with a voice, sarcastic.

“And you’re dating me, so what does that make you?”

“Deeply unwell.”

He grinned and reached for your hand. “C’mon.”

Fingers laced through his, you wove your way through the crowded house. The front door creaked open, letting in the crisp night air, and you both stepped out onto the porch. The cold hit immediately, sharp and bracing, laced with the faint bite of snow on the wind.

You sat on the front steps and patted the space beside you. Peter dropped the crinkling bag with a quiet thud and sank down next to you. You leaned your head on his shoulder, still warm from inside, and he tipped his just enough to rest it against yours.

For a while, you didn’t say anything.

The outside world felt suspended. The stillness of late December wrapped around you both—quiet, cold, full of that hush right before a snowfall. The house behind you pulsed faintly with music and laughter, dulled by the thick walls. You breathed in slow, the air stinging your lungs in the best way. Beside you, Peter exhaled in sync, fogging up the air between you.

“Good air. Grateful it’s not ‘premium.’” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Peter made a face. “Yeah, I’m never opening that thing. Ever. I’m throwing it away the second we get home.”

“Or,” you said, grinning lazily, “you could pop it open right in his face. Let him bask in the glory of his own creation.”

He laughed, low and genuine, and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. “You’re kind of evil.”

“Only a little.”

He kissed the top of your head. “Still a genius, though.”

You sank into him a little more, content to let the silence return and stretch out around you again. For a while, it was just the sound of the distant party and the occasional squeak of someone laughing too hard inside. Then Peter shifted, just enough for you to lift your head, and you felt him pull away gently.

“I, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve got something for you.”

You blinked, sitting up a little straighter. “Hm?”

Peter turned slightly, pulling out a small package wrapped in soft tissue paper and tied with a pale pink ribbon—carefully done, like he’d retied it at least twice to get it just right.

“I know it’s not Christmas anymore,” he said, a little sheepish, “and I’m like… a week late. But—uh—open it.”

You hummed softly, curious now, as you carefully untied the ribbon and peeled back the wrapping. Beneath the folds, in the dim porch light and faint glow of the stars above, was the scarf. The scarf. The one you’d fawned over weeks ago in that boutique window, when you were both too cold and too tired to be sensible. You froze, fingertips grazing the edges of it. The wool was just as soft as you remembered—finely stitched, cream-colored with little flecks of navy and rose woven through the thread. Your eyes snapped to his, wide.

“Peter—holy shit. This was so expensive!” you breathed, stunned.

He grinned, running a hand through his hair, cheeks flushed. “Mr. Stark started paying me. Said I was doing enough hands-on work in the lab to count as a junior research assistant. It’s not, like… crazy money. But I wanted to get you something nice. I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you sooner. Things were just—kind of a mess.”

You stared at him, heart swelling in that painful, giddy way affection sometimes came. “This is—you’re—God. You’re stupidly sweet. I adore you. So, so much.”

He took the scarf gently from your lap and looped it around your neck, fingers brushing your jaw as he adjusted it. His hand lingered afterward, cupping your cheek, thumb tracing lightly across your skin.

“Anything for you,” he murmured. “Always.”

Your breath caught, eyes stinging a little from the sudden, overwhelming warmth. “I love you, Peter.”

“Ditto,” he said, soft and sure—and the sound of it made your stomach flutter. You giggled under your breath, eyes shining.

Inside, the music dimmed just enough to catch the rumble of a countdown starting—Liz’s voice rising above the rest, slightly slurred but enthusiastic “Sixty!” and the chorus of people picked it up from there. You both turned slightly, watching through the frosted window as the crowd scrambled back into the living room. Flash was already at fifty-two, counting loudly like he’d been training all year for it.

You looked back at Peter. “Wanna go inside?”

His eyes didn’t leave you. “Not really.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Forty-seven.

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath you.

“You cold?” he asked softly.

“Not really,” you said. “You run hot.”

“That’s the radiation.”

“How comforting,” you teased, nudging your nose gently against his cheek.

Thirty-five.

He turned to look at you, hand still warm on your waist. “Is it weird?”

“What is?”

“How happy I am right now. Feels like I shouldn’t be allowed.”

“You should,” you said immediately, your fingers curling into his sleeve. “We both should.”

Twenty-four.

Peter leaned in, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you for making me happy.”

“You’re being such a sap,” you mumbled, nose scrunching. “But thank you too. For making me stupid-happy.”

He pulled back and gasped, mock-offended. “Can’t believe you’re being affectionate.”

“Keep talking and I’ll stop.” You furrowed your brows at him, though your voice was soft. He just retucked the scarf a little tighter around your neck.

“I do love you though, y’know.”

He nodded, a gentle smile on his face. “Of course I know. Even when you’re pretending to hate me.”

“Especially then,” you grinned.

Ten.

“Ready?” he murmured.

You tilted your head up to look at him. “Always.”

Five.

Four.

Three.

He leaned in slowly, one hand cradling your face, the other steady on your waist.

Two.

One.

His lips moved against yours like he was trying to tell you something without saying anything at all. And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t afraid of what came next. You weren’t pretending anymore. You had him—and he had you. It was so stupidly simple, it almost made you laugh.

But you’d had your seven minutes. And somehow, you got everything after, too.

And then—Peter.

His breathing was soft behind you, a slow rhythm against the back of your neck, and you could feel the weight of his arm draped around your waist. His chin was still tucked over your shoulder, the way it had been when you fell asleep. You turned slightly, squinting just enough to see his face in the morning light. Eyes shut. Lips parted slightly. His lashes casted long shadows across his cheeks, and his features had softened in sleep—like all the weight he carried had melted off with the night.

That, you thought, was real.

You let yourself breathe into the stillness for a moment, your head sinking deeper into the pillow, willing your brain to catch up. Your thoughts shuffled slowly back into place like someone flipping through a deck of half-shuffled cards.

You’d gone out last night. That was true. The club, the drinks, the lights, the bass-heavy music that vibrated your teeth. You remembered dancing with Betty, her laugh echoing in your ears, the glitter of sweat and tequila on your skin.

And then—you were on a rooftop.

And then you were taking off Spider-Man's mask.

And then it was him.

Peter Parker.

The boy you'd known since high school. The boy you kissed in quiet doorways and in your own bed. The boy who’d pulled away from you, too. The boy who was Spider-Man.

Your eyes fluttered open again as you felt him shift behind you.

A sleepy hum rumbled in his chest as his hand slid up your side, the heel of his palm resting just beneath the curve of your breast. His voice came next—low, hoarse, still tangled in sleep.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled, lips brushing against your bare shoulder before pressing a lazy kiss to your collarbone.

“Morning,” you whispered back, a soft smile tugging at your lips. You wriggled back against him, greedily soaking up the warmth of him beneath the blankets. “That suit can’t be comfortable to sleep in.”

Peter made a sleepy, grumbly noise. “Nah, it’s not bad. It’s nanotech. Feels like pajamas. Multi-billion dollar pajamas.”

“Still feels like you’re fully clothed,” you mumbled. “I’d rather you be naked. I like skin.”

That made him chuckle—warm and hoarse and just barely awake. “Yeah? Noted.”

His fingers started tracing soft little shapes on your side, absentminded and sweet. A circle, a star, then a triangle. You let the silence stretch for a moment, but your heart was already starting to speed up again—memories crawling their way back into your chest, curling in behind your ribs.

“Pete?”

“Mm?”

“Did you mean it? What you said last night?”

He was quiet for a second, then spoke, barely above a whisper, “That I love you?”

You nodded, turning toward him fully now. He blinked slowly, eyes heavy with sleep, but they met yours anyway.

“Yeah,” he said, softly. “Of course I meant it.”

You swallowed, a hand moving to rest lightly against his cheek. His skin was warm and all too familiar.

“I meant it then,” he continued, voice low, “and I meant it before. Like—way before. I think I was already gone for you when we were just friends. You just didn’t know.”

Your eyes prickled unexpectedly, and you blinked quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay.

“I didn’t know,” you admitted. “I thought I was the only one.”

Peter gave a half-smile, crooked and tired. “Nope. Lucky for you, I’m totally obsessed with you.”

You laughed, quiet and wet. “God, you’re such a cornball.”

“Your cornball.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t let go of his face. “I love you, too. By the way.”

Peter’s eyes softened like a sunrise. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple, then another to your nose, then finally to your lips—slow and careful, like it still didn’t feel entirely real.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice quiet as he pulled back just enough to see you clearly. His fingers still lingered at your waist like he didn’t want to lose contact. “For everything. For acting like none of it mattered. For shutting down when you came to say goodbye. That wasn’t fair to you.”

You gave a small shake of your head, lips twitching with a sad sort of smile. “You don’t have to explain.”

“No, I do,” he said, and this time his tone was firmer—gentle but steady, like he needed you to hear him. “That night on the bench… when you were talking to me—Spider-Man me—you said you were thinking about stuff, and I just… panicked. I didn’t know what you meant, and I got it in my head that you were already pulling away. That I’d already messed it up.”

You looked at him for a long second, chest heavy. Then, flatly: “Peter, that was really dumb.”

He gave a long, dramatic sigh. “I know. I’m very dumb.”

“No, I mean like… epically dumb.” You scooted in a little, resting your hand over his chest where his heart was still thudding a little too fast. “Thinking this was ever nothing? That we could just hook up and walk away like we’re not both hopelessly emotionally repressed and conflict-avoidant disasters?”

That drew a sheepish laugh from him, soft and warm against your cheek. “When you say it like that…”

“You were doomed from the start, Parker,” you teased, thumb brushing a lazy circle against his shirt. “But I love you. I do. A lot. Like, the kind of a lot where it freaks me out a little if I think about it too hard. But I want this. All of it. Even the mess, but especially the mess.”

Peter’s gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, wide and glassy like he wasn’t totally convinced this was real.

“So you wanna like… date me?” he asked, hopeful, hesitant—like he was bracing for gravity to fail him.

“Yeah, loser.” You gave his shoulder a playful shove. “I wanna like date you.”

The grin that spread across his face was instant and dopey and fully Peter—like you’d handed him the moon and he was still double-checking it wasn’t made of cheese. But before he could get too comfortable, you kept going.

“—But not like this,” you said, motioning to the rumpled sheets and the red and blue suit still clinging to his body. “I want the whole shabang. A big gesture. Flowers. A hot air balloon. I want skywriting. I want a flash mob.”

He groaned and flopped back dramatically. “You know I can’t draw, baby.”

You poked him in the side. “Figure it out. Use your webs. I wanna see my face in the clouds.”

“You’re trying to make me bankrupt.”

“That’s the plan,” you said, grinning. “But also—I’m gonna pretend I didn’t say any of this. So when you do ask me out, I can act surprised and pretend it wasn’t entirely my idea.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, eyes serious but playful. “I would’ve done it anyway. This is just… pre-sale booking.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“I’m serious.” He leaned in, nose brushing yours. “You’re too special to not do this right. Like—obviously I was gonna make it official. You think I’d let someone else get to you first? No way.”

You tilted your head at him, pretending to think it over. “Wow. Kind of hot that Spider-Man was talking me up to me and I didn’t even know.”

Peter let out a breathy laugh, ducking his head like he was embarrassed, though his ears had already gone pink. “Couldn’t help it,” he murmured. “You’re… you. Perfect in all ways. My girl.”

Your grin softened then, melted into something slower and more sincere. Something that caught in your throat a little.

“You mean that?” you asked. “Like, for real this time?”

He met your eyes again, this time with nothing but honesty behind his own.

“I meant it now. I meant it before. I was just—scared to say it out loud cause that would make it real. Scared of screwing it all up.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers gently through his curls, letting them slip between your fingertips. “Well. I think you gotta seal the deal now.”

He blinked, smirking. “Seal it with what?”

You smiled. “A kiss. Or maybe more.”

Peter’s breath caught for a second—and then he was already leaning in.

The kiss started slow and barely there, just the soft press of lips and the weight of everything you hadn’t said until now. But then your hand curled behind his neck and he tilted his head, deepening it, mouth slanting over yours like he couldn’t get close enough. You could feel it in the way his fingers slid down your side, careful but sure, his body curling into yours under the blanket.

The warmth of him was overwhelming in the best possible way—his mouth hot and seeking, his chest pressed to yours as your hands curled instinctively at his sides. The texture of the suit was unfamiliar, soft but slightly slick beneath your fingertips, not quite skin but not far from it either.

You tugged gently at the material at his waist, lips brushing his between shallow breaths. “Wait—how do you even get this thing off?” you murmured, breathless. “It’s like… fused to you.”

Peter pulled back just enough to flash you a smug little grin, that boyish sparkle flickering to life in his eyes. “Wanna see something cool?”

You nodded, your fingers still grazing his side as he leaned up on his knees. With a smooth, practiced motion, he pressed the emblem at the center of his chest. A soft mechanical whir filled the air, followed by the shimmer of movement. You blinked as the suit melted off him in a fluid ripple of nanotech, folding back and disappearing into the device at his wrist like water down a drain.

Your jaw dropped. “What the hell,” you breathed. “No way.”

“Told you,” he said, his grin bordering on cocky now.

Your eyes trailed over the newly revealed skin—golden under the morning light filtering through your bedroom window, faint freckles scattered across his chest like constellations. He was only in his briefs now, the shape of his abs catching the light in a way that made your mouth go dry. His arms flexed slightly as he adjusted, and you had to consciously stop yourself from whimpering.

“God,” you muttered under your breath, almost laughing at yourself. “I can’t believe I slept with Spider-Man.”

Peter laughed and hooked his arms around your waist to pull you into his lap. “Wanna make it happen again?”

You kissed him again in answer, grinning against his lips. “Talk later,” you murmured. “Fuck now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He wasted no time, yanking your shirt off in one smooth movement, grinning when you giggled at the clumsiness of his hands as he fumbled with your bra clasp. But once it was off, the mood shifted again. His mouth moved to your chest, slow and hungry, lips closing around your nipple, warm tongue flicking as you let out a soft, involuntary whimper at the contact.

“Fucking love the sounds you make,” he murmured against your skin. His voice was low, slightly hoarse, every word brushing hot against your breast as he sucked gently, one hand palming you, the other sliding to your hips and gripping tight.

You muttered inaudible nonsense into his hair in response, breath catching as your hips rocked instinctively into his lap. Your fingers dug into his shoulders for balance, the muscles there flexing beneath your palms.

“You drive me insane,” he said, mouth moving to your other breast, lips wrapping around it with just as much care. “So fucking insane.”

You could barely respond—not when his hand dipped lower, dragging under the waistband of your shorts and slipping into your underwear. His fingers found your heat easily, dragging through the slick folds with a soft, almost reverent hum before pushing two fingers inside you. Slow, purposeful, and curling just right.

Your head tipped back. Breath caught. Mind fuzzed.

His rhythm was maddening, unhurried but precise, his fingers hitting that spot deep inside that made your thighs tremble. And still, his mouth stayed busy, peppering kisses up your chest to your jaw, then your neck—suckling gently over the marks he'd left before, as if he meant to reclaim them.

“Want you to remember how good I make you feel,” he whispered against your skin, his thumb circling your clit with practiced, careful pressure as he continued to thrust his fingers inside you. The tension coiled tighter in your stomach, impossible to ignore.

You tried to nod but ended up gasping instead, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder. You bit down softly to ground yourself, overwhelmed by the building heat threatening to overtake you.

“Peter—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he said, voice dark and sure.

And you did. With a soft cry muffled into his shoulder, your body arched into him as you came hard, pleasure sparking behind your eyes, through your fingertips, your thighs trembling around his.

He kept his hand there as you rode it out, easing you through the high with slow, gentle thrusts. When he finally withdrew, his fingers slid from you with a slick sound that made your face warm. But all he did was settle his hands on your waist again, rubbing soft circles along your sides as your body relaxed, boneless in his lap.

You pulled back after a moment, forehead damp, hair sticking to your skin. Peter was watching you with a crooked smile, his fingers still ghosting over your hips like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

“Didn’t know you liked to bite,” he teased, nodding toward the faint mark on his shoulder.

You snorted, breathless. “Shut up. That was an accident.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Dunno how you accidentally bite someone. Were you an ankle biter as a kid?”

You narrowed your eyes. “No, I was not an ankle biter! You’re ruining the mood.”

“Ouch,” he gasped dramatically.

You rolled your eyes, fingers drifting down to the hard bulge pressing against you through his briefs. “You’ll live. But I need dick now. Please and thank you.”

Peter groaned, hips shifting into your palm. “Do whatever you want to me.”

You leaned forward, dragging your fingers up his stomach, then down again, watching his face as you slid off his lap. “Good answer.”

He let out a small whine when you pulled your hand away, but it was quickly replaced with anticipation as you stood and peeled your shorts and underwear off in one smooth motion, tossing them aside before crawling back toward him. Peter had shifted back against your headboard, his legs spreading instinctively to make room for you. His eyes followed you like you were the only thing that existed. You settled between his thighs, palms braced on his hips.

“Anything?” you asked, voice low as you settled between his thighs, your fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns across the taut muscles of his stomach. You kissed your way down, soft and teasing, until you reached the waistband of his briefs.

“Anything,” he breathed, the word barely escaping his lips. His hips jerked instinctively, the hard line of him brushing against your cheek. The contact earned a satisfied hum from you.

You dragged your nails lightly along the waistband, letting them dip just beneath the fabric before snapping it playfully against his skin. Your mouth pressed featherlight kisses just above where he clearly wanted your attention most—around the deep grooves of his hips, his V-line flexing beneath every touch.

“Needy, needy,” you murmured, looking up at him with a smile. Peter met your gaze and nodded quickly, eyes wide and glazed with anticipation.

Satisfied, you tugged his briefs down slowly, deliberately, the fabric clinging to him for a moment before releasing. His cock sprang free with a soft slap, brushing against your cheek again as it smacked lightly against your skin. You didn’t flinch—just grinned and held his gaze as you leaned in.

You licked a stripe from the base to the tip, your tongue warm and slow, tasting him, savoring the slight salt of his skin and the slick bead of precum gathered at the head. One hand wrapped gently around the base, gliding upward with an easy rhythm, thumb pressing just under the head to spread the wetness.

Peter let out a broken sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan. “Fuck—feels so good,” he panted, his voice rough, almost disbelieving.

You swirled your tongue around the head again before taking him into your mouth, slow and shallow at first, teasing. When you popped off with a soft, wet sound, your lips were slick, your eyes gleaming.

“Too much?” you asked with a smirk, thumb dragging over the tip again, spreading the wetness down his length to make your strokes smoother, slicker.

“No,” he groaned, voice pitching slightly. “Not even close.”

You dropped your head again and took him deeper, your mouth moving in tandem with your hand. One hand stayed at the base, twisting and gliding while your mouth worked up and down, the sounds between you filthy and soft, punctuated by the way his breath kept catching every time your tongue flicked just right.

Your other hand steadied on his thigh, fingers flexing into the muscle as you bobbed your head, a wet slide of mouth and breath and rhythm. Then you took him deeper, pushing forward until the tip hit the back of your throat and your gag reflex fluttered tight around him. Peter choked out a moan, his hand finding your hair and curling into it gently—not guiding, just needing something to hold.

“Shit—I’m gonna come if you keep—” he started, voice cracking.

You pulled off with a loud pop, replacing your mouth with your hand in a slow, teasing stroke. “Not yet,” you murmured, thumb sweeping under the head again. “Wanna make it last.”

Peter let out a ragged exhale, his hips twitching at the torturous pace. “You’re killing me,” he said, brushing the hair from your face with a hand that shook slightly.

“Don’t want you to come yet,” you repeated softly, stroking him just slow enough to keep him right on the edge. “Wanna say sorry.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“Thought I’d make it up to you.”

Peter laughed, breathless and wrecked. “Okay… how you gonna do that?”

You paused your movements. “Got a condom?”

His eyes widened slightly. He blinked up at you like his brain short-circuited. “Shit—I don’t think I do.”

You made a thoughtful hum and started stroking him again, slow and steady, watching the way his head fell back with a soft curse. “I’m on birth control,” you said after a beat. “I’m good with it if you are.”

“Fuck, yeah. I’ll pull out,” he managed, already lifting his hips into your hand like he couldn’t help himself.

You nodded, then gently pushed him back so he was more reclined against your pillows. His legs opened for you automatically, and you climbed into his lap, knees on either side of his hips. You looked down at him, flushed and messy and wide-eyed beneath you.

His chest rose and fell quickly, hands gripping your hips like he needed you close, needed you now, just as much as you needed him. You leaned in, your forehead resting lightly against his as your breaths mingled in the narrow space between your mouths. Peter’s eyes fluttered shut as your fingers curled between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance.

And then, you sank down.

The stretch was overwhelming in the best way, your breath catching, a broken moan slipping past your lips before you could stop it. Peter didn’t bother holding his in—his head dropped back slightly, an unrestrained groan spilling out as his hands gripped your hips like he didn’t know what else to hold onto.

“Fuck, baby,” he mumbled, already breathless.

You bottomed out slowly, adjusting, your thighs trembling slightly as your walls fluttered around him. He filled you so completely it made your vision haze at the edges, the fullness dizzying, all-consuming. You paused for a beat, chest pressed to his, trying to breathe through it—and then you started to move, lifting your hips just enough before rolling back down again, setting a rhythm that built gradually.

The friction was heady, your breath coming hot against his jaw as you moved. Your hands found purchase on his shoulders, nails digging in slightly for balance. Peter’s grip tightened, guiding you as your thighs started to tremble from the effort.

You leaned forward instinctively, letting your weight fall onto him as you kept riding him—your breasts bouncing just in front of his face, his mouth finding them without hesitation. His lips wrapped around your nipple, tongue flicking against it, and it made your back arch as a gasp ripped from your throat.

“Peter,” you breathed, nails raking lightly down his arms, “you feel so good—”

Your movements started to falter slightly, your legs beginning to burn, pace slipping, but Peter noticed immediately. He let out a low chuckle, hands steadying you before he took control. With a quick shift, he started thrusting up into you, using his grip on your hips to drive himself deeper.

You clenched around him involuntarily, and he swore under his breath. Then, without a word, he wrapped his arms around you and flipped you over effortlessly. The mattress shifted beneath your back, cool air licking across your sweat-slicked skin as he settled above you, never pulling out. He adjusted your leg around his shoulder, the new angle making your breath hitch as he began to thrust again—harder now, deeper, more precise.

“Oh my fucking God—” you choked, fingers reaching to brace against the sheets.

Peter’s hand found your breast again, instinctively, like muscle memory. His hips snapped into yours, cock hitting that perfect spot with each stroke. The sounds in the room were obscene—skin against skin, the wet slap of your bodies, the breathy moans and curses between you.

Your fingers fumbled for his free hand and guided it up to your throat, your eyes locking with his as your mouth parted on a shaky moan. He raised an eyebrow, a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice low and rough as his hand curled around your throat—not tight, but just enough to hold you there.

You nodded, words slurring through the haze. “‘M close. So close. Please—don’t stop.”

Peter groaned, the sound guttural, desperate. “God, I can feel you. You’re so fucking tight when you’re like this.”

Your body tightened instinctively, your hips meeting his thrusts with renewed urgency. “Right there—just like that—fuck—Peter—”

Your back arched off the bed as your orgasm crested, white-hot and crashing. Your vision blurred, the breath caught in your chest as you came, stars bursting behind your eyelids. Peter’s hand slipped from your throat to cradle your jaw as you came undone beneath him.

“That’s it,” he whispered, thrusts slowing just slightly. “So beautiful when you come. Wanted to see this—wanted to see you like this—”

You were still catching your breath when he pulled out suddenly, his chest rising and falling fast. He stroked himself quickly, barely lasting another second before he spilled across your stomach, thick and hot. He let out a guttural sound as his climax overtook him, jaw slack, brows drawn together in pure bliss.

His hand moved slowly, pumping every last drop out onto your skin before his wrist fell limp at his side. He collapsed next to you a moment later, still panting, cheeks flushed.

You looked down at the mess on your stomach and laughed weakly, chest heaving. “I am covered.”

Peter turned his head to look at you, still flushed and blinking like he was coming back into his body. A crooked grin tugged at his lips. “Yeah, uh… my bad,” he said, voice still hoarse with leftover arousal. Then, gently, he leaned in and kissed your shoulder—light, tender, almost reverent. “Give me a second. Pretty sure I just astral projected.”

You turned your head toward him, smiling sleepily as you reached over and brushed your fingertips against his. He didn’t hesitate to lace his fingers through yours, both of you quiet for a beat, just lying there in the soft afterglow.

Eventually, Peter stirred, dragging himself upright with a groan that made you giggle. He shuffled toward your hamper, grabbing a clean towel from the shelf on the way, and returned to clean you up. His touch was gentle, his expression focused in that way he always got when he was doing something for you—like even wiping you down with a towel to clean off his mess was a task he wanted to do right.

As he tossed the towel into the laundry basket, you caught sight of another one already in there—two now. One from two nights ago, and now a fresh addition. Your nose wrinkled in disgust at the thought: two dirty cum towels sitting in the same hamper as the rest of your clothes. Yeah, it was definitely time to do laundry.

Peter tugged on his briefs and reached down to scoop up the scattered clothes from the floor, tossing your shirt and underwear toward you in an underhand throw that made you yelp when you caught them awkwardly.

“Here, thought you might want these back,” he said with a smirk.

You slipped them on quickly, the cotton clinging slightly to your warm skin. As soon as you were dressed, Peter climbed back into bed like it was the most natural thing in the world and curled around you without hesitation, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t stand to have you more than an inch away.

You pressed your hips closer, draped an arm across his waist, and tangled your legs with his. Every inch of you touching like you were afraid you might float away if he let go.

His fingers drew soft, aimless circles on your bare hip, his voice low and lazy. “I like this.”

“Me too,” you murmured.

“Can you spoon me now?”

You blinked. “What?”

“C’mon,” he said, already grinning as he rolled over to face away from you. “You’re warm. I wanna be the little spoon.”

You laughed but didn’t argue. You rolled over and curled yourself around him from behind, your arm slung loosely over his middle, eliciting a sigh like he had just come home after a long day of work.

But now that you were facing the rest of your room, the warmth of the moment was slightly dulled by what you saw. Your room looked like a crime scene.

“Peter,” you said, poking his back, “this place is a disaster.”

Your voice cut through the soft hum of the room like a sigh—less annoyed and more resigned. You sat up slowly, your arm dragging off his chest, and scanned the wreckage: blankets half on the floor, your comforter bunched at the end of the bed, flour still clinging faintly to the floorboards like ghosts of cookies past. A pair of socks hung off your desk lamp, and a suspicious smear of frosting glistened faintly on your nightstand from two nights ago. You didn’t even remember putting frosting there.

Peter followed your gaze, blinking blearily as his curls flopped into his eyes. He sat up beside you, rubbing a hand over his face as he looked around at the room with a sheepish squint. “Yeah… I didn’t wanna say anything, but.”

“And the kitchen’s still trashed,” you groaned, sitting up slowly, pushing hair out of your face. 

Peter sat up beside you, his curls even more chaotic than before. “I mean… to be fair, we were distracted.”

“Yeah, you distracted me.”

“And I’d do it again,” he said with a wink.

You rolled your eyes but smiled as you pulled on a hoodie over your shirt. “C’mon. If I don’t start now, it’s just gonna keep piling up.”

“I’ll do the kitchen,” Peter offered, already standing and stretching his arms over his head. “You go handle the laundry.”

You nodded, yawning into your sleeve as you moved toward the overflowing laundry hamper in the corner. There were clothes—mostly yours, but definitely a hoodie of Peter’s in there too—and the two towels that you really didn’t want to think about.

You gathered the towels, added a few stray shirts and underwear, and started a load of laundry in the closet just off the hallway. As the machine rumbled to life, you stood in front of it for a beat, arms crossed, zoning out to the familiar low thud of the cycle kicking in.

The kitchen, you realized as you stepped back into it, had already started to take on the clean, warm smell of dish soap and hot water. Peter, still half-naked, was elbow-deep in the sink, scrubbing at a mixing bowl like it had personally wronged him. There were flour smudges still on the counter, and sprinkles glittered faintly under the cabinets like spilled confetti, but the kitchen was slowly becoming recognizable again. He hummed something under his breath as he worked—off-key and low, probably not realizing he was doing it—and had that slight furrow between his brows he always got when he was focused.

You leaned against the doorway for a second, watching him. There was something stupidly endearing about seeing Peter in your kitchen like that, arms wet, curls flopping, serious as ever about stacking clean bowls into the dishwasher. It almost made you forget the ache that had settled in your chest after he left that night and the way your parents had looked at you the next morning like you were breaking apart.

Your train of thought was interrupted by a sharp ding.

The sound cut through the quiet like a dropped fork. It was followed by another chime, then a third. You and Peter both froze, instinctively looking toward the counter where your phones were sitting side by side.

Peter’s hands paused mid-scrub, water dripping off his knuckles as he glanced over his shoulder at you.

You raised an eyebrow, wiping your hands on your shorts absently as you padded over to the counter. Your phone was lit up. Notifications stacked on top of one another.

“Huh,” you murmured, reaching for it.

And then—still not quite thinking—you picked it up to see what it said.

Liz: hiiii we should hang before we leave again!

Liz: i can host for nye

Liz: but i also wanted white elephant for a late xmas thing! thoughts???

You stood in the kitchen, barefoot and pantless, floor warm beneath your toes from the sun slipping through the blinds. Your phone buzzed again in your palm, the group chat lighting up with heart reacts and thumbs-ups. Your thumb hovered over the screen, debating a reply, when you felt arms wrap around your waist from behind—familiar and easy now.

Peter leaned in, peering over your shoulder. His chin rested lightly against your temple, his breath warm as he read the message.

“Liz again?” he asked.

You hummed. “She’s trying to get us all slobbered again.”

He made a noise in his throat. “Is Flash going?”

You gave him a dry look. “Of course he’s going.”

Peter groaned. “Do you think it’s too late to fake a concussion?”

You snorted, setting your phone down on the counter as you turned in his arms. “C’mon. It’ll be funny. We don’t have to stay long.”

“Only if you promise not to abandon me,” he said, eyes soft but teasing.

You slid your hands up his chest, fingertips settling just over the steady beat of his heart. “Not planning on it.”

For a moment, you just stayed there, quiet, letting the silence stretch before pulling back slightly to look at him.

“Mmm,” you hummed, trailing your fingers up the back of his neck, slow and absentminded. “Still waiting on that dramatic love confession. Y’know, the one spelled out in webs across the Manhattan skyline.”

Peter tilted his head like he was considering it, eyes playful. “Tempting. But if I go that public, someone might try to steal you.”

You raised a brow. “Oh yeah? Like who?”

“I don’t know,” he said, all faux-casual as he brushed his nose against yours. “An Avenger?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “As if you're not an Avenger.”

His smile widened at that, and you leaned in just a little, voice softer now. “I’m not going anywhere, Peter.”

Peter looked at you then and for a moment, the kitchen felt impossibly still. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs brushing slowly against the hem of your sweatshirt, and his eyes, soft and a little awed, didn’t move from yours.

“Good,” he said finally. “Because I don’t think I could let you.”

You didn’t say anything, just leaned in and kissed him again—slower this time, deeper, like a promise. Your stomach fluttered and your heart kicked up against your ribs, but instead of trying to suppress it like you always did, you let it rise, let it spread.

Because this time, it felt safe to want something. Because this time, you wanted him and for once, that wasn’t terrifying—it was everything.

You weren’t in a rush to leave. You’d only stayed back for Betty, mostly. It felt wrong to let her suffer the last final alone, especially after the semester you’d both had. And maybe a little because Peter was still around too, lingering on campus even though his finals had ended a week ago. He claimed it was because of his internship—some end-of-semester wrap-ups, nothing too exciting. You didn’t question it.

The night after your unexpected run-in with Spider-Man, you texted Peter about it—partly because it felt too surreal not to share, and partly because you told him everything now.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard longer than usual, trying to decide how to phrase it without sounding like you were fishing for a reaction, even though you kind of were. It had been late, and you figured he’d be asleep already, so you assumed you wouldn’t get an immediate response. 

You: ur never gonna believe who i just ran into

You expected at least a hint of excitement when you woke up. Curiosity. Maybe even a joke. But all you got was one single, half-asleep line:

Peter: who?

You blinked.

You: fucking spider man

Peter: oh yeah?

Peter: that’s cool

You: can u believe it

You: we deadass spoke for like 20 minutes

You: do u think he goes here lmao

Peter: who knows

Peter: i thought he was middle aged

You stared at the screen, waiting for… more. Anything. His tone was so indifferent, so completely unmoved, it genuinely threw you off.

“Cool.”

Like you’d mentioned seeing a guy in a banana costume or watched a squirrel steal a slice of pizza. It was such a non-reaction that it left you blinking at your screen in confusion. Before you could even follow up, he changed the subject entirely. Something about it being the last grilled cheese Sunday of the semester and asking you to accompany him.

Now, three days later, the dining halls were shuttered, the grilled cheese was a memory, and Betty was finally free. Her last final had left her half-conscious, mumbling about ionic bonds and a dystopian short story in the same breath, but she’d still managed to pack her suitcase with the militant precision of someone trying to flee the country. You were set to leave with her as soon as she finished taping the last zipper, but there was one more thing you needed to do first.

Peter’s dorm wasn’t far—just across the quad and down a side path. A three-minute walk if you weren’t dragging a suitcase behind you, five if you were. The wheels knocked rhythmically over the salted pavement, loud in the early afternoon quiet, like the sidewalk was offering commentary you didn’t ask for. His building loomed up ahead, identical to yours in every way except for the cracked light over the front entrance that still hadn’t been fixed.

You buzzed in and made your way up the narrow stairs, the air inside warm and slightly stale, thick with the scent of end-of-semester takeout and industrial-strength cleaning spray. The hall leading to his room was quieter than usual, most of the doors propped open to reveal stripped beds and overflowing trash bags, echoes bouncing off tile. You reached his door and knocked twice.

When he opened the door, it looked like he’d just rolled out of bed—shirt on inside out, hair a mess, and eyes puffy.

“Hi,” you said, too brightly. The cheer in your voice landed wrong even to your own ears—too sing-song, too forced—and your smile felt a little too stretched, like your face hadn’t gotten the memo that something was off. You weren’t even trying to be fake; you were just excited to see him. And maybe a little nervous. You didn’t know which part made your grin feel more like a reflex than a real thing.

“Hey,” Peter said back, voice flat, like he was still buffering or trying to remember how greetings worked. He offered something close to a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and it definitely didn’t stick. 

You stood there in the threshold for a second too long, purse in one hand, the other gripping the handle of your suitcase, unsure if you were waiting for him to step aside or say something else or maybe just act like he wanted you there.

“Am I… allowed in?” you asked, only half-joking.

He blinked like you’d startled him, rubbed the back of his neck, and shuffled backward to give you space.

“Yeah. No, yeah. Come in,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact, his voice a little too casual in that way that only drew more attention to how not-casual he was being. The air between you felt heavier than usual—denser, muted, like the frequency had shifted and neither of you had adjusted your tuning.

“I’m leaving with Betty soon,” you said, stepping inside like the floor might vanish beneath you if you moved too fast. “Just wanted to see you before I left.”

You kept your tone light, but there was a waver under it that didn’t go unnoticed—not by you, and not by him. You rocked on your heels slightly, trying to make it feel like a normal visit, like you weren’t suddenly aware of how weird this was.

Peter nodded, lips pressing into a tight line. “Okay. Get back safe.”

That was it. No “we should hang soon.” No kiss. Not even a hug. Just a flat, dismissive kind of farewell that felt like a hand closing a door in your face. You stared at him for a second, eyes narrowing as the silence dragged out longer than it should’ve.

“You good?” you asked, finally, voice gentler now. Less teasing, more concerned.

He looked up, startled by the question like you’d pulled it out of nowhere. “Yeah. I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

​​“I dunno,” you said, shrugging a shoulder. “You just seem kinda… unbothered.” You huffed a quiet laugh, aiming for light. “Thought I at least cracked the top five people you’d pretend to miss.”

Peter’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, not quite. “Sorry. I’m just really tired,” he said, and you could tell he meant it, even if it wasn’t the full story. “Been up late working on some stuff for Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner. Lab projects and… yeah.”

He scratched the side of his jaw, eyes flicking down to your suitcase and then back up again. “Text me when you get back safe?”

You nodded, adjusting your grip on your bag. “Okay.”

There was a beat. Another moment where it felt like you should say something, or maybe he should. Like there was a thread hanging loose between you and neither of you could tell whether to pull it or let it dangle.

“You can talk to me,” you added quietly. “If something’s wrong. You know that, right?”

He glanced at you then, just for a second, and his expression flickered—as if something slipped through the cracks before he caught it and tucked it away again. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

You gave him a small smile that felt more like a peace offering than anything else. “Alright,” you said, voice soft. “See you.”

“Later.”

The word felt empty like an afterimage of something that should’ve had weight. You turned without another glance, your suitcase wheels squeaking faintly on the cheap tile as you headed down the hall toward the elevator. And it wasn’t until you were halfway down the corridor that you realized what the silence had reminded you of.

It felt like leaving a room you hadn’t realized had already been emptied.

The train ride home was quieter than usual. Betty was curled up beside you, her head resting on her scarf against the window, but she cracked an eye open eventually, sensing the shift in your energy like she always did.

"You’re quiet. Despite just seeing your boyfriend," she said, eyes still closed.

You shrugged with a sigh, watching the city bleed past in smudges of light through the window. "Am I supposed to be over the moon about not seeing him for break?"

"You’re acting like you’re not gonna hang out while you’re home.” she paused and sat up straight. “Are you not?"

“...I don’t know.”

Betty turned fully toward you, frowning now. “Girl. You live, like, what—ten minutes apart? You’ve literally walked to each other’s places before.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just…” You exhaled. “Things feel off.”

“Off like... something happened? Or off like you’re in your head about it?”

“I don’t know. We said goodbye and it felt weird.”

Betty narrowed her eyes. “Did you guys fight?”

“No? It’s just… he wasn’t acting like himself. Or like how he usually is with me.”

“Maybe he’s stressed?” she offered. 

“Maybe,” you echoed, not convinced.

Betty watched you for a moment longer, then reached out and squeezed your leg. “It’s probably nothing. You guys like each other a lot and that doesn’t just go away.”

You didn’t answer right away. The words caught in your throat like a too-large pill.

She peered at you. “Have you said it yet?”

“Said what?”

“You know. That you love each other.”

You nearly choked. "Betts. No. Jeez. We’re not—we’re not there… yet."

She huffed and flopped back in her seat. "You’re killing me. I’ve already planned our matching weddings."

"I’m so sorry to disappoint."

The rest of the ride blurred into a stream of chatter and changing scenery. She talked about the weddings, about what she was gonna order for dinner, about seeing Ned that night and crying in his arms like they’d been apart for years instead of days. You let her talk and smiled when appropriate, but something about the way Peter hadn’t looked you in the eye was stuck in your chest like a stone.

When you finally hugged her goodbye and started the walk home, your limbs felt heavier than they should. Your room looked the same, smelled the same, the bed even creaked the same when you collapsed into it—but none of it felt right. The ceiling above you used to feel high and open. Now it pressed down. And for some reason, the image that kept flashing behind your eyes wasn’t of your house, or Betty, or your suitcase still half-zipped on the floor.

It was Peter, standing in the middle of his dorm like a stranger.

Something had changed.

And you couldn’t figure out when.

You hated how awkward things had gotten. The quiet, the space. The way everything that used to feel easy now felt like navigating a room in the dark, hands outstretched and still bumping into walls. You’d always been a big believer in communication—Peter knew that. Even before things had shifted between you, before the lines blurred into something less easily defined, you’d been open with him. About everything. He knew you didn’t like guessing games. He knew that if something was wrong, you’d say it.

So this? The silence? It wasn’t you. And the worst part was not knowing what changed. You kept retracing your steps, combing through every conversation, every look, every joke you might’ve misread, but you came up empty. You hadn’t done anything. At least, nothing you could name, but Peter was different now anyway. He was distant in a way that didn’t feel like a fluke or bad timing—it felt intentional.

And maybe that’s what made it worse. Because if he was choosing to put space between you, then it wasn’t some misunderstanding. It was deliberate. And if he wasn’t going to give you a reason, then fine. You could be stubborn too.

You didn’t reach out much over break—not out of pettiness exactly, though that was part of it, but because your life got loud in other ways. Friends who hadn’t seen you in months. Family gatherings. Christmas shopping in overstuffed stores with tinny music blaring from ceiling speakers and long lines that gave you too much time to think. It wasn’t that you were avoiding him. It was just easier not to try, especially when he wasn’t trying either.

Still, even in all the chaos, the distance always crept back in at night. Lying in your bed with the lights off and your music playing low, the hum of your phone lighting your face, it would hit you all at once. That hollow feeling like something was supposed to be there and wasn’t. That’s when the questions started to spin—had you misread everything? Had you said too much, or not enough? Had you pushed too hard without meaning to?

You thought about that moment in his dorm before you left—how you’d told him you wanted to see him, without really explaining what you meant. It had slipped out, honest and quiet. And he hadn’t done anything with it. He hadn’t asked and he most definitely didn’t try to stop you when you left. He just let you go.

Peter wasn’t doing much better.

Like Betty said, you were only a few minutes apart, barely even a neighborhood away, but lately, it felt like you were on opposite ends of something much heavier than distance. Something too thick to see through and too quiet to fight.

He hated it too. The silence. The stillness. The absence of your voice in the middle of his day. The way everything had felt slower since you left. He kept thinking about the look on your face that night when he spoke with you on campus as Spider-Man. The way you’d said you’d been thinking, the way your voice had dipped just enough for him to wonder if it meant more. He’d gone over it a hundred times since, dissecting it like it was a riddle, trying to decode whether there had been something there or if he’d just imagined the weight in your words.

Peter had never been good with his emotions. He felt too much too fast and then shoved it all into a box he never planned to open. That was why he liked patrolling—moving, swinging, reacting. It made things feel manageable. Tangible. It kept him from spiraling. He tried to keep Mr. Stark’s advice in mind, tried to believe that this wasn’t as fragile as it felt—but he kept getting stuck in the same loop: what if he liked you more than you liked him? What if he liked you and you didn’t see him that way? What if what mattered to him was just… a phase to you?

He hadn’t tried to see you since you left, not because he didn’t want to—God, he wanted to—but because he didn’t know how to reach for you without feeling like he was overstepping. As if he was asking for more than he had any right to ask for because you weren’t together. But he remembered how your hand found his under the blanket that night in the same bed he was in now. How you’d slept curled against him like his heartbeat kept you grounded. That had to mean something.

Right?

He tried to distract himself. He spent most of break at May’s, running errands she didn’t ask for, picking up groceries, reorganizing the hall closet like it might give him clarity. He watched too many movies, did half a puzzle, him and Ned helped MJ hang lights in her apartment when she threatened to do it with a folding chair if no one helped. But his mind always drifted.

Always back to you.

To your breath on his shoulder in the dark. To the way you laughed when he made fun of candle names. To the way your expression faltered just slightly before you told him you were fine. He didn’t know how to fix it or even if it was his to fix. All he knew was that something was different, and the space it left behind was starting to feel permanent.

It wasn’t until nearly a week later that he finally broke. He stared at his phone for ten straight minutes before typing anything.

Peter: you home

You: yeah

You: why?

Peter: was gonna see if i could come over

Peter: got you something

He reread your texts more than he’d admit. There weren’t many. But still—he knew them by heart now. Waiting for your response was torture. He half-expected a no.

You: my parents won’t be back tn

You: so sure

Peter: cool

Peter: be there in 15

He told himself he was trying to seem casual, but his hand was already on his coat before you even responded. He didn’t want to make it a big thing since he just wanted to see you. To sit across from you and breathe the same air for a little while. 

4:21 p.m.

He grabbed his shoes.

May was folding towels, humming along to some old Stevie Wonder song playing faintly from her phone speaker. She looked up just as he grabbed a box of chocolates from the kitchen counter.

“You going somewhere?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging on his jacket. “Just heading over to a friend’s.”

She raised an eyebrow, didn’t even pause in folding. “The friend?”

Peter hesitated, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”

May grinned but didn’t press. “Tell her I say hi.”

He didn’t answer and just ducked his head and pulled his hood up over his curls, cheeks warm despite the chill. He grabbed the wrapped, gold box of chocolates he’d packed earlier that afternoon and slipped out the front door, the soft click of it shutting behind him echoing a little louder than he’d expected.

The air outside was sharp and dry, biting at his cheeks and the tip of his nose, and the sky was already darkening into that soft slate gray that the city always seemed to wear this time of year. The streets were quieter than usual, the city in its pre-Christmas hush, lights blinking from apartment windows and holiday music trickling from a few open shops. He walked block after block hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold. It gave him time to think, not that it helped much. His thoughts were loud, jittery, and full of what-ifs and maybe-you’re-not-ready and why-did-I-wait-this-long.

By the time he reached your building, his fingers were stiff with cold. He rubbed a thumb over the side of the small box tucked under his arm, like it might steady his nerves.

He’d planned on getting you a Christmas gift, of course—but after the weird silence between you two, showing up empty-handed felt worse than usual. He hadn’t wanted to overdo it. Flowers felt like too much. Jewelry was definitely too weird—not that he even knew if you liked gold or silver, or what kind of styles, or sizes, or anything, really. So he’d landed on something simple, small, and safe. He figured chocolates would be sweet enough and maybe said all the things he hadn’t figured out how to say out loud yet.

I missed you.

I hope you’re okay.

I care. Probably more than I should.

He shifted the box, adjusted his coat, and knocked.

The sound of your footsteps was faint but familiar, and when the door opened, you were standing there—lit from behind by the soft glow of the hallway light, wrapped in something oversized and warm, eyes wide like you hadn’t fully believed he was coming until he was standing right in front of you.

“Hi,” he said, voice quiet, almost sheepish. He offered a small smile—gentle, cautious—like he wasn’t entirely sure he was welcome.

“Hey, Peter.” You stepped back and gestured him inside, your own smile slow to form, but real. The warmth of your house greeted you both as the door clicked shut behind him, muffling the outside world. He hesitated in the entryway, shaking off the cold, while you reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear—more out of nervous habit than necessity.

Your eyes flicked down to the box in his hands.

Peter noticed immediately and shifted, extending it toward you with both hands like it might tip over if he wasn’t careful. “For you,” he said, his voice low and unguarded, laced with sincerity beneath the awkward delivery.

You stared at the box for a second too long, arms crossed loosely as if you were still deciding what kind of moment this was going to be. Then you looked back at him, expression unreadable.

“What’s this for?” you asked, not accusatory, but measured.

He glanced down, then licked his lips, trying to find the right balance of lighthearted and real.

“I just…” His eyes flicked up to yours. “Realized I was being weird. And dry. And kind of an ass. And we haven’t really talked. So I got you a ‘sorry I was being an emotionally constipated idiot’ apology gift.”

A short laugh escaped you, and some of the tension in your shoulders softened. You looked down at the poorly wrapped box again—wrinkled edges, tape struggling to keep the ends down—and bit back a smile.

“Well,” you said, tone dry, “glad you’re self-aware.”

“I’ve been working on it,” he replied, just as dry.

There was a beat.

“I started thinking it was me.”

Peter shook his head immediately. “You’re perfect and can do no wrong, yes, I know,” he cut in, deadpan, parroting the exact phrase you always used when you were being playfully cocky.

That made you smile for real.

There was a small pause before your voice softened. “Thank you.” It came out quieter than you meant, but still full.

“Of course,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You do know I plan on eating some of them too, right? This wasn’t a totally selfless act.”

“I figured this was more of a ‘sorry to me’ gift for you.”

“You caught me,” he said with a crooked grin.

You led the way into the kitchen, the overhead lights bright and cozy against the cool-toned holiday decorations strung up in the corners. A candle flickered on the counter, something warm and cinnamon-spiced filling the air. Peter trailed behind you, hands in his pockets, looking like he wasn’t sure if he should sit or hover.

You set the box down on the island, peeled off the wrapping, and lifted the lid. Inside was a neat array of too-fancy chocolates.

“How’s your break been?” he asked as you studied the flavors.

You shrugged, squinting at the label. “Fine. Busy. You know I love Christmas shopping.”

“Am I allowed to ask how much you’ve spent or are you gonna lie about that?”

“Sir, I’d like to plead the fifth,” you said, plucking out a dark chocolate truffle filled with raspberry puree. You popped it into your mouth and your eyes widened the moment you bit down. “Oh, fuck—this one’s so good. Try one, Peter,” you managed to say around a mouthful, covering your mouth with your hand as you chewed.

Peter laughed, grabbed one of the same, and immediately made the exact same face. “Damn, yeah. Good job, me.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Wanna make sugar cookies for Santa?”

He raised a brow. “How’s he supposed to get them? You don’t have a chimney.”

“I have a fireplace,” you countered.

“It’s electric.”

“Santa has his ways, Peter. You’re just bitter because you’re on the naughty list.”

“Nuh uh. I’ve been on the top of his nice list for years, just so you know.”

You shook your head and moved to grab bowls and mixing utensils, opening the cabinets with practiced ease. Peter stepped in beside you without asking, opening cabinets and pulling random ingredients off the shelf.

“My parents are at a friend’s place tonight,” you said, measuring out flour while Peter unwrapped a stick of butter. “And we’re going to my grandparents’ tomorrow, so I figured I’d make cookies for them while I still had a clean kitchen.”

“Am I being forced into this?” Peter asked dryly, though he was already rolling up his sleeves.

“I locked the doors, so you’re trapped in here,” you said with a shrug, turning your back to him as you reached for the cookie cutters.

The kitchen was awash in warm, golden light from the overheads and the soft glow of the candles burning along the windowsill. A low hum of holiday jazz played from the speaker on the counter, muffled slightly by the sounds of flour being sifted, utensils clinking, and the quiet rhythm of two people falling into sync without needing to speak much.

The scent of vanilla and sugar quickly filled the air, dusted into every corner like powdered snow. You moved around each other with casual familiarity, brushing shoulders occasionally, sharing glances over the rim of the mixing bowl. The dough came together slowly. Your hands brushed again when you both reached for the same cookie cutter but he let you take it.

Flour dusted the countertops, your clothes, your hair. You weren’t even trying to stay clean anymore.

Once the cookies were finally laid out in careful rows on the baking tray, you slid them into the oven, both crouching down instinctively to watch through the tiny fogged-up window. The heat from the oven seeped against your faces, making your cheeks glow as the shapes began to slowly expand and rise—softening at the edges, darkening just slightly as the sugar caramelized. You watched them, side by side, knees brushing, close enough to breathe the same quiet air while exchanging jokes or comments here and there

When they were done, the smell was heavenly. You transferred the delicate cookies to a rack to cool, and Peter pulled out the frosting and sprinkles you’d left on the counter.

The decorating was slower, messier. You dipped a knife into the frosting, spreading it carefully over one of the tree-shaped cookies, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Peter followed your lead, though his cookies looked uglier—over-iced, haphazardly sprinkled, too much red in places where green probably made more sense. You didn’t tell him that because he looked too proud.

At one point, while you were carefully swirling a bit of white frosting over a snowman’s hat, you caught him staring at you from across the counter.

You blinked, half-smiling. “What?”

“Hold still,” he murmured as he reached out. His thumb brushed gently over the tip of your nose, wiping away a smudge of frosting you hadn’t realized was there. The touch was light, but it left something in its wake. Your eyes met his and stayed there, neither of you speaking for a second too long.

“Had a little something,” he added, smirking as he licked a tiny smear of frosting off the pad of his thumb.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

Peter’s hand dropped back to the counter. You looked down, suddenly aware of how warm your cheeks were for a reason that had nothing to do with the oven.

Then, still avoiding his eyes, you picked up a half-decorated gingerbread man and held it out to him.

“You gonna help me finish these, or just keep staring?”

“Keep staring,” he replied like it was the obvious choice.

You snorted under your breath, but looked at him fully then. It hit you all at once: how much you’d missed him. In the quiet comfort of standing beside him. In how he smelled like sugar now, and a little like the laundry detergent you love. You missed his voice in your ear and his hands on your waist and how he curled around you like he was scared you'd disappear just a week prior.

Your eyes flickered to his mouth before you could stop yourself and then back up to his eyes.

Peter stepped toward you like something magnetic had finally pulled him in, and the moment before his lips touched yours felt thick with held breath. When he kissed you, it was slow and gentle, like he was trying to apologize without words or asking if it was still okay.

You answered without hesitation. A soft sound in the back of your throat escaped and the way your hand tugged lightly at the edge of his hoodie made him smile into the kiss. 

He kissed you like you were something to be handled carefully. His hands didn’t grip or grab, but instead held you steadily. He tasted like buttercream and cinnamon and something warm you couldn’t name.

When you finally pulled back, Peter blinked at you, then glanced down at the smear of flour still on your apron. “I think I have frosting in my eyebrow,” he murmured.

You laughed—light, breathless. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure I have flour in my bra.”

Peter’s eyes flicked down, slow and deliberate. “Want me to check?”

You shot him a look, grinning. “Pretty sure you’ve got an ulterior motive.”

He shrugged, all mock-innocence and that crooked little smile. “Hey, I’m just trying to assess the situation. Can’t make a call without a full inspection.”

“Shut up,” you muttered through your smile, batting him lightly on the chest with the back of your hand.

The two of you stood there for a moment, surveying the flour-dusted disaster zone that had once been your kitchen. Bowls were stacked like abstract art, measuring spoons forgotten under streaks of powdered sugar, and sprinkles decorated every surface like confetti from a party neither of you had realized you were throwing.

“I’m gonna have to deep clean this apartment,” you murmured, dragging your sleeve across the counter. A small puff of flour rose like it was laughing at you.

Peter leaned back against the fridge, arms crossed, something sweet still smudged along his jawline. “Honestly? There’s probably flour in your sheets from when you ran in to get your speaker.”

You groaned, scrubbing at your face. “Shit, you’re right. There probably is.”

He tilted his head, trying to suppress a smile. “Guess we better go check that too, huh?”

You turned to him slowly, one brow raised. “You’re about as subtle as a car alarm.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, “it’s working.”

His hands found your waist like they belonged there. He kissed your jaw first, then lower—closer to your neck, where your pulse jumped under his mouth. You didn’t mean to lean into him, but your body moved on instinct, your hand catching the back of his hoodie like muscle memory.

“You’re such a little shit,” you muttered, though your grip tightened.

He laughed softly against your skin. “Takes one to know one.”

You didn’t register the moment your feet left the floor, only that his hands were under your thighs and your legs were around him, and suddenly he was carrying you—effortless, like he didn’t even need to think about it. He kissed you through the hallway, like he was following the shape of your mouth to get where he was going, and when your back hit the edge of the bed, it was only because he’d been too busy kissing you to notice you’d arrived.

“Fuck,” you muttered with a laugh as you pulled off your apron and tossed it aside. “It’s a crime scene in here now.”

Peter chuckled, standing above you as he pulled his hoodie over his head, revealing the soft stretch of his stomach before it disappeared under the hem of his T-shirt. “There’s flour on your pillow now,” he said, pointing, voice full of amusement.

“I’m gonna be finding sugar in weird places for days.”

“Then we gotta be careful, yeah?” Peter replied, tossing his hoodie onto your desk chair, then toeing off his socks before climbing onto the bed beside you. His jeans had smears of dough across the thighs and were already half undone, zipper halfway down like he’d forgotten about it mid-kiss.

“I think I do see some flour there.” Peter pointed down at your bra with a lopsided grin.

You glanced down, then back up at him with a smirk. “You gonna clean that up for me, Peter?”

“Anything for you.”

His voice dropped with the words. The pads of his fingers found the clasp at your back like he’d done it a hundred times before now. Your bra slipped away and the air changed—soft and thick, buzzing with something heavier than warmth. You shifted back on the bed, letting him settle between your legs. Both of you stripped down to your underwear, flushed and slightly breathless, the kitchen light spilling in through the cracked door, throwing long shadows across the room.

Peter’s gaze dragged over you, reverent in a way that made your stomach pull tight. His hand slid slowly along your thigh, thumb brushing the crease where your leg met your hip.

“You’re getting flour on my comforter,” you whispered, flicking a bit of sugar from your fingertip onto his shoulder.

He leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth. “I said I’d clean it.”

“You better,” you said, your voice barely there.

His mouth moved down your neck, over your collarbone, pausing to bite gently before soothing the spot with his tongue. His hand slipped lower, easing beneath the waistband of your underwear, fingers brushing over you like he already knew exactly how you wanted to be touched. You gasped when he found the right spot, hips twitching, and Peter smiled against your skin like he’d been waiting to hear that. He kissed down your chest, down your stomach, leaving flour-smudged fingerprints along your waist, and when he tugged your underwear off, it was with a care that felt closer to worship than urgency.

“Still think I’m not subtle?” he asked, voice low as he shifted further down.

“Shut up,” you whispered, not meaning it. Your hands were already in his hair. “Use that mouth of yours to good use.”

He nodded and his mouth replaced his fingers with a patience that made your chest ache. Slow, unhurried, like he wasn’t trying to get you off as much as he was trying to learn you—every twitch, every stuttered breath, every sound pulled from the back of your throat like he wanted to know what it meant. His tongue dragged in steady, careful circles, soft and wet and just right, and your thighs trembled around his head before you could even stop them.

Peter hummed like it pleased him, like your reaction fed something in him. His arms slid beneath your hips, pulling you closer with an ease that felt less like strength and more like devotion. Like he didn’t just want you, he needed you—closer, always closer. One of his hands gripped the back of your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin like he was grounding himself in the reality of it, of you, while the other splayed against your stomach to steady you against the slow build he was coaxing from you.

It was overwhelming. 

Your head tipped back into the pillow, eyes glassy and unfocused, your fingers still tangled in his hair—tugging slightly now, not to guide him, but because you needed something to hold onto. He kept glancing up through his lashes, pupils blown and jaw flexing with every subtle shift of his mouth. He didn’t look away, even when your lips parted around a gasp, even when your hips bucked slightly into his face. His gaze stayed on you like he needed to see it—see you come apart from the inside out.

And when your stomach clenched and that heat finally crested into something sharp and bright, you couldn’t stop the words from slipping out.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” you gasped, voice breaking around the words. “God, I missed you—so much—”

It came out low and wrecked, barely audible, not at all how you meant to say it. For a second, you froze, as if you could swallow it back down, but Peter didn’t stop.

If anything, he held you tighter. Slower now. Gentler, like he wanted to draw every last tremor out of you. And when it hit, it hit all at once. Your whole body curling in on itself, going soft in his hands, pulse thudding in your throat, your skin sparking like static beneath his touch.

You were still trembling when it passed, clinging to him, dazed and a little undone. That word—missed—still lingered on your tongue, like it had come from somewhere deeper. And you knew he’d heard it. He didn’t say anything, just kissed his way up your body, warm and slow, lips dragging over your skin like he couldn’t quite let go. When his mouth found yours again, you could taste yourself on his lips—but more than that, you felt it:

The softness in the way he touched your sides. The slight tremble in his exhale. The way he kissed you like he was trying to memorize it—your breath, your mouth, like he’d missed you, too.

Your hands trailed down his stomach, slow and deliberate, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his briefs. He gasped softly against your mouth, the sound quiet but gutting, and you smiled into the kiss as your hand wrapped around him.

He was already hard—aching, warm in your palm—and the moment you started to stroke him, slow and teasing, his hips jerked just slightly, his mouth parting in a low, unfiltered groan.

“Fuck. Keep going,” he mumbled against your jaw, voice gravel-soft and breathless, his hands skimming your sides like he didn’t know where to touch first. But you did. You touched everywhere.

He leaned in again, kissing you like he was dizzy with it, and his hand slipped back between your legs—familiar now, practiced in the way his fingers dragged over your clit, slow and soft and perfect. You whimpered at the contact, your thighs falling open like muscle memory, chasing the friction.

“Peter,” you breathed, voice catching somewhere between a gasp and a whine. “Fuck. Just—fuck me. Please. Need you.”

He froze, just for a second. Pulled back enough to see your face.

“Are you… are you sure?” he asked, and it wasn’t shy so much as awed.

You blinked up at him, lips parted, heart still racing from the afterglow. “Wait—sorry, not if you’re not—”

“No.” His voice was firm this time, steadier. “I want to. I just… gimme a sec.” He fumbled around for his jeans somewhere at the foot of the bed, breath shaky, and when he finally found what he was looking for, he held up the little silver foil packet.

You raised an eyebrow, biting back a grin. “So you came prepared.”

Peter’s ears flushed immediately. “I—uh. Yeah. Thought it might be… smart.”

Your brows lifted. “Smart?”

He cleared his throat. “You know. Just in case.”

“Where’d you even get it?” you teased, brushing a finger over his arm. “Didn’t know you were that kind of Boy Scout.”

Peter huffed, eyes darting away like he was reconsidering every life choice that led him here. “It was a gift.”

Your eyes narrowed. “A gift?”

He nodded, clearly regretting saying anything.

“From who?”

He hesitated just a beat too long.

“…Peter,” you warned, smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Who gifted you condoms?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Mr. Stark.”

You blinked. Then blinked again. “You’re telling me Tony Stark gave you condoms.”

“He—he noticed a huge hickey you gave me. And he got weird about it and then threw a whole bunch in my bag.”

You stared at him, then snorted. “So these are the newest Stark Industries inventions?”

Peter groaned, already bracing himself.

“And we’re the lucky test subjects?” you added, voice teasing as you let your fingers trail lightly down his arm.

“Please don’t say that while I’m holding it,” he muttered, ears burning.

You laughed, soft and breathless, the heat between you crackling again as your hand slid to his cheek, thumb brushing over the flushed skin there.

“Then,” you murmured, lips ghosting just beneath his ear, “fuck me so hard I forget.”

That knocked the air out of him. He let out a rough sound and his hands were already gripping your waist, tugging you underneath him like he couldn’t hold himself back anymore.

“Yeah?” he breathed, tearing the foil open with trembling fingers. His eyes dragged up to meet yours—dark, hungry, flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. “Gonna make you forget everything but me.”

He leaned in, hovering just over your mouth, his breath warm.

“Say my name.”

Your lips parted, breath catching in your throat.

“Peter,” you whispered, like it was a surrender.

His eyes darkened instantly, breath catching. “God, you make me so—” He didn’t finish the sentence, already fumbling for a foil packet with fingers just slightly too shaky.

You watched him, heartbeat fluttering, as he opened it with careful precision. His eyes flicked up to yours like he still couldn’t quite believe this was happening—like he was still trying to catch up to the fact that you wanted him, just like this. You reached up to brush his hair from his forehead, then gently took over when he struggled with the condom. You gave his cock a teasing lick on the way down and kissed the head softly before rolling it on. He let out a wrecked sound, hips twitching, chest rising like he’d sprinted here.

His breathing was already uneven, chest rising and falling like he’d run here, and when he leaned down to kiss you again, it was slow and full of something new—something deeper. You kissed him like you didn’t want to leave anything unsaid, like you wanted to swallow every trace of hesitation.

“You okay?” he whispered against your lips, voice taut with restraint. “Just—tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I want you,” you murmured, firmer than before. “Need you so fucking bad.”

The look on his face made your chest squeeze—like you’d knocked the wind out of him. He settled over you, gaze raking down your body, reverent. One hand slid between your thighs to part them while the other braced his weight, and he dragged his cock slowly along your wet cunt, teasing.

“Peter,” you gasped. “Fuck me. Please.”

He pushed in slow, careful, eyes locked on yours like he didn’t want to miss a single second of the way you came undone for him. When he bottomed out, he let out a shaky, open-mouthed sound that might’ve been your name.

“Shit,” he breathed, hips twitching once before he caught himself. “You feel so fucking good.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, hands splayed along his back and let out a guttural moan. “Please, Peter, just—fuck me.”

He obeyed, rocking into you in steady, deep thrusts, one hand coming up to cup your breast while the other clutched your waist. His rhythm was slow, deliberate—like he wanted to feel everything. Like he wanted you to feel everything.

You moaned through gritted teeth, fingers flexing in his hair. “Touch me.”

Peter let out a soft groan, dipping his head to kiss along your neck, your collarbone, his hips rocking into you in slow, tentative rolls. Every thrust dragged another gasp from your lips, each one a little louder than the last. He was clearly trying to take it slow, but there was a reverence to it. Every movement felt full of care, of awe, like he couldn’t stop thinking this is you, this is us.

“Still good?” he murmured, lips brushing your skin.

You nodded, voice wrecked. “So fucking good. Fuck—don’t stop.”

His hands slid under your back to pull you closer, thrusts gaining purpose, more focused now.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, and it tumbled out before he could stop it. “Can’t believe you’re real. That you’re mine.”

You pulled his face down to kiss him again, wet and hot and a little desperate, your hips rolling to meet his now, slow and languid. Each thrust made your breath stutter, your moans soft but growing in urgency, your hands now in his hair again. He shifted slightly, adjusting the angle, and the next thrust dragged something sharp and bright through you—your back arched and a whimper spilled from your throat before you could stop it.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, adjusting the angle, driving deeper until you arched with a cry.

“There—fuck, there—don’t stop,” you begged, clutching at his shoulders.

He groaned low in his throat, his pace steady but intense now, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. His thrusts deepened, slow but purposeful now, every movement calculated to hit that spot again and again, and the tension in your stomach coiled tight. He pressed his forehead to yours as he continued to mumble sweet nothings into your ear, each time cutting himself off with another kiss, pouring everything into it.

You wrapped your arms tighter around him, letting yourself say all the little things you didn’t dare say out loud before this. Your breath caught, but then another thrust sent a wave crashing through you, and your body took over. Your voice caught in your throat, legs tightening around him, head falling back as everything blurred—your name, his breath, your whole body arched into him, pulsing around him as you came.

Peter cursed, hips stuttering, chasing his own release. When he came, it was with a guttural sound, your name falling from his lips like a secret. He thrust deep once more and stilled, panting against your skin, trembling just slightly and breathing hard against your cheek, before plopping down, partially on top of you.

You stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together, the air heavy and quiet. His skin was hot against yours, his hand resting over your heart like he couldn’t quite let go. Neither of you spoke for a moment, just tangled up in each other, hearts racing, skin warm and sticky and pressed together like you didn’t want the moment to end.

But eventually, Peter shifted. His arm curled tighter around your waist, the press of his chest warm against your back. He exhaled softly, lips brushing your shoulder.

“…You okay?”

You nodded against the pillow, voice barely above a murmur. “Yeah. You okay?”

He hummed, low and satisfied. “Better than okay.”

You felt him smile against your skin before he sat up carefully, reaching for the comforter kicked to the floor. He pulled it over both of you, then looked down, brushing a bit of hair from your cheek with a tenderness that made your throat ache.

“Here,” he said quietly. “Lie back.”

He disappeared for a moment and you heard him pad toward the bathroom. When he returned, he had a warm, damp washcloth and the softest look on his face like this—this—was the part that mattered most. He cleaned you gently, his touches featherlight.

Neither of you said much, just the quiet rush of breath, the faint ambient hum from the hallway light still bleeding in from the door. When he finished, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder before slipping his briefs back on and tossing the cloth into your laundry basket. You leaned on your elbow, watching him. His curls were mussed, his skin flushed and golden in the low light. There was a smear of flour still on his hip.

“You’ve got…” you gestured, a sleepy grin tugging at your lips.

He looked down, snorted, and tried brushing it off with the heel of his hand.

You rolled onto your back, groaning softly. “I’m gonna have to wash my sheets tonight.”

Peter climbed back into bed beside you, smiling, one arm flopping across your waist as he dropped a kiss to your cheek. “It was worth it, no?”

“Mhm.” you hummed into his skin.

You curled into his side, letting your leg drape over his. He was warm and solid and still a little out of breath.

“You think we should actually finished those cookies?” you mumbled against his chest.

His fingers traced lazy shapes over your bare arm. “Nah.”

You blinked up at him.

“I don’t wanna move. I wanna keep looking at you,” he said softly.

And then, quieter, “You’re so pretty.”

You rolled your eyes, though your chest stuttered.

“I’m serious,” he murmured. “You’re… perfect.”

Your stomach twisted.

Don’t do that, you wanted to say.

Don’t look at me like that.

Don’t say things like that.

But instead, you just swallowed, your fingers curling in the sheets.

“Stop,” you said lightly, voice pinched around the edges. “You’re making it weird.”

Peter blinked. “I—I’m not trying to. I just meant—”

“No, I know,” you cut in quickly, sitting up a little. “I just… we should get up.”

Peter frowned. “Why?”

“Because this is…” You shook your head, pressing your fingers to your temple. “God, I don’t know.”

He sat up slowly. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” You breathed in, then let it out through your nose. “You’re just too—”

You stopped.

Peter’s eyes searched your face. “Too what?”

“Too nice,” you said, and it came out sharper than you meant. “Too sweet. It makes everything harder.”

“What do you mean?”

You groaned, feeling your eyes warm and beginning to well with tears. “Why do you always make me say it?”

“Because I never know what you’re thinking.”

“Exactly. That’s the whole fucking problem,” you snapped, the sheet slipping down your chest. “You keep looking at me like I’m this—this perfect version of something. Like I’m not gonna ruin it. And I am. I already have. I’m a mess, Peter.”

Peter’s brow furrowed, hurt flickering across his face before he could hide it. “I know you’re a mess,” he said softly. “You think I don’t see you?”

You looked away. “I think you see what you want to see.”

He went quiet. Your chest was tight before you even breathed in again.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, the words tripping over themselves. “I didn’t mean that. I just—I don’t know how to say what I’m feeling without sounding like a bitch. Or without hurting you. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t call yourself that,” he said immediately, firm, his hand gently reaching up to wipe a tear threatening to spill.

“Well, I do. All the time. I’m mean to you without even meaning to be. I pick fights, I shut down, I pretend like I don’t care when I do, and you—you just keep being good to me and I don’t know how to handle that.”

Peter’s jaw clenched, but his voice was soft. “Maybe I’m good to you because I care about you.”

“Don’t,” you said quickly. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” he asked, his brows furrowed and you could see the hurt and confusion in his face, mirroring your own.

“Because this wasn’t supposed to mean anything!” you blurted, the words tumbling out faster than you could catch them. “It was supposed to be casual. Neither of us wanted this to get… weird. Just us fucking around. And now—now I don’t even know what we’re doing.”

Peter didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at you, his jaw tight, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

The silence stretched. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

“You think I don’t get that?” he said finally, voice low. Not sharp or defensive, just tired like every word cost him something.

You didn’t answer.

He ran a hand through his curls, exhaling hard through his nose like he was trying to steady something—his breathing, maybe. Or his voice. Or the part of himself that had gotten too close.

“Maybe I didn’t want to admit it,” he said finally. “That it was changing.”

You didn’t look at him. Your eyes fixed on the ceiling, on the faint trail of light from the hallway slipping in through the cracked door as you fought back the tears. “Yeah. Well. Me either.”

Your voice came out dull, flattened. Worn down by the weight of everything you didn’t want to say.

Peter didn’t answer right away. You felt him still beside you, felt the quiet shift in his breathing before he moved—slowly, gently untangling his arm from around your waist and sitting up. He pressed his palms to his thighs like he didn’t trust them to stay still otherwise, his bare back curving forward slightly, spine bowed with something that looked too much like resignation.

“Do you want me to go?”

It was soft. No edge to it. Just a quiet, careful question from someone who already knew the answer—or thought he did.

Your breath caught.

Not because you wanted him to leave, but because the second he said it, something inside you folded in on itself. Your chest tightened, your stomach twisted, and suddenly there was too much space between you and not enough air. You didn’t want him to go, but you didn’t know how to ask him to stay without unraveling completely.

So you said nothing.

And that silence—your silence—felt louder than anything else.

Peter waited a beat. Then two.

And when you still didn’t answer, he nodded once, just barely. Like it hurt to move. Like it confirmed something he’d been afraid to say out loud.

“Okay,” he said, eyes down. “I’ll give you space.”

He moved gently, like he didn’t want to disturb the moment more than he already had. He reached down to grab his jeans off the floor. You watched him slide them on with quiet efficiency, shaking out the wrinkles and brushing away a smear of dough from the pocket. There was sugar dusted along the hem, sparkling faintly in the light. Evidence of where he’d been. Where you’d touched.

It was everywhere.

The pillow still bore the shape of his shoulder. The comforter was rumpled, caved in where your hips had rocked into each other. A dusting of flour clung to the curve of your thigh. There was a fingerprint—barely visible but unmistakable—ghosted along the soft skin of your waist, like a memory pressed into flesh. You hadn’t noticed it when he left it but you couldn’t unsee it now. and you most certainly couldn’t stop staring because it meant he had touched you. And now he wasn’t anymore.

You felt suddenly, stupidly cold.

He grabbed his hoodie and shoved his arms through the sleeves without looking at you. His curls were still messy from your fingers. There was a flush climbing up his neck, and one single hickey—too high, too obvious—bloomed against his collarbone like a mark that didn’t belong. His shoulders were hunched, muscles drawn tight like a pulled wire.

You sat up, the sheet yanked up to your chest, fingers curled white-knuckled around the fabric. “Peter.”

He froze, hoodie halfway over his head. His face appeared slowly from the collar, blinking at you like he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined your voice.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice cracking like glass.

Something in his expression shifted—surprise, maybe. Or sadness, soft and subtle and far too kind.

“I know,” he murmured. “You don’t have to explain.”

But you felt like you did. Like if you didn’t, it would sit in your throat and rot there, choking you from the inside out.

“I didn’t mean for it to get this far,” you said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt,” he replied, too quickly. Then, softer, more careful: “I’m just… confused. I thought we were okay. I thought we were more okay than we’ve been in a long time.”

Your chest squeezed. You looked away, blinking hard. “That’s the problem,” you whispered. “You always think we’re okay.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight, like he didn’t know what to say or maybe didn’t trust himself to say it right.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

You looked at him, and for a split second you hated him—for being so sincere. For still looking at you like you were something soft. Something he could hold. Something worth holding.

“I don’t either,” you said. “I really don’t.”

Peter nodded, just once, like that was the answer he’d been expecting all along. Then he turned away from you for good.

You watched him gather the rest of his things—his socks, his phone, the silver condom wrapper discarded at the edge of the bed. He picked it up and tucked it into the trash like it mattered, like cleaning up neatly would make it hurt less. And God, you hated how gentle he was. Even now. Even like this.

He moved toward the door, slow and quiet, his fingers brushing the fram. The bedroom door hadn’t been fully shut, and he didn’t close it now. He just walked out, careful not to make noise, like he didn’t want to wake something—like he didn’t want to wake you, but you were already wide awake. Every part of you.

You didn’t tell him to stay. You didn’t tell him to go. You just sat there, wrapped in the same sheet he’d pulled around your waist an hour ago, trying to remember how to breathe.

Then you heard the soft, unmistakable click of the front door shutting. And just like that, he was gone.

The apartment was silent, but the air still smelled like him—warm and sharp and dizzyingly familiar. Sugar and sweat. Skin and breath. Something good. Something too good. The sheets were still warm beneath you, sticking in places where your bodies had fit too perfectly together. Your bra was hanging off the back of your desk chair, dusted with flour like a forgotten prop from a dream that had gone too far. None of it felt real.

You pressed your palms to your face and exhaled slowly, but it didn’t help. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t even know what you were feeling.

You’d already been confused—before tonight, before he touched you like he was afraid you’d disappear, before he kissed you like he wanted every part of you and called you his like it meant something. Before you let him inside like it was nothing. Like it wouldn’t change everything.

But it had. And you’d known it would. You’d known this would be messy.

It always was.

But you let it happen anyway. Because you were selfish. Because he felt too good. Because something inside you—loud and aching and stupidly human—had wanted to be wanted. Fully. Desperately. Without hesitation.

And Peter gave you that. He gave you everything.

And now you didn’t know what to do with it.

You curled tighter beneath the sheet, your body still trembling, your thoughts knotted and spinning. You stared at the open space where he’d just been, where something quiet and real had cracked apart. Where softness had been mistaken for safety. Where something broke.

And you wished, God, you wished—

You wished you’d never kissed him in that closet. You wished you hadn’t started pretending becayse pretending had been so much easier than this.

Than feeling.

He landed atop the Empire State Building like he’d done it a hundred times before, feet finding their place on cold metal, chest rising and falling with each breath. For a while, he just stood there, the wind tugging at his mask as the city unfolded beneath him in glittering constellations of car lights and distant windows. It was beautiful. It was loud. It was too much and not nearly enough.

Down below, the world carried on without him—people stumbling out of bars, cabs honking, someone smoking in a doorway while talking too loudly on the phone. And up here, it was just him, surrounded by noise that couldn’t touch him and silence that wouldn’t leave him alone.

When he was younger, swinging had fixed everything. He’d launch himself across boroughs, dive between buildings like he didn’t care what happened when he hit the ground, and the chaos was enough to drown out the rest. But now, no matter how fast he moved or how low he dropped, even skimming so close to the rooftops that his fingers brushed rusted railings, nothing shook the thoughts loose. His mind kept circling back, playing the same three words over and over like a skipping record.

You were right.

He was an idiot.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t just told May the truth—that you weren’t actually dating. It wouldn’t have taken much. One sentence. Two seconds. But when she’d asked him, eyes soft and proud in that quiet way she always got when she thought he was becoming someone real—someone worthy of being loved—he couldn’t bring himself to correct her. He didn’t want to. That was the excuse, anyway.

That maybe a little pretending wouldn’t hurt.

But that had been the same excuse when he let you kiss him in Liz’s closet. When he let you teach him how to kiss. When his fingers found your skin and your mouth found his and you moaned his name like it belonged to you. So how could he keep lying to himself now, telling himself it was nothing when it had already become something he couldn’t explain?

It wasn’t just convenient anymore. It wasn’t just physical. But it wasn’t something solid enough to name either, and that space in between felt like a trap—one he kept walking into with his eyes wide open.

His thoughts had been circling like vultures since the moment he dropped you off at your dorm. The ride back from Queens had been quiet—not tense, but not comfortable either. Like the silence itself was holding its breath, waiting for one of you to say something you weren’t quite ready to say. There was weight to it. Fog, maybe. Or truth with no shape yet.

He’d woken up with your cheek pressed to his chest, his arm wound around your waist like instinct, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt. May hadn’t come in—probably out of mercy or fear—but even if she had, all she would’ve seen was you, asleep and safe in his arms like you’d always belonged there. And that should’ve been comforting. Instead, it scared the hell out of him.

Because there had been nothing overtly intimate. No jokes. No pressure. Just warmth. Just closeness. Just the kind of emotional intimacy he didn’t know how to navigate.

And that—more than anything—terrified him.

Because he didn’t know what it meant now. Didn’t know what you were to him. Didn’t know how to name it.

Just you. Just him. And a thousand messy, complicated moments strung between.

Watching the city from above wasn’t helping. The distance felt too big and the thoughts too loud. So he jumped again.

The city, for all its talk of being sleepless, didn’t stay fully awake. Not really. After the trains slowed and the bars cleared, it settled into something quieter. Not still, but hushed. Like a heartbeat instead of a pulse. Peter moved through that hum easily, the suit tight to his body, swinging low over quiet streets and amber-lit avenues, the wind a constant against his skin. Lower Manhattan was mostly empty now—just bodega clerks locking up and the occasional cluster of college students leaving someone’s too-loud apartment in puffer coats and backward hats.

He helped a girl find her dorm—clearly drunk, clearly trying to pretend otherwise. She’d dropped her phone twice and tried to open the wrong door three times before he offered help, deepening his voice with the suit’s modulation. She nearly cried at the sight of him and kept thanking him like she thought Spider-Man had saved her from some great peril. He smiled politely and left before it became a whole thing.

A few blocks later, he stopped some guy from smashing a car window. Webbed his hand to the handle and walked away as the alarm blared through the night, immediately regretting it. He could already hear the morning headlines about Spider-Menaces disturbing the peace, and he made a mental note to circle back and apologize if he had time.

None of it was serious. Nothing worth calling in backup. But it kept his hands busy. Kept the quiet from creeping in.

He swung over the Williamsburg Bridge, the metal cold and groaning underfoot, and didn’t stop until he found himself back in Midtown. He crouched low on a rooftop near Bryant Park, perched like he was part of the architecture, breathing slow and even as he stared down at the street below.

But even now, even here, the image of you wouldn’t leave him alone.

The way your hair had curled near your jaw, the way your mouth parted slightly in sleep, the way his hand had stayed on the small of your back the whole night like it had every right to be there. It wasn’t just about touch anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. And pretending otherwise wasn’t helping—especially when every thought of you felt like it tugged loose a thread in the center of his chest.

He sighed through the mask and stood.

“Karen,” he muttered, voice low against the synthetic fabric.

“Yes, Peter?” Her voice chimed sweet and even in his ear, unfazed by the late hour.

“What time is it?”

“It is currently 2:04 a.m.”

The number didn’t surprise him, but it still settled into his gut like a weight. He didn’t feel tired. He didn’t really feel anything, except maybe restless in the kind of way that couldn’t be solved with movement.

His gaze drifted east, toward the familiar silhouette of Stark Tower cutting through the sky. Before he could talk himself out of it, he was already moving.

It took him less than five minutes to reach the Tower. He landed lightly on the terrace just above the main labs, heart still racing in that restless, uneven way that had nothing to do with the swing. The building glowed from the inside, warm light pouring through the windows and spilling onto the steel like a lighthouse in the middle of everything else.

That’s when he saw him—Tony. Inside. Back turned, sleeves rolled up, fiddling with something on the workbench. A few flickering projections hovered in the air above him, all faint blue light and shifting numbers.

Peter didn’t hesitate.

He tapped two fingers against the glass like a kid knocking on a fish tank—just loud enough to be noticed. Then he swung forward, stuck himself to the wall, and nudged it open like he belonged there.

“Hey,” he said as he stepped in, trying for casual but falling somewhere short. The lab smelled faintly like metal and whatever Tony had last burned through a soldering iron. Weirdly comforting.

“Hope I’m not interrupting.”

Tony didn’t look up. “Too late. You’re already here.”

Peter smiled, soft and crooked, stepping further inside as the city sounds slipped behind the glass. Tony was hunched over a screen, glasses low on his nose, a half-full mug of something too dark to be tea clutched in one hand. He finally glanced over, raising a brow like he’d already scanned Peter’s brain on the way in.

“Let me guess—cyou couldn’t sleep, your legs were twitchy, you went for a swing and ended up here, haunting my lab, instead of dealing with whatever emotional meltdown’s chewing a hole in your chest.”

Peter blinked. “I mean—yeah. Pretty much.” 

Tony sipped. “Figured.”

There was something grounding about how easily he said it. No drama. No pity. Just a quick glance at Peter’s wind-mussed hair, his damp suit, the lack of blood or bruises—then right back to whatever he was working on.

He rotated the screen toward Peter. “Tony turned the screen with a flick of his fingers. “I was about to recalibrate the phase shielding again. Banner’s algorithm’s good, but it still dips under load. Want to run it with me?”

Peter let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

They slipped into rhythm easily, the way they always did when they were too tired to talk and too wired to sit still. Tony pointed out where something was glitching, and Peter helped stabilize the interface—tightening things, smoothing out the feedback, rerouting a few loose connections. It wasn’t anything too fancy or urgent, but at least it was something for him to focus on. And that was what made it so comforting.

It didn’t take long to fix whatever was acting up. They ran the loop again—this time, everything stayed steady with a soft, stable hum.

Peter leaned back and dragged a hand through his hair, curls sticking up worse than before.

Tony tapped on a notepad, eyes scanning the latest readouts. “So. You want to talk about it now, or are we going to pretend I didn’t see you swing into my building like a broody raccoon at two in the morning?” 

Peter huffed out a laugh, tired and sheepish. “You really don’t miss much, do you.”

“I miss a lot of things. Not Parker-brand guilt. That stuff practically glows.”

Peter winced. “Fair.”

Tony finally looked at him, one brow raised. “This about the girl? The one who gave you those bruises?”

Peter’s face flushed instantly. “Um. Yeah. Kind of.”

Tony waited.

“The relationship,” Peter clarified. “It’s not… it was fake. It started out fake. She was helping me with something, and then Ned thought we were dating and we didn’t really correct him, and it just kind of… kept going.” 

Tony nodded once, slowly. “And now?”

Peter hesitated, picking at the edge of the console. “Now it’s… confusing. It doesn’t feel fake anymore, but we never really talked about what it is, and I didn’t tell May the truth, either. She thinks it’s serious, and I just… let her believe it.”

Tony didn’t respond right away. He just looked at him, eyes sharper than they had any right to be at this hour.

“You’re in deep, huh.”

Peter let out a breath. “Yeah.”

“Okay. So, first things first—don’t lie to May again. That woman sees through bullshit like it’s laminated.” 

Peter groaned. “Believe me, I know.”

“Second,” Tony added, his tone softer now, “you didn’t screw anything up beyond saving. You’re scared. That’s not the same thing.”

Peter nodded, slow.

“You’re what, nineteen?”

“Nineteen,” Peter confirmed quietly.

Tony gave him a look that was half fond, half exasperated. “I was still blowing things up on purpose when I was nineteen. You’re already ahead.”

Peter gave a weak smile.

Tony leaned on the table. “Look, if it feels real to you now, it probably is. Doesn’t matter how it started. Don’t let that stop you from saying what you actually feel.”

Peter’s throat tightened. “What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”

Tony shrugged. “Then at least you know. And you stop torturing yourself swinging around the city like a wind-up emo action figure at 1AM. Maybe you’ll get a decent night of sleep after.”

Peter let out a quiet laugh. “You have a way with words.”

“Occupational hazard,” Tony said, brushing him off with a small smile. He clapped a hand to Peter’s shoulder. “You’ve got good instincts, kid. Trust them. You’ll know what to do..”

Peter nodded, something easing behind his ribs. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“Now get out of my lab before I put you on the payroll.” 

Peter snorted, pulling his mask back into place and heading for the exit. The night still buzzed at the edges of his thoughts, but something about his chest felt lighter now. Less tangled.

The wind caught him the second he stepped outside, rushing past his ears, cool and fast and steady. He didn’t pause. He launched himself back into the air and swung forward, cutting clean through the sky like muscle memory. The city blurred beneath him again—streetlights, rooftop murals, rusted fire escapes. But for the first time all night, something in him relaxed.

He aimed toward campus, instinct guiding him there like it always did, even when he didn’t plan it. Patrolling around ESU was trickier—too many lights, too many students still awake. Even at two in the morning, the sidewalks were alive with scattered laughter and hoodie-clad chaos. He kept to the rooftops, scanning for anything off. Most of it was the usual mess—someone crying too loud on FaceTime, someone else fighting a vending machine, a pizza box being fought over by a raccoon and a very drunk guy who was definitely losing.

Ned, bless him, had left the window cracked again—his unspoken signal that Peter could sneak in without knocking. Peter made a mental note to buy him a sandwich. But just as he was about to swing through the window, he caught sight of something below. A figure curled up on a bench just off the main path, half-hidden in the glow of a nearby lamppost.

It was you.

His stomach pulled tight.

You were bundled in your jacket, knees tucked up, earbuds in. He recognized the song—it was muffled, but the beat was familiar. Couldn’t place the name, but he knew it. Your eyes weren’t closed, just distant. Not upset and it didn’t seem like you had been crying. Just… elsewhere.

He stayed still for a beat, crouched low on a rooftop ledge, watching the slow rise and fall of your breathing. You didn’t look like you needed saving, but you didn’t quite look okay, either.

He sighed and webbed down to a nearby lamppost, landing soft on the grass.

You didn’t flinch when he stepped closer—just blinked and looked up slowly, like you weren’t sure if you were dreaming him or not.

“You okay, ma’am?” came a voice above you—low, hesitant.

You startled a little, blinking up from the bench. Spider-Man stood just a few feet away, half-lit by the glow of the nearby lamppost. His posture was casual, but his tone was… off. Familiar, somehow. Not the usual deep, modulated voice from those viral clips online.

You took out one earbud slowly, brows furrowing. “Do I… know you?”

There was a beat of silence. Just long enough for you to see his stance stiffen slightly.

Then he cleared his throat and dropped his voice awkwardly. “Uh—nope. Definitely not. Just your friendly neighborhood… Spider-Man.”

You squinted. “Okay, but why do you sound like someone trying to do a Batman impression after a cold?”

He shifted his weight, hands half raised like that would help. “I have allergies.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Chronic. Year-round. Very tragic.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. “I don’t think that’s how allergies work.”

“I don’t think you’re a doctor,” he shot back, and then seemed to realize that probably wasn’t a great deflection. “Sorry, that came out ruder than I meant. I’m not good at… normal conversations when I’m wearing tights.”

That earned a quiet laugh from you. You tucked your other leg up on the bench and gave him a slow once-over. “Do you usually lurk around college campuses at night? Or is this a new patrol route?”

He shrugged. “City never sleeps.”

“Uh-huh,” you repeated, leaning your head back.

There was a pause.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked after a moment, quieter now.

You glanced at him again. Something about his presence wasn’t unnerving like it should’ve been. Warm, in a way that made your throat feel tight. “Yeah. Head won’t shut up.”

“I get that.”

You gave a faint, lopsided smile. “What, Spider-Man got licensed as a therapist now?”

“I dabble,” he said with mock humility. “I also do weddings, DJing, minor tech support. I’m very versatile.”

You huffed. “Sounds exhausting.”

“Yeah, well. Beats sitting around letting your brain eat itself.”

You looked at him a little more carefully, something about the way he said it landing too close to home. The silence between you stretched. Not awkward—just weighted. Then your music, still softly playing from your single earbud, crackled into something familiar.

Peter tilted his head. “Is that… Yot Club?”

You blinked. “You know Yot Club?”

“I mean—I’ve heard this one before. My girl—uh, a friend of mine, played it for me a while ago. I forget what it’s called.”

“You know what I mean.”

He paused. “Know what?”

You blinked once, then let out a laugh. “No, that’s the name of the song. ‘YKWIM.’”

His eyes—those mechanical lenses—widened slightly. “Oh. Right. Okay. I was like, wow, I didn’t think I was being that vague.”

You grinned. “You’re doing great.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly. “I try to make up for the awkwardness with raw charm.”

“Mm. Jury’s still out.”

“Brutal.”

“Fair.”

You tugged out your other earbud and glanced at the empty quad. “You know, sometimes I forget Spider-Man’s just… a person. You’re like a dude. Who knows indie music and makes bad jokes.”

He raised his hands like he’d been caught. “Guilty.”

You looked back at him, tone a little softer now. “That friend of yours. She’s got good taste.”

His answer came too quickly. “Yeah. I think so too.”

“She your girlfriend?”

He scratched the back of his head, as if remembering halfway through that there was no hair to scratch through the mask. “It’s… complicated.”

“Ah. You too, huh.”

That seemed to surprise him. “You?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked out across the quiet campus, eyes catching on nothing in particular. The pause stretched, but not in a way that begged to be filled. Then you gave a half-shrug, noncommittal but not cold.

Peter’s gaze lingered on you for a beat longer, thoughtful. “Is that why you’re out here?”

“Something like that,” you said with a dry smile. “Everything’s just situationships nowadays.”

He let out a breath. “That sounds... familiar.”

For a moment, the silence between you felt softer. It wasn’t awkward, but more familiar in a way that snuck up on both of you. Something about him felt less like a stranger and more like a reflection.

Eventually, you pushed to your feet and gave a stretch, brushing your palms down the front of your jeans.

“Well,” you said. “I should get back before someone thinks I’m trying to seduce Spider-Man outside the dorms.”

He barked a laugh. “Honestly, could be good for my image.”

You started to walk away, footsteps light against the pavement, then paused halfway across the quad. Your eyes narrowed a little as you turned back toward him, head tilted. “Hey… are you sure we haven’t met before?”

His spine straightened almost imperceptibly. “Pretty sure,” he said, trying for casual. “I guess I’m just…friendly and familiar?”

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “Oh, totally. Very familiar.”

He stayed still as you lingered for one more beat, grinning like you were onto something. “Be safe, Spider-Man. And, y’know, maybe don’t head back to your dorm by swinging around campus or anything—wouldn’t want anyone thinking you actually go here. That’d be way too subtle.”

He huffed softly behind the mask, warmth curling at the edges of his chest despite himself. “Noted.”

Peter stayed crouched against the shadowed edge of the rooftop as you turned and walked away, your figure small against the soft amber wash of the quad lights. He didn’t move until the dorm doors closed behind you, until a familiar window on the third floor flickered to life.

Only then did he let out the breath he’d been holding.

He took the long way back, darting between chimneys and ducking low across rooftops, sticking to shadows until he reached his own building. There was a small ledge just beneath the roof, and he crept along it with practiced ease, flattening himself to the brick and cracking open the window Ned always forgot to lock. He slipped through silently, landing in a crouch between a laundry basket and a chair stacked with textbooks.

The dorm was quiet. Ned’s steady breathing filled the dark room, and the air smelled faintly of kettle corn and air freshener—cheap and vaguely citrusy. Peter peeled off the mask, moving slowly, like his limbs were made of something heavier than muscle. He sank onto the edge of the mattress still fully suited, legs swinging off the side, the taste of the night still fresh in his mouth.

His heart hadn’t slowed down.

And the way you’d looked just then—your voice soft, your smile not quite as sure as usual—it lodged itself in his chest like something half-formed and dangerous. A thought. A hope. A knowing.

He let his head tip back against the wall and closed his eyes.

A moment later, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

You: ur never gonna believe who i just ran into

Peter stared at the screen, a slow, stunned smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. There was something almost sacred about it—this quiet, glowing thread stretched between your room and his, between who he was with the mask and who he was without it.

He read the text again, then shut off the screen and rested the phone on his chest.

There was no sleep waiting for him on the other side of this night.

Only questions.

Only you.

Peter just shrugged, already brushing past you and into your dorm like he lived there. You stared at the cup suspiciously, holding it like it might explode.

“You didn’t poison this, did you?” you asked, eyeing the lid.

He shot you a look over his shoulder. “If I did, I wouldn’t have spent seven dollars on it.”

“Thanks…?” you said, the word slow and unsure as you closed the door behind you. Still, you took a cautious sip. It was your usual order which you didn’t know he had memorized.

Peter was already making himself comfortable—flopping onto your bed with a dramatic sigh and sinking back against your husband pillow like it was custom-molded to his spine. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a crinkled white pastry bag.

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you seriously about to eat on my bed?”

He froze mid-bite, croissant inches from his mouth. “...No?”

“Parker.”

He groaned loudly like you were asking him to sacrifice a limb, but finally rolled off the bed. “Your beanbag sucks,” he muttered as he dropped into it anyway.

You watched him for a second. Something about him was off—not bad, not weird, just… off. You’d spent enough time with Peter lately to recognize the rhythms of him, and this wasn't his usual pattern. He didn't just show up unannounced with croissants and caffeine unless there was a motive.

Your eyes narrowed. “What’s your deal?”

He blinked at you, mouth full. “What?”

“You just—showed up. No text, no warning. With breakfast.”

Peter swallowed and wiped his hands on a napkin from the pastry bag. “I’m not allowed to bring you stuff now?”

“You’re allowed,” you said slowly. “It’s just... weirdly thoughtful. And you’re only that thoughtful when you’re hiding something. Or trying to butter me up.”

He tilted his head. “Can’t I just show up ‘cause I felt like it?”

You raised a brow. “Can you?”

Peter held your stare for a second, then took another sip of your coffee like that was answer enough.

You rolled your eyes and walked back to your desk, leaning one hip against it as you drank. “What’re you up to today?”

“Was gonna ask you the same thing,” he said through a mouthful of croissant. “Any plans?”

“Actually, yeah. I was gonna ask you if you were free.”

“See?” he pointed his croissant at you triumphantly. “Aren’t you glad I came now?”

You shook your head, amused despite yourself. “I wanted to check out this boutique I saw in SoHo.”

“I’ll take you,” he said without missing a beat.

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Peter shrugged. “Yeah. I’m free all day.”

You stared at him for a moment. Normally, this was where he’d start with the excuses—homework, tired, "isn’t SoHo just a bunch of influencers in ugly boots?" But he looked genuinely unfazed, like spending his Saturday wandering around overpriced shops with you was actually his idea of a good time.

“Huh,” you said finally. “I thought I’d have to guilt-trip you.”

“I like watching you get mad at price tags,” he said, reaching for the coffee again and sipping it like it wasn’t supposed to be yours. “It’s cute.”

You squinted at him. “I thought that was mine?”

“I bought it.”

You rolled your eyes and stood up. “Give me like, an hour. I basically just woke up.”

“Take your time,” Peter said, already making himself more comfortable in the beanbag, legs stretched out like he owned the place.

You grabbed your toothbrush and toothpaste from the desk drawer where you kept all your skincare and got up, heading toward the bathroom tucked just off the dorm’s entryway. As you turned the corner, you tossed a look over your shoulder.

“And keep your food and drinks off my bed until you’re done eating. I’m not trying to wake up next to a family of rats.”

Peter made a noise of offense. “Wow. So much trust.”

“I’ve seen how you eat.”

“You've kissed this mouth,” he called after you, voice muffled by another bite of croissant.

“You’re making me regret that,” you replied, flipping on the bathroom light with a grin.

Shopping was one of your guiltiest pleasures. Spending money on things you didn’t need felt like a form of therapy—cheaper than the real thing, arguably more satisfying. And walking through SoHo on a crisp weekend afternoon, your bags swinging from your arms and the city buzzing around you, made you feel like Rebecca Bloomwood. Window shopping turned into actual shopping the moment anything sparkled the right way, and today nearly everything was sparkling.

You weren’t sure what was more surprising: that Peter had agreed to come with you so easily, or that he hadn’t complained once. Not when you dragged him into five stores in a row, not when you made him hold your bags, not even when you led him through an aggressively scented candle aisle that left him blinking like the fumes were singeing his brain. By the third lavender-bergamot blend, he was rubbing his temple and muttering, “I think my sinuses are shutting down,” but still didn’t try to stop you.

Even more surprising? He was kind of good shopping. He offered genuine opinions. He helped you pick out a necklace for Betty. He even got some perfume for May. He looked entirely too domestic walking beside you with shopping bags in both hands, his curls dusted with melting snow, his nose red from the cold.

After four straight hours of weaving through SoHo’s maze of boutiques and pop-ups, your legs ached, your fingers were frozen, and the wind had turned your face numb. You finally stopped at a halal food cart near Prince Street, the smell hitting you before you even saw the menu. Grilled lamb, toasted pita, hot oil, spices—it all curled into the air like sin. Peter paid while you grabbed the lamb over rice, the warmth of the takeout box practically steaming through your gloves as you started walking again, weaving around slow tourists and people clutching shopping bags like they were Olympic torches.

You cradled the box close like it was a newborn. “It smells so fucking good,” you said, voice low and reverent. “I’m literally about to come.”

Peter choked on his breath, shooting you a look. “Jesus. Vulgar, much?”

You didn’t slow down. “I’m just being honest.”

“Do you talk like that around everyone’s food truck, or am I just lucky?”

You grinned. “You’re just lucky.”

Peter stepped closer to your box and took a whiff, only to pull back with a dramatic wince. “I think you burned out my nose earlier. I still can't smell anything.”

“Your fault for letting me test twelve candles back-to-back.”

“You said we were narrowing it down. I didn't know that meant smelling every scent in the store. Twice.”

He carried a greasy brown paper bag filled with curly fries and a chicken gyro as you both made your way to a nearby bench tucked into the edge of a small park. The metal was cold beneath you, but the warmth of the food containers on your knees made it bearable. Steam curled up between you like a little wall of comfort.

Peter sat beside you and peeked into your container. “You always get lamb?”

You nodded, already mid-bite. “Every single time. It's perfection.”

He looked down at his gyro, then at your steaming container of lamb and rice. “Should’ve copied you. Mine’s looking kinda sad.”

“You want a bite?”

His brows lifted. “You’re actually offering your food? You never do that.”

You gave him a deadpan look, but the corners of your lips twitched. “I’m being nice. Take advantage of me before I change my mind.”

He leaned over slowly, fork in hand, and scooped a bite with exaggerated care, like he was expecting you to change your mind at the last second.

“You really are full of surprises,” he said after chewing. “One second you’re drowning me in scented candles, the next you’re sharing food? Who are you?”

“Multifaceted,” you said, flicking your eyes toward him. “Also your personal stylist, in case you forgot.”

Peter smirked, nudging your leg with his knee. “Right, and I’m just the guy who carries all your bags.”

“You're catching on.”

The wind nipped at your cheeks again, signaling it was time to move. After scraping the last bits of rice from your container, you both wiped your hands with the kind of napkins that felt more like tissue paper than anything actually useful, then tossed everything into the nearest bin. Your stomach was warm, your legs slightly less sore, and your fingers less frozen—though not enough to pass up one last shop.

You tugged Peter’s wrist gently. “One more stop. Promise.”

He followed without protest as you led him around the corner, through a slim doorway tucked between a closed gallery and a boutique selling vintage lighters. The bell over the door chimed softly as you stepped into a quiet boutique that smelled faintly of chamomile and expensive leather. Everything inside was soft and quiet and handpicked, thoughtful pieces on warm oak hangers, pressed linens, delicate jewelry under glass domes, and soaps swirled with gold leaf that looked too pretty to use. Even the air felt softer, padded by the calm of jazz playing from hidden speakers.

You drifted toward the back of the boutique, fingers skimming along a table stacked with neatly folded scarves. Everything in the shop looked like it had been placed just so—curated, not stocked. The lighting was soft, golden. The kind of place that made you want to whisper even though no one else was around.

One scarf caught your eye: cream-colored, simple but elegant, with a subtle stitched pattern along the edges that looked almost hand-done. You reached for it instinctively, pressing it between your fingers. It was soft—too soft. The kind of fabric that made you wonder how anyone could justify paying for it… until you touched it.

“This is so pretty,” you murmured, not quite to him but loud enough for him to hear.

Peter looked up from where he’d been inspecting a shelf of incense sticks with labels like Wild Fig & Cashmere and Rain on Marble. His eyes found you easily.

You held the scarf to your neck and turned slightly toward the mirror nearby. It framed your reflection in warm light—lively cheeks, windswept hair, the cream of the scarf sitting softly along your collarbone.

“Isn’t it?” you asked, adjusting it lightly.

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered. “Yeah,” he said finally, voice a little softer. “Very.”

You glanced at him, catching the small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. But then your fingers found the price tag tucked just beneath the fold.

Your expression dropped. “Two hundred dollars? Yeah, okay.”

You unwound it gently, folding it back the way you found it. “Never mind. I should’ve known. Everything here looks like it belongs in a Vogue gift guide.”

Peter didn’t say anything at first, just watched as you carefully placed the scarf back in its spot. Then he quietly stepped beside you, hands in the pockets of his coat, and gave the table a final glance before following you toward the door.

You stepped back out into the cold, the boutique door clicking shut behind you. The wind nipped at your cheeks and your scarf-less neck, and your sigh came out in a thin puff of air. Before you could dwell on the lingering feel of cashmere between your fingers, Peter nudged your arm with his elbow, his hands buried in his coat pockets.

“Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward the next storefront. “You picked every place we went today. I want to stop in that bookstore we passed when we came in.”

You gave him a look. “Okay, nerd alert.”

“Yet you keep hanging out with me,” he shot back, already steering you toward the door.

You rolled your eyes but followed. The bell above the entrance jingled as you stepped inside, warmth hitting your skin in waves. The place smelled like old paper and wood polish—cozy, cluttered, and alive with quiet energy. Shelves tilted slightly with age, and narrow aisles twisted between precarious stacks of novels and old hardcovers. He wandered toward the sci-fi section while you poked around the bestsellers table, flipping through titles and losing track of time.

Eventually you glanced over your shoulder. “Hey. I gotta use the bathroom. Meet me outside?”

Peter nodded, nose still buried in a paperback. 

When you came back outside, the air had gotten colder, the sky dimmer. Peter was standing just off to the side, rocking on his heels, holding a crisp white paper bag with the bookstore logo.

You raised a brow. “What’s that?”

He grinned. “Got you something.”

Your eyes narrowed, curious. “Why?”

He shrugged and handed you the bag. “Open it.”

Inside was a tiny Beanie Baby—a gray koala with wide, mismatched eyes and a slightly squished face. You blinked.

“...Seriously?”

“Yeah. Reminded me of you.”

You stared at him. “Because it looks mildly concussed?”

Peter laughed. “Because it’s cute. And its eyes are kinda like yours. All big and judgy.”

You stared down at the koala, heart strangely warm. “He’s so ugly. I love him.”

Peter grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

You tucked the koala back in the bag and bumped your shoulder against his. “Thank you, Peter.”

“Anytime.”

You walked a few paces in silence, the street quieter now. Then, almost like a new idea struck him, he spoke up.

“Hey, you wanna go visit my aunt for a bit? She’s been wanting to see me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait—you haven’t been by? It’s winter break, Pete. You’ve got nothing better to do.”

Peter shrugged, a little sheepish. “I’ve been busy with the… Stark internship.”

“You’re an awful nephew,” you teased, shaking your head.

He grinned wider, proud as ever. “Hey, I’m her pride and joy.”

“Sure you are,” you said with a smirk.

Peter smiled, then started leading the way. “I am. Come on. Train’s this way.”

You followed, the soft weight of the paper bag in your hand and something lighter, warmer, blooming quietly in your chest.

By the time you reached the apartment building, the sun had slipped below the skyline, leaving the hallway washed in dim gold from flickering overhead lights. You followed Peter down the narrow corridor, passing scuffed wallpaper and slightly yellowed doors that all looked the same. When you reached his door, the warm smell of something sweet hit you first—brown sugar, maybe cinnamon—and you blinked in surprise.

“Did she bake something?” you asked, squinting toward the door.

Peter chuckled, fishing his keys out of his pocket. “Yeah, I think she’s been stress-baking. She’s been sending me pictures nonstop. Last week it was banana bread, and the week before, molasses cookies or something.”

Before he could unlock it, the door swung open—like she'd heard your voices. May stood there in a red long sleeve and slippers, eyes going wide when she saw Peter. “Honey!” she beamed, and without hesitation, she pulled him into a hug so tight his eyes bugged a little.

“Hi, May,” he said, voice muffled against her shoulder.

She finally let him go—just barely—and turned to you with wide eyes and a bright, delighted grin. “Is this her?” she asked, voice dipping into a conspiratorial hush, like she was in on a secret no one else was.

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, you!” she said, practically beaming. And before you could process what was happening, she swept you into a hug that smelled like vanilla and powdered sugar. Her arms were warm and soft and entirely sincere. “Oh, I’ve heard so much about you.”

You stiffened slightly, your eyes darting toward Peter over her shoulder. He was doing a lot of not-looking-at-you. What did you tell her? you mouthed silently, but he just gave you a sheepish half-smile and gestured for you to come inside.

May released you from the hug, but not from her excitement. “I can’t believe you guys went to high school together and Peter never mentioned you.”

You raised a brow, surprised. “Seriously? Nothing?”

“Not a peep,” May said, shaking her head like she still couldn’t believe it. “I always asked him about the girls in his class—wanted to know if he had a crush or was seeing anyone—but he just gave me radio silence. Turns out he was hiding you the whole time!”

“I wasn’t hiding her,” Peter cut in quickly, cheeks flushing red as he awkwardly stepped around you both and made a beeline for the kitchen. “I just… don’t love talking about girls with my aunt, May.”

You snorted. “That tracks.”

“Hey,” he said, pointing a spoon at you like it was a weapon. “You know I’m right.”

May just waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, please. When you’re dating someone that cute, it’s a crime to keep it to yourself.”

You blinked again, fully unprepared for that comment. Peter looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

“May,” he groaned. “Please stop.”

But she was already moving back toward the kitchen, waving you both after her like she was hosting royalty. “I was just about to start dinner when Peter texted me,” she said, bustling with easy energy. “But then he said you two already ate—so I baked instead. Hope that’s okay.”

You followed her in, the smell hitting you in full as she lifted a dish from the stove. Warm brown sugar and butter and apples, all cozy and golden.

“Are you kidding?” you said, stepping closer. “This smells amazing. Thank you.”

“Apple crumble,” she said, glowing with pride. “I added walnuts this time. And extra cinnamon.”

Peter hovered behind you, hands jammed in his pockets, looking like he might actually combust from secondhand embarrassment.

You turned to Peter’s aunt with a grin. “If I’d known there were baked goods involved, I would’ve shown up weeks ago. You might be the real reason I keep him around.”

May laughed, waving a hand. “Oh, please. Call me May, sweetie.”

Across the kitchen, May was already pulling plates from the cabinet, but she paused just long enough to mouth to Peter, She’s a keeper, before giving him a pointed look. Don’t mess this up.

Peter, already blushing, looked like he’d rather climb into the pantry and stay there. Instead, he sank into the kitchen chair with the defeated air of someone who knew he’d never live this down.

May dished up generous servings and handed you each a plate, then settled in across from you with a mug of something warm in her hands. The three of you ate in an easy rhythm, chatting lightly about school, the weather, and whether or not Peter still knew how to use a laundry machine.

“I swear I taught him how to separate colors,” May said, mock-offended.

“Don’t drag me in front of company,” Peter said, pointing a fork at her. “You’re making me sound like a heathen.”

“Just saying,” she teased. “If your whites turn pink, it’s your own fault.”

You snorted softly, and Peter gave you a betrayed look.

After a few more minutes, May stood and stretched. “Alright, I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick. Be right back.”

As soon as she disappeared down the hallway and the door clicked shut, you turned to Peter with narrowed eyes.

“What did you tell her?” you hissed, leaning across the table the second May disappeared down the hall.

Peter’s hands flew up defensively, like you were aiming a weapon. “Okay, listen—”

“She said she’s heard so much about me, Peter,” you whispered, eyes wide. “What the hell did you say?”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, already flustered. “I didn’t say anything… not really. We called the other day and she just—asked, because Ned mentioned it to her sometime apparently—and then she smiled at me and I… panicked.”

You squinted at him, not buying it for a second. “So what, you just let her believe we’re actually dating?”

Peter winced. “I didn’t not let her believe it.”

“Peter.”

“I know. I know. It was dumb.”

You leaned back slowly in your chair, processing, your fork hovering midair. “I thought this whole thing was just to get Ned and Betty off our backs. Now your aunt thinks this thing is real?”

He nodded sheepishly, eyes flicking to the hallway like he was making sure May hadn’t suddenly developed super-hearing. “Yeah. It kinda… snowballed. But I swear I was gonna say something. I just didn’t think that far ahead.”

“You’re literally a genius,” you deadpanned. “And you couldn’t think to just tell her the truth?”

“I panicked,” he repeated, dragging his palm down his face.

You stared at him a moment longer, then let out a low breath, rubbing your fingers across your forehead. “This makes things way more complicated. Like—how do we even fake a breakup now without it being this whole dramatic thing?”

“I’ll fix it,” Peter said quickly, leaning in. “I’ll talk to her. Tonight, even. I’ll figure it out.”

You shot him a look—equal parts exasperated and reluctantly amused. “You really planned this out well, huh?”

“I never plan these things out,” he said earnestly, like it was supposed to be comforting.

You shook your head with a quiet scoff and nudged his knee under the table. “I swear, if she starts picking out baby names, I’m telling her you wet the bed.”

“That’s not even true!”

“So is our relationship,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

As soon as the words left your mouth, you regretted them. It came out sharper than you meant it, heavier. You saw it hit him—just the faintest shift in his expression, the slump of his shoulders like the wind had been knocked out of him.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but before you could—

The bathroom door creaked open and May walked back in, cheerful and completely unaware of the tension thick in the air like static.

“Everything okay in here?” she asked, looking between the two of you with an arched brow.

“Totally,” you said too fast.

“Yup,” Peter echoed, just as unconvincing.

May paused for a beat, like she was deciding whether or not to call you out, but then smiled and sat back down at the table as if nothing had happened.

Peter cast you a quick sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching. You kicked him under the table.

Hard.

You’d been told that May had always been warm, but the shift in energy after your whispered argument with Peter made everything feel a little stickier, like the air had thickened. You could both pretend nothing had happened, but the fact that you'd spoken at the same time like a rehearsed scene in a sitcom didn’t help your case. May smiled anyway, folding herself back into her chair like she hadn’t just walked in on some weird tension bubble and brought a pin. She talked animatedly about the new apple cinnamon scones she'd experimented with—too much nutmeg, she decided—and neither of you said a word about the awkward silence that had stretched between you just moments before.

You and Peter played along, nodding and humming like two very well-behaved liars. He passed you the last cookie without a word, and you took it with a muttered thanks. Your knees knocked under the table. You didn’t move them.

It was past midnight before the conversation started to taper off, and by then May was stretching her arms overhead with a yawn that made her whole body rock slightly in her seat. “It’s almost midnight,” she said, stretching. “You two should just stay the night. I’ve got extra blankets. It’s freezing out, and the subway this late is miserable.”

Peter sat up straighter, immediate. “Oh—no, it’s fine. We can head back, I don’t want to—”

“I insist,” she interrupted, waving him off as she stood to collect mugs. “It’s silly for you to leave now. Just crash here.”

Then she looked at you, bright-eyed. “You don’t mind, do you sweetheart?”

Your mouth opened—then closed again. Panic flared behind your eyes like a match being lit. It was so much harder to say no to her than it should’ve been, and Peter was watching you with a look that screamed don’t cave but your instincts betrayed you.

You smiled, tight-lipped. “Uh—yeah, okay. Sure. Would… love to.”

Peter gave you a look, lips twitching, eyes narrowing with mock betrayal. Hypocrite, the expression said, wordlessly.

Later, while brushing your teeth in the hallway bathroom, Peter handed you a new toothbrush—still in the box—and leaned against the doorframe, his expression unreadable but vaguely amused.

“I’ll take the couch,” he said, like it was obvious.

You looked at him in the mirror, foam still in your mouth. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I’m not gonna make you sleep in the same bed as me.”

Before you could respond, May’s voice rang out from the kitchen with a chipper, unfiltered volume, despite the time: “You’re dating. Just sleep in the bed together! You’re both adults. I don’t care—just use protection!”

Peter choked so hard he nearly dropped his toothbrush. “May!” he cried, mouth full of toothpaste, a thin dribble streaking down his chin in a white, messy strip. You reached over and wiped it off with the hem of your sleeve as Peter flushed all the way to the tips of his ears.

“She’s kidding,” you said, even though you knew she definitely wasn’t.

“Definitely not,” he groaned.

The toothbrush went back in with a half-hearted grumble, and the two of you finished getting ready in silence—at least mostly. You exchanged glances in the hallway, then headed into his room, where the bed was already made and a folded blanket sat at the end like May had planned all of this from the start.

The lights were dim now, just the soft orange glow from the bedside lamp casting a kind of quiet over everything. Peter climbed into his bed first, staying politely close to the edge like he wasn’t sure if the mattress would combust if he crossed into your half. You slid in beside him, the two of you lying flat on your backs like strangers.

You both stared at the ceiling.

It was a few long moments before he broke the silence.

“You know you could’ve said no,” he said, voice low, eyes on the ceiling.

You turned your head toward him. “She’s hard to say no to.”

Peter looked over at you and gave a small, crooked smile. “Now you get it.”

There was another pause, this one softer.

“I’m sorry,” you said eventually, voice quieter. “For what I said earlier. It was mean. I shouldn’t have said it like that. I was just… overwhelmed.”

Peter turned fully onto his side, propping his head on his hand, expression unreadable in the low light. “It’s okay. I get it. I shouldn’t have let it spiral, either. I guess I liked how happy she sounded.”

You smiled faintly at the ceiling. “Your aunt’s pretty cool.”

“She likes you,” he said simply.

You didn’t answer at first. Just rolled toward him, nestling under the covers until your nose nearly bumped his. “C’mere.”

Peter hesitated like he always did—like he thought he needed permission twice—but then he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you in, pressing your foreheads together in the quiet. You didn’t kiss. You didn’t speak. You just breathed in sync, the bed warm, the air still, the city outside buzzing on without you. It was so easy to pretend this meant nothing.

You told yourself a lot of things before you finally closed your eyes.

The movie—To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before—had been her pick. A classic comfort rewatch, according to her. But to you, it felt almost painfully ironic. Watching it now, of all nights, was a little too on the nose—like the universe was in on the joke, or maybe it was just your brain trying to make sense of whatever strange, tangled mess you’d gotten yourself into. You’d referenced that movie to Peter the night this whole fake relationship started. Now it felt like a full-circle moment you weren’t quite ready to process.

So yeah, this was funny. Hilarious, even.

“You can’t keep a secret relationship from me and expect me to just sit here and watch a rom-com without asking a single question!” Betty said, eyes practically glowing with chaos.

You sighed and dropped back onto the pillow. “It’s not a secret relationship.”

“Right, okay. Sure. That’s why you’re whispering about it like a Victorian mistress.”

You covered your face with the blanket. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Everything with you is complicated,” Betty groaned, grabbing a pillow and lightly whapping you with it. “But this? This is Peter. My boyfriend’s roommate. So just tell me—how long?”

You peeked out from under the blanket, defeated. “I dunno. We’re… taking it slow.”

“That’s not a real answer,” Betty said, eyes narrowing. “That’s a smokescreen. Try again.”

“A while. Like, sort of recent,” you added lamely.

“Those are vague estimations, not answers,” Betty grumbled, sitting up straighter. “Why are you being so cryptic? Is he a good kisser?”

You threw a pillow at her. “What happened to watching the movie and being normal?”

She caught it midair with a grin. “That was before I learned my best friend was dating Peter Parker.”

You groaned and flopped onto your side. “I’m not trying to be cryptic. It’s just… weird. With the dynamic. You’re dating his roommate.”

“You’re dating his roommate. That makes it adorable, not awkward.”

“You think everything is adorable.”

“Because it is!”

You gave her a look. “You’re so annoying.”

Betty leaned her head dramatically onto your shoulder, eyes already half-closed like she was preparing to faint. “Just admit you’re in love with him so I can die in peace.”

“You’re being so dramatic.”

“And you’re being so cagey,” she shot back. “Spill it, woman. I’m literally begging on my hands and knees.”

You tried not to smile. Truly, you gave it your best effort. But it was crawling its way onto your face anyway—soft at the corners of your mouth, traitorous in how warm it made your chest feel.

“I like Peter,” you said quietly, voice low and clipped. The quickest lie you could think of. Not a total lie, but enough of one to feel safe and realistic.

Betty gasped like you’d just confessed to high treason in a federal court. One hand flew to her chest. The other latched onto your forearm in a white-knuckled grip, like she could physically extract the rest of the sentence from you if she squeezed hard enough.

You winced. “Okay, okay,” you muttered. “I’m elaborating. For the sake of my circulation.”

She loosened her grip slightly but stared with wide, eager eyes—lips pressed together like she was holding back a scream.

“He’s…” You took a breath, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “He’s sweet. Like… actually sweet. Not performative, not when-he-wants-something sweet. He’s just... good. Gentle. Thoughtful. He makes me feel—”

You stopped. That part felt too close. You waved it off with a sigh.

“He treats me really well.”

Betty immediately released your arm and clutched both hands to her heart like she was playing a swooning debutante in a Jane Austen adaptation.

“Oh my God. I knew it,” she whispered like it was sacred. “I knew it. I knew it.”

“You’re being very unhelpful.”

“I’m being incredible. You have no idea what this means to me.”

You gave her a pointed look. “Why are you acting like you predicted an eclipse?”

“Because I did! He’s a total golden retriever. I knew from the beginning that you liked him—you’re so bad at hiding it, by the way—but you’re still holding out on me.”

You groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow and smashing it against your face. “Why do I even talk to you.”

“Because we’re best friends forever,” she said sweetly. “Sisters for life. You’re the godmother of my future children, the maid of honor in my wedding, and the person who pulls the plug if I’m ever in a coma.”

“I will pull the plug,” you muttered from under the pillow. “This is a nightmare.”

Betty smirked, tugging the pillow away from your face. “It’s not a nightmare, it’s so adorable! You’re dating someone I already like. That’s the dream.”

“Says who?”

“Says me! And I am reacting with the appropriate emotional depth.”

You groaned again but didn’t retreat this time. You stayed where you were, curled up in the covers beside her, heart quietly thudding in your chest.

“I don’t know,” you said softly. “It still feels weird.”

Betty tilted her head. “Weird how?”

You shrugged, eyes flicking down to your hands. “We’ve been friends for a while. It’s just strange to cross that line, you know? It’s not bad, it’s just… new.”

“You guys have been fake-hating each other across the couch for months, sneaking looks when you thought no one noticed, playing it all cool while me and Ned made popcorn and pretended not to see all the sexual tension simmering off you in waves. It’s like watching a rom-com in real life.”

You gave her a look. “Betty—”

She held up a finger. “I have an idea.”

“No. Whatever it is, no.”

“You haven’t even heard it yet.”

“I already know what you’re gonna say and the answer is no. We’re not going on a double date.”

Betty rolled her eyes. “That was only part of the idea. Keep up.”

“Uh huh.”

“What if…” She leaned closer like she was revealing state secrets. “We switch rooms.”

You blinked. “You’re trying to get rid of me.”

“No!” she said quickly, throwing both hands up. “No, babe, that’s not it at all. I just meant—like—not permanently. Just sometimes. Then we both get privacy. Me and Ned get to cuddle without you walking in and making gagging sounds. You and your boyfriend get your own time to… ‘study.’”

You winced at her phrasing. “Please don’t call him my boyfriend. You’re giving me hives.”

“But he is your boyfriend!”

You huffed, dragging a hand down your face. “You know I hate labels.”

“I’m just saying,” she said, clutching the pillow to her chest now. “I think this could be a win-win.”

“Oh totally,” you said, standing abruptly and sliding off the bed. “You just want me out so you can do the nasty twenty-four-seven. Just admit it.”

Betty turned bright red, swatting at your arm. “Oh shut up! That is not what I meant. Me and Ned are, like… very respectful. We light candles and talk about our feelings, okay?”

“Uh huh.” You crossed your arms. “So respectful that your boyfriend didn’t even knock before entering the room.”

“In his defense, it was his room.”

You gasped. “You’re taking his side?! I knew it. I’m literally gonna pack my bags right now since that seems like what you want.”

“Ugh, enough already.” Betty grabbed your hand and yanked you back onto the bed, flinging the blanket over both your legs like she was trapping a wild animal. “Come back. I was warm, the laptop was perfectly balanced, and I promise I won’t call him the B-word again if it makes you spiral.”

You sighed and relented, sinking back into the warmth of her comforter. The laptop was still warm where it rested on your thighs. Your head leaned naturally into her shoulder again.

“I’m just excited,” she said, voice gentler now. “I mean, I’m your best friend. You’ve been so weirdly private lately and I get it, I really do—but I know you. You like him.”

You rolled your eyes. “That is—”

“And he likes you. You’re good together. You’re bitch in a sad little way and he’s awkward in a sad little way. It works.”

You snorted. “Such a glowing endorsement. You should do our wedding vows.”

“Already planning the bachelorette weekend.”

You turned your head into her shoulder, hiding your grin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right.”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t argue either.

She nudged you with her elbow. “So, like. Actual question.”

“Oh no.”

“Is he a virgin?”

Your head snapped up so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash.

“Betty.” You said it like a warning, voice low and sharp, eyes wide.

She just blinked at you innocently. “What? It’s a valid question!”

You gawked at her, utterly scandalized. “You are deranged.”

Math had never been your strong suit. Numbers, you could handle. Letters trying to be numbers? Not so much. You’d long given up trying to genuinely understand what was going on in Statistics and instead developed a more practical solution: sit next to Peter Parker and pray for the best.

He always took good notes—color-coded, neatly sectioned, even with tiny post-its that stuck out of the sides like mile markers. Your own notebook was a war zone of half-written equations and unfinished doodles in the margins. It wasn’t ideal, but Peter’s brain was big enough for both of you, and you had no shame riding his academic coattails.

It also helped that, ever since accidentally getting into a relationship and Ned’s very public mouth running wild, everyone now knew the two of you were a thing. It wasn't true, but it had smoothed out the weird tension between you. You didn’t have to explain why you were always walking to class together or why Peter’s hoodie had lived in your laundry basket for two weeks. People had already filled in the blanks, and now the performance of coupledom had just become convenient.

You were halfway into a particularly compelling zoning-out session, staring at the frog-shaped eraser on the desk in front of you like it was a portal to another world, when you felt a nudge on your elbow. Peter’s voice, soft and low, cut into your focus.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Did Betty ask you about… anything?”

Your gaze shifted, and you blinked slowly, pulling yourself out of frog world.

“Yep,” you murmured.

His mouth pulled into a wry, knowing twist. “Ned too. He practically demanded I spend the night with you.”

You snorted. “Of course he did. Betty said the same thing.’”

Peter rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smile behind it. “They’re so schemey.”

“They’re the worst.”

“So now what?”

You shrugged, leaning back in your chair like the conversation was already settled. “I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

Peter nodded, resigned. “Yeah. You’re right.”

There was a beat of silence before you tilted your head slightly toward him. “Wanna get food after this?”

Peter didn’t even look up—just tapped the end of his pencil against the edge of his desk and gestured vaguely toward the front of the room, where Professor Harding was launching into yet another thrilling tangent about statistical modeling.

“As long as you pay attention this time,” he said under his breath. “I can’t keep supplying you forever.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned closer. “But you’re such a smart and generous boyfriend,” you whispered, overly saccharine, “who would do anything for me. Isn’t that what you said? Or was that not in the NDA?”

Peter fought a grin, lips twitching into that lopsided smile you’d come to recognize as trouble. He shook his head, still facing forward, and pointed his pencil at the front again in the most exaggerated focus gesture you’d ever seen.

You let out a dramatic sigh and sat back, forcing your eyes up toward the whiteboard, pretending to pay attention. But Harding’s voice quickly became background noise—blurring into static while Peter tapped his foot against the floor, some vague rhythm that almost sounded like Fat Bottomed Girls by Queen.

You traced the edge of a faded coffee ring on the desk with the cap of your pen, your eyes half-lidded, thoughts nowhere near class. The minutes ticked by in slow, painful succession, each second dragging like molasses. It was like time had decided to take a nap just to spite you.

Finally—finally—after what felt like an actual decade of torture, the class was dismissed. You practically leaped out of your chair. Peter stood more calmly, adjusting his backpack, and grabbed a textbook you’d left half-stuffed in your bag like it was second nature. You both moved together, shoulder to shoulder through the dense, end-of-class crowd.

Dinner at the dining hall was… fine. It was always fine. The line was long, and the food smelled like burnt rice and Clorox wipes. Peter grabbed two plates without asking and handed one to you as you reached for cutlery. You bumped his shoulder as a quiet thanks, and he bumped you back, that wordless communication you’d fallen into taking care of the small things.

You claimed your usual corner table near the window, tucked away from the chaos. There, with the ambient hum of trays and voices all around, you ate and talked about whatever came to mind—some random video Betty had sent you, how terrible your TA was, the guy in your class with the emotional support frog eraser. Normal stuff.

By the time you made it back to your dorm, the sun was beginning to dip below the treetops, casting warm streaks of amber and violet across the floor like brushstrokes. The sky was the color of sherbet through your dorm windows, and the air carried that early evening stillness—like everything outside had paused for just a second.

You walked in first, unlocking the door with a twist of your wrist and flicking on the desk lamp. A warm pool of light lit the space, casting shadows in the corners. Your keys hit the desk with a familiar clatter as you kicked off your shoes and let out a long, quiet sigh. Peter stepped in behind you, soft-footed like always. He hesitated at the threshold, standing just inside like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome—even though he’d been here a dozen times, even though he’d fallen asleep on your floor once and half your snacks had migrated to his backpack.

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “Come in, weirdo.”

He blinked, snapped out of it. “Right. Yeah.”

He toed off his sneakers and made his way across the room to the beat-up beanbag in the corner—the one that squeaked anytime someone dared shift even an inch. He dropped into it with a soft oof, curling his legs up, trying not to take up space he already had permission to fill.

You moved to the dresser and tugged open the second drawer, rummaging around with one hand while the other pulled your hoodie up over your head. You tossed it toward the bed, now left in just a ribbed tank top that hugged your body a little too well and offered no coverage beneath it.

Peter noticed immediately.

You felt the weight of his eyes for a second before he jerked his head away so fast it was almost comical, cheeks blooming red as his ears practically glowed. He stared intensely at the floor, pretending to fiddle with a loose thread on the seam of his jeans like it was the most important mission he’d ever been assigned.

You glanced over and caught the flash of panic in his face and grinned, tossing a pair of shorts onto your bed before shimmying out of your jeans. “Seriously?”

“I—sorry—I wasn’t—” he stammered, still looking anywhere but at you. “I didn’t mean to—”

You tugged your shorts on, adjusting the waistband casually. “You’ve literally seen me in a bra.”

Peter covered his face with one hand. “Yeah, but I don’t mean to be a creep.”

You laughed under your breath and padded over to the bed, throwing yourself onto the mattress in a sprawl. “You’re being so shy,” you said, half-mocking, half-playful. “You’ve slobbered all over my face.”

Peter raised a brow, but you didn’t stop. 

“Make like a good fake boyfriend and come cuddle me.”

Peter hesitated. “Are you asking or commanding?”

You raised a brow. “Do I look like I’m in the mood to beg, Parker?”

Peter looked at you for a long second—his hair a mess from the wind outside, his expression unreadable.

He stood, crossed the room, and crawled onto the bed beside you without a word. You shifted instinctively to make room for him, but he left just enough space between your bodies that you could feel the absence more than the presence.

And you didn’t love that.

So, with the same quiet confidence you always used to get your way, you shifted—hips nudging back until they met his, spine pressing into his chest as you reached for his hands and tugged them forward, wrapping them securely around your waist. His body stiffened at first, like he wasn’t sure if this was okay, but he softened just as quickly—exhaling against your shoulder as his thumbs grazed your sides.

You pulled out your phone without ceremony and opened YouTube, scrolling through your feed with one hand as he rested his chin lightly on your shoulder, peering at the screen.

“MatPat?” he asked, a smile in his voice.

You huffed. “I miss him, okay? His videos are nostalgic.”

“You’re acting like he die when he just retired.”

“That’s dead enough to me. Now hush, he’s talking.”

Peter snorted quietly and fell into comfortable silence. You both stared at your phone screen as the familiar intro music played, MatPat’s voice filling the room the otherwise quiet room.

You didn’t know how long you watched—long enough for the sky outside to dim to a deeper blue, long enough for the warmth of his body to start feeling like it was part of you. Eventually your eyelids started to droop. You blinked slowly, then sighed and locked your phone, setting it on besides your pillow.

Peter shifted slightly behind you. “I was watching that, y’know,” he said, voice teasing.

But you didn’t move. You just turned in his arms to face him, blinking sleepily as you narrowed your eyes in mock suspicion.

He raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

“Wanna play Truth or Dare?”

Peter blinked at you, suspicious. “What’s up with all these games lately?”

You shrugged, letting your cheek sink into the pillow as you turned toward him. “Got anything better to do?”

He gave you a squint that clearly said this is a trap, even as the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “This feels like a trap.”

“It is a trap,” you confirmed, grinning. “So, yes or no?”

He sighed like he was being forced to carry a moral burden, then rolled onto his side to face you fully. His knee bumped yours under the blanket, and neither of you moved away. “Fine. But I want it on record that I went into this under duress.”

“Duly noted,” you said, lifting your pinky to solemnly seal the deal. He hooked his around yours with a little smirk, and the game was on.

You both adjusted until you were laying across from each other on the bed—bodies mirroring, legs loosely tangled without thinking. The moonlight filtered softly through the blinds, throwing slashes of night across his jaw, making his skin look highlighted but soft.

“Truth or dare, Parker?”

“Truth,” he said. “Warm me up. Go easy.”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “Okay… if you could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would it be?”

Peter let out a low groan. “That’s your warm-up? That’s so tame.”

You shrugged. “Answer the question, dork.”

He sighed dramatically. “Alright. Probably Mr. Stark. But only if he’s in a good mood and not, y’know, trying to destroy my self-worth in the name of mentorship.”

You smiled softly. “I’d die to meet the Iron Man. Pretty, pretty please, would you introduce him to your girlfriend… pretty please?”

Peter snorted. “I think he’d spontaneously combust if I told him I had a girlfriend. So no, sorry sweetheart.”

You pouted, and he laughed under his breath.

“My turn,” he said, rolling his shoulder into the mattress to get more comfortable. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“What’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” you said without missing a beat. “This guy told me he was taking me to a ‘nice restaurant.’ We pulled up to Five Guys where he told me the Earth was flat and also that he didn’t believe in tipping.”

Peter made a noise like he was physically pained. “Wait, was it the same guy who wore socks with sandals you told me about once?”

You gave him a long, exhausted nod. “The very one.”

“That’s brutal.”

“Tell me about it.” You shook your head and gave him a sly smile. “Okay, your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Let’s go dare.” He puffed his chest out slightly, clearly trying to seem braver than he actually was.

You gave him a slow, calculating look. “Okay. I dare you to give me your best pickup line.”

Peter’s face crumpled. “You would.” He exhaled dramatically. “Alright. Brace yourself.”

“I’m braced.”

He thought for a second, then cleared his throat. “Are you made of copper and tellurium? Because you’re—”

“Cu-Te,” you interrupted, grinning. “Try again.”

He pointed a stern finger at you. “That was a classic! Show some respect.”

“Show some originality.”

“Fine,” he said, sitting up slightly like he was preparing for a monologue. “Are you the square root of -1?”

You squinted at him. “Because… you can’t be real?”

“Exactly,” he said, proud of himself.

You flopped back against the mattress with a groan. “That was worse than the first one! I literally answered it for you.”

“You asked for this!”

The game went on, growing sillier and more comfortable with every round. You dared him to do a British accent for a full minute—he ended up sounding like someone who'd watched Love Island on mute. You confessed your childhood fear of mannequins. He admitted he once walked into the wrong lecture hall, sat through half a class, and even took notes before realizing he was in astrophysics, not psych. At one point, you were laughing so hard you had to bury your face in his shoulder.

By the time the light outside had fully dipped into a soft dark haze and your limbs were tangled lazily under your blanket, the dares had slowed.

Peter’s eyes found yours. “Your turn.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I dare you to kiss me.”

Peter’s smile faltered—just slightly. Not because he didn’t want to, but because the dare dropped like a pebble in a still pond. It rippled between you, stretching that warm, playful tension until it started to thread into something else entirely.

“That doesn’t really feel like a dare,” he said eventually.

You tilted your head, your voice quieter now. “Then it should be easy.”

Peter’s breath was shallow, and you could feel the way his chest rose and fell when your legs brushed under the blanket. He was close. Close enough that if you leaned forward an inch, your nose would graze his. Close enough that you could feel his hesitance like static in the air between you.  His hand was resting lightly on your hip—his thumb brushing, barely, against the fabric of your shirt and you could feel his pulse in it.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, lingered, then flicked back up.

You arched a brow, voice barely above a whisper. “You gonna make me wait all night?”

And finally, he leaned in.

His mouth was on yours instantly—hot, eager, and unrelenting. There was no shy lead-up this time, no hesitant brush of lips or waiting for you to set the rhythm. His tongue slid against yours with a kind of hunger that startled you—like he’d been craving this, craving you, and couldn’t hold back any longer.

You’d told him to just follow your lead before. But now? Now you were the one struggling to keep up. His confidence had bloomed into something feral and addictive, and instead of guiding him, you were slipping under, letting yourself be undone by the way he kissed you—open-mouthed and deep, slow at first, then sloppier as your bodies tangled closer.

You sighed into his mouth, your fingers sliding along the sharp line of his jaw, brushing the slope of his cheek as your thumb traced the corner of his mouth before you kissed him again. Longer this time. Slower. You tasted the soft groan he gave in return, low and involuntary, like he couldn’t help it, and the sound lit a spark low in your belly.

His hand found your waist under the blanket, fingers curling there like he needed to hold you—anchor you as your legs brushed fully and your thighs pressed together. His grip tightened, tugging you closer, and you shifted more onto your side, chest flush to his. You could feel the steady thrum of his heart where it pressed against yours, both of you warm and too-aware of how little space there was between you.

Peter’s hand slid from your waist to the curve of your spine, his touch slow and careful, almost reverent. He traced your back like he was trying to memorize it, fingers trailing over the dip of your waist, the edge of your shirt riding higher with every pass. His other hand hovered—tentative—near your ribs, brushing the side of your chest with maddening restraint.

You could feel him holding back. Testing. Wanting.

So you gave him permission the only way you knew how—your leg hooked over his, drawing him closer, your knee sliding up along his thigh. The movement was subtle, but it lit a fuse in him. His breath caught, and then his hands moved.

Lower.

He kissed you harder, messier now, and you met him with equal hunger. His hand drifted down again, brushing your outer thigh, thumb dragging over bare skin just below the hem of your shorts. You shivered, and he felt it—responded by ghosting his fingers higher. The pads of them skimmed dangerously close to the heat between your legs.

You gasped softly against his lips, your hips twitching in response, and he groaned—deep and wrecked, like the sound had been yanked from his chest.

“Fuck, Peter,” you whispered, breaking from his mouth, breathless.

His hand froze, hovering just shy of where you needed him.

“S’okay?” he asked, voice rough and low against your lips.

You nodded, your voice trembling. “Are you okay with this?”

Peter nodded too, barely, his forehead pressing to yours. “Only if you want to.”

“I shouldn’t want to,” you admitted, breath catching. “Because then it’s not just kissing anymore.”

He paused. Looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense in the room. “Then let it be more.”

Something in your chest cracked open.

“Touch me,” you whispered. “Please. Now.”

He swallowed. “I… I don’t know how to make you feel good.”

“You already are.” Your voice was soft, earnest. “Just do what you want. I need you.”

He kissed you again then—hard, like he was grounding himself. His hand slid beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers shaky but determined. He paused just before touching you, waiting. But your hand found his and guided it lower, until his palm was pressed against your clothed cunt.

You sighed at the contact, hips tilting up instinctively. That was all he needed.

His fingers began to move—hesitant at first, then with more purpose, tracing slow, deliberate paths up and down your seam, pressure building until your breath stuttered and your thighs clenched around his hand.

You moaned softly into his mouth, and the sound made his hips jerk forward against you, like he physically couldn’t help it. His fingers slid beneath your underwear then—skin on skin, so light it made your whole body throb.

Peter groaned when he felt you—wet and hot and already pulsing beneath his touch.

“God,” he murmured, voice ragged, “you’re so—”

You gasped again, cutting him off as his fingers found your clit, slow and gentle but insistent. His touch was careful but not timid, learning your rhythm with every breath you took, every tiny moan you let slip against his lips.

You buried your face in his neck, panting against his skin, gripping his shirt like you might fall apart if you didn’t hold onto something. He murmured softly into your hair, things you couldn’t quite hear but felt—encouragement, awe, desire.

Your hips rocked against his hand, chasing the friction, and he adjusted instinctively—his fingers tightening, circling, stroking.

“Please, Pete,” you whimpered, your voice barely a breath.

Without a word, Peter slipped a finger inside you.

Your breath hitched, mouth parting as your body instinctively arched into his hand. He moved slowly, gently—like he was afraid to break you or do something wrong, but the warmth and tightness around him made him groan quietly, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Shit,” he whispered, like it was a confession, “you feel…”

You whimpered as he curled his finger ever so slightly, and your hips jerked in response. He stilled, checking your face, your breath, your eyes.

“Keep going,” you breathed, barely above a whisper, your voice wrecked and desperate. “Please.”

So he did.

Peter pulled out just enough to add a second finger—still slow, still cautious, but more confident now that you’d told him what you wanted. The stretch made your thighs twitch, and he kissed you softly, as if to soothe you. But your body welcomed him, slick and warm and aching.

He began to move his fingers again, shallow at first, easing you open, adjusting to the rhythm your hips were begging for. His thumb found your clit again, circling in slow, steady strokes—like he was learning you second by second, breath by breath.

Your breath came faster, body curling toward him, every muscle humming with tension as your fingers clutched at the fabric of his shirt.

“Pete,” you gasped, your voice trembling. “Right there—don’t stop.”

His name on your lips made him groan again, like it did something to him. His hand moved faster now—his fingers stroking deeper with each thrust, his thumb more deliberate as you arched against him. You were so wet, the sound of it barely muffled by the sheets or your gasps, and he couldn’t stop watching your face—the way your lips parted, how your eyes fluttered, how completely undone you were becoming in his hands.

“Jesus,” he breathed, kissing your cheek, your jaw, the edge of your mouth. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You let out a broken moan, your hips grinding helplessly against his hand as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter. You were close. And he could feel it.

“Is that good?” he whispered, voice strained. “Am I… am I doing it right?”

You nodded frantically, unable to speak, just barely managing to gasp out, “So good—don’t stop—Peter—please—”

He didn't stop.

He thrust his fingers deeper, faster, thumb working perfect circles against your clit as your thighs trembled and you clung to him like you’d fall apart if he let go. Your body went taut—tight, desperate, on the verge—and he kissed you again, messy and soft and breathless.

And then you came.

It hit you like a wave, like your body had been straining toward it for hours. Your walls clenched around his fingers, your back arched, and you let out a long, broken moan into his neck as your orgasm crashed over you in pulsing waves.

Peter didn’t stop moving his fingers until you were gasping and twitching and pulling at his wrist, too sensitive. Even then, he slowed instead of pulling away entirely—easing you back down with soft, gentle strokes that made you whimper into his skin.

When he finally pulled his hand away, your body sagged against him, warm and trembling. He kissed your shoulder, your temple, cradling you as if you’d break.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, looking at you like he was witnessing something sacred.

You blinked up at him, dazed, flushed, breathless. “Peter.”

“Yeah?”

“You can definitely stay the night.”

Peter huffed out a laugh, low and breathless. “Really now?”

You looked up at him, still half-dazed, eyes glinting with mischief. “Yes, really.”

He grinned at you, the corners of his crinkled which made your heart do a weird little skip. But before he could reply, you shifted, your fingers trailing downward—down his chest, past the soft dip of his stomach, stopping just at the waistband of his pants.

His breath hitched, and you heard it—felt the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

You glanced up at him, your fingers playing lightly with the hem of his waistband. “Do you not want to?”

Peter’s eyes went wide, and he let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Fuck, no—I do. I really want to.”

You smiled like you already knew. “Do I need to give you a better reason to stay?”

He swallowed, his voice rough. “Show me the reason.”

You didn’t need more encouragement.

“Take your shirt off,” you whispered, and he obeyed immediately—sitting up just long enough to strip the fabric over his head, revealing the lean muscle beneath, the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband. You reached for the drawstring of his sweats next, your knuckles brushing the hardness already straining beneath the fabric. His breath stuttered when you tugged them down.

He shifted, helping you slide both his pants and briefs down, the fabric pooling around his ankles before he kicked them off. You took him in fully—hard and flushed, the head glistening with precum, his cock resting against the plane of his stomach.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned in to kiss him—slow and tender, lips brushing his, your hand wrapping gently around the base of his cock.

Peter gasped into your mouth.

You stroked him softly at first, just enough to make his hips twitch, his hands flying to your waist like he needed something to anchor him. His lashes fluttered, his lips parted in a silent moan as your hand moved up and down in a slow, firm rhythm.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered. “That feels—fuck—”

You bit your bottom lip, watching him fall apart. His eyes squeezed shut, his brows furrowing like he was trying not to finish just from your touch. You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, your voice low against his skin.

“You look so pretty like this,” you murmured. “All flushed and wrecked.”

He let out a helpless groan. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your strokes picked up pace, the slick sound of it obscene in the quiet room. His hips began to roll into your hand without him even meaning to, chasing every stroke, his stomach flexing with each pass of your thumb over the swollen head. His fingers dug into your hips, and he leaned his forehead against yours, panting.

“I’m close,” he gasped. “Fuck, I’m—”

Before he could finish, you let go.

His eyes flew open, confused and desperate—until he saw you shifting, moving downward, settling between his thighs.

“Wait—wait, are you—”

You didn’t answer. You just leaned in and took him into your mouth.

Peter’s entire body went stiff. His head dropped back against your pillow, and a sound ripped from his throat—deep and broken, like he couldn’t believe this was real. Your lips wrapped around the head, tongue swirling gently before you took more of him in, your hand stroking the base in tandem.

“Holy fucking shit,” he breathed, his voice high and shaking. “That’s—oh shit—”

You hummed around him, and the vibration made him choke on a groan. His hand found the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair—not pushing, just there, like he needed to touch you to stay grounded.

You moved slowly, deliberately—lips gliding down his shaft, tongue tracing the sensitive underside as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked. His thighs trembled under your hands. He was panting now, chest heaving, one hand clutching the sheet beside him.

“I’m gonna—” he warned, voice strained. “—shit—I can’t—”

You took him deeper.

And that was it.

He came with a choked cry, his hips jerking slightly as you held him there, swallowing around the hot pulse of him spilling down your throat. His whole body was shaking—tense, then slowly unwinding as you eased off him and pressed a soft kiss to the inside of his thigh.

He looked completely undone—chest still rising and falling, curls damp against his forehead, eyes hazy with something between awe and disbelief.

You crawled back up beside him and tucked yourself against his chest, your lips brushing the curve of his jaw.

“Convinced yet?” you murmured, teasing.

Peter let out a breathless laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’m staying.”

Afterward, everything had gone quiet.

Peter laid on his back, one arm loosely curled around you while the other rested across his stomach, rising and falling with each slow breath. The glow of your desk lamp painted him in soft amber light, tracing the curve of his jaw and the gentle slope of his throat. You lay beside him, half-draped over his chest, cheek resting against the warm skin just beneath his collarbone, your hand trailing slow, absentminded lines over the faint dip of his ribs. The sheets were tangled around your legs, the air still thick with leftover heat, though neither of you made any move to adjust. You just stayed there, breathing in sync, hearts still too loud in your ears.

Peter hadn’t moved much since you’d curled into him, though his fingers idly traced over the bare skin of your back like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. It was a slow, absent rhythm, steady and warm, and it made you feel safer than you probably should’ve. You wondered if he was overthinking this too—lying there with that furrow between his brows, staring up at the ceiling like the shape of the drywall could make sense of whatever the hell just happened.

Your heart was still unsteady, even though the rest of you had gone quiet. There was a part of you—small but insistent—that wanted to reach for him again. Not out of lust this time, but out of something softer. Something dangerous. So you didn’t move. You just pressed your cheek more firmly into his chest and tried to slow your breathing to match his, as if that could make the questions in your head fade away.

This didn’t mean anything.

It couldn’t mean anything.

You had an arrangement. You were playing pretend. You were giving Peter some experience, easing him into things. Friends helping friends. Easy. No strings.

Then why did it feel like something had shifted? Why did your chest ache in a way that didn’t feel physical?

Peter’s fingers were still moving along your spine, slower now, more like a comfort than anything else. He hadn’t said a word since you curled into him. You hadn’t either.

Maybe silence was safer.

You let your eyes slip closed, convincing yourself that if you stayed like this—tangled in blankets, pressed against him, skin still humming from the memory of his hands—you could pretend it was all just part of the plan. That this didn’t matter. That this was just one more secret tucked under the label of friends with benefits. So as long as you both stayed quiet, neither of you had to admit it felt like more.

The table was the same kind you’d seen in every campus building—long, wood laminate, scratched from years of student abuse—but tonight it felt like the most public stage imaginable. Ned sat beside Betty, knees pressed together like magnets, his body turned toward hers in an unconscious way. And you and Peter? You were back in your unofficial roles of third wheels, but this time it didn’t feel so innocent. Not after what happened in the closet. Not after his hands on your hips and his mouth on yours and that dizzy, breathless kiss that still snuck into your head when you were trying to sleep.

Betty, of course, didn’t know any of that. She hadn’t noticed the subtle shift in your posture around Peter, or how your gaze dropped whenever he looked at you too long. She didn’t know about the way your thighs had tightened around his leg or how he’d sounded when he whispered your name. So to her, this was just a casual night hanging out with her friends.

You had made a passing comment about how much you missed her, that she was always with Ned now and you never saw her unless it was between classes or when she was rushing back into your dorm to change outfits before another date. It wasn’t meant to be serious, or at least not entirely. But Betty, in her ever-earnest way, had taken it as a challenge. Her solution? Studying had never been your idea of hanging out. For Betty, though, it was the perfect social solution: “We’re stimulating the mind and the friendship,” she’d said, as if that made any sense at all.

That’s how you ended up here—at a table with a textbook in front of you, a dull ache growing behind your eyes, and Peter sitting inches away like a live wire you were trying your hardest not to touch. And you hadn’t even looked at him yet, not properly. Not since you sat down. You couldn’t bring yourself to because if you did—if your eyes met his, and he was already looking—you knew it’d feel like stepping right back into the previous night's rendezvous.

And this time, there were no doors to shut behind you.

Betty sat directly across from you, spine straight, her piercing blue eyes narrowed in barely masked suspicion. Ned kept glancing between you, Peter, and Betty like he was waiting for someone to confess something explosive. Peter sat to your right, a few respectful inches away, but close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating from his arm. You kept your eyes on your textbook, but none of the words registered.

You hadn’t talked to Peter since last night. You hadn’t needed to. Not with the way your body remembered everything. Your senses sharpened around him—his voice, the rasp of it when it dropped too low; the warmth of his breath when he leaned too close; the way he sighed like he had the other night when you pulled back, lips swollen and eyes half-lidded. Even his quiet grumbles felt too familiar now, echoing far too closely to the sounds he'd made with you pressed into him.

You crossed your legs under the table, squeezing tighter, then tighter again. Peter hadn’t said anything since sitting down, but you could feel his eyes on you. You didn’t dare look.

“Okay, why are you acting weird?” Betty finally snapped, pushing her stack of books to the side.

You blinked up. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. You know what I mean.”

You glanced at her, feigning confusion. “I’m literally just sitting here.”

“Yeah. Sitting there being weird.” She turned her gaze to Peter. “And you, too.”

Peter’s head snapped up. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Both of you. You’re being... jittery.”

Ned leaned in. “I think Peter’s always like that, babe.”

Peter shot him a look—a tight-lipped half-smile that was equal parts thankful and annoyed. Ned just grinned, entirely oblivious.

“I chugged a Celsius and a latte before this,” you said, coolly.

“At seven p.m.?” Peter asked, eyes finally meeting yours.

His were darker in the dim library light, rich with some unreadable expression. You held the gaze too long, making your heartbeat skid.

“I was planning to pull an all-nighter,” you replied, your voice thinner than intended.

“Right. That makes sense.” Peter looked away, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his flashcards.

Betty groaned. “This is torture.”

“What is?”

“This!” She motioned between you and Peter like she was drawing a crime scene diagram. “The energy between you two is insane. You’re making everyone uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Ned offered, then glanced at Betty’s expression and quickly added, “But yeah, it’s definitely... weird.”

Betty groaned, dramatic and heavy, like she was physically trying to expel the tension from her body. Her fingers tapped restlessly against the table, her blue eyes narrowed in irritation. “God, I just don’t get why you two can’t be normal,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “Like, can we just study without it being weird and cryptic and—whatever this is?”

Ned leaned in, gentle. “Babe, it’s fine. Come on, don’t stress.”

She looked at him, brows pinched, and he gave her that easy, affable smile he always used when she got wound up. “Besides,” he said, glancing at his phone, “I gotta head out soon anyway. I have a lab that ends at like, nine-thirty.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s tonight?”

“Yeah, I forgot. We’re doing the physics demo, and if I’m late again, Dr. Evens is gonna kill me.” He stood, collecting his notebook and pushing in his chair with a small wince. “Come walk me there?”

Betty sighed, annoyed but not enough to say no. “Fine,” she said, rising with him. She grabbed her bag, then looked between you and Peter like she was sizing up a crime scene.

“And whatever this is,” she added, making a slow, deliberate motion with her finger to draw a large, theatrical circle around you and Peter, “better be gone by tomorrow.”

You didn’t answer. Peter didn’t either.

She stared at you both a second longer, her gaze sharp and unrelenting, before she turned and followed Ned toward the exit, grumbling something under her breath..

And then it was quiet again.

Your fingers clacked against your keyboard for the next hour or so, but for some reason, you couldn’t focus. Not because of Peter (though that didn’t exactly help) but because the library had become unreasonably loud. Conversations bled from nearby tables, the occasional obnoxious laugh cut through the air like glass, and someone had been smacking gum for at least fifteen straight minutes. It was maddening.

Your leg bounced under the table, jittery and restless. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Peter’s knee doing the same, his rhythm a mirror of yours, equally agitated.

Stupidly, you’d forgotten your headphones and now you were stuck drowning in noise. Peter had his in, of course, but there was no way in hell you were going to ask to share. You couldn’t even look him in the eye for more than two seconds without your brain short-circuiting and flashing back to things best left in the dark.

Still, the volume was unbearable. You tapped him on the shoulder.

Peter pulled out one earbud and turned to you, brow furrowed in concern. “What’s up?”

“Do people not understand the concept of a library anymore?” you grumbled flatly as you glanced over at the noise culprits—a trio of students laughing way too hard over something definitely not that funny—and rolled your eyes. “Wanna go back to my dorm? Or yours? I can’t think in here.”

Peter blinked, looked around, then back at you. There was a pause—just long enough for your stomach to tighten, irrationally expecting rejection.

“Yeah,” he said finally, nodding. “Yeah, let’s go. My dorm’s closer, if that works?”

“That’s fine,” you said, already closing your laptop.

You didn’t mention that you’d stopped thinking the second he sat down.

Normally, you would’ve flung your shoes off and collapsed dramatically onto Peter’s bed like it was your own. You had done it dozens of times before—mid-cram session, post-party, or just because his room always felt warmer than yours. But tonight wasn’t normal. 

Now, the room felt different. Smaller, somehow. Like the walls had inched closer when you weren’t looking, like the air between the two of you had become charged and uncomfortable. You could still see the faint dent in the mattress, the subtle shift in the comforter from where the two of you had sat at the edge—close, then closer—doing things that were not rated PG-13.

So instead of stomping in and taking up space like you usually did, you bent quietly to slip your shoes off and followed him across the room, toeing the carpet with awkward hesitance. His side looked the same—same phone charger coiled on the floor, same tangled sheets, all unmoved—but it felt different. Less like a second home but rather more like a place where something had happened that couldn’t be fully undone.

The silence stretched, ballooning, until you both broke it at once.

“So—”

“So—”

You blinked. He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing under his breath.

“Uh, you go,” he offered.

You shook your head, swallowing down whatever half-thought had risen to the top. “I’ve got nothing.”

“Really?” he raised an eyebrow. “That’s unlike you.”

“Guess I’m just... clear-minded tonight,” you said, dry. “No distractions.”

Peter gave you a look, skeptical. He didn’t push.

Another awkward beat passed. You sat down carefully on the edge of his bed, tucking one leg beneath the other, careful not to shift too far into the space you’d taken up last night. Peter stood for a second like he didn’t know where to go, then finally sat at his desk chair and rolled it slightly toward you.

“I thought you said it wouldn’t be weird,” he said eventually, voice quieter than usual.

“It’s not weird,” you replied a little too quickly, a little too defensively.

“Right.” He nodded, twisting a ring around his finger. “I just—I don’t want to mess anything up. Like... our friendship. I care about you a lot. And I’d never want something like... whatever that was... to ruin that.”

Your chest squeezed. The way he said it so sincerely, like he was laying out an apology for something you hadn’t even asked him to be sorry for.

You sighed, finally letting yourself relax a little, sinking further into the mattress. “I know. I care about you too, okay? And it’s not ruined or anything. I think I’m just... in my head about it.”

Peter tilted his head. “So Betty was right. You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You’re lying. Badly. It’s kinda offensive, honestly.”

You exhaled, something between a laugh and a groan. “Fine. Maybe a little weird. But like, it was weird! We made out! For a while. Like. Several whiles.”

Peter raised both hands in mock defense. “Hey, you’re the one who offered.”

“And you’re the one who asked and said yes!”

“I mean... would’ve been rude not to.”

That made you laugh for real, finally, and something eased in your chest. Some invisible line uncoiled.

You leaned back on your palms, glancing at him from across the small room. “You’ve gotten cocky.”

Peter shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe.”

You rolled your eyes at him, but the smile tugging at your mouth betrayed you. “You’re insufferable.”

Peter didn’t miss a beat. “Yet you’re in my bed. Again.”

You gave him a look, dramatic and pointed. “Feels like I’m being used, honestly. Just a convenient test dummy for some girl you’re actually into.”

His brows shot up. “What? No—what? There’s no girl.”

You raised a brow. “Then why are you so eager to learn? What’s the rush, Parker? Who’s she? Tell me everything.”

“I told you already,” he said, flustered. “I’m just embarrassed about being such a late bloomer and I thought... I don’t know. You’d be a good teacher. Because you—”

“Wow,” you interrupted, feigning offense with a hand over your heart. “Calling me a whore again. Didn’t expect it from you, but okay.”

He groaned, flopping back onto the mattress, face half-buried in his pillow. “Shut up. You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Do I though?” you teased, turning toward him, chin propped on your palm.

He looked at you from the pillow, hair sticking up in chaotic tufts. “I don’t know! Can we just—can we not do that thing where you twist everything I say because you’re a little shit?”

You smirked, watching the way his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Fine.”

He let out a breath. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You paused, the shift in tone softening something in your chest. “I’m okay if you’re okay,” you said quietly. And it was true. “It was… fun. I mean, I haven’t really hooked up with anyone in a while.”

Peter looked up sharply. “Really?”

You nodded, a little self-conscious now. “Yeah. Thought maybe I was rusty, but last night didn’t feel like that. Not really.”

Peter blinked, clearly caught off guard. “No. No, it didn’t. You’re not… rusty.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I had fun too. A lot.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that hums when the words are there, just waiting to be said.

“I think,” you started, careful, “I just didn’t know how you felt about it. I didn’t want to assume.”

He hesitated. “I’m feeling good about it.”

You squinted. “Good?”

“Good,” he repeated, firmer this time. “It was... a good experience. For... learning.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to laugh. “Oh yeah. Real educational.”

Peter cracked a small smile. “I’m a great student.”

“Debatable.”

He tilted his head, playful now. “You gonna grade me or something?”

You laughed softly, but your fingers were fidgeting in your lap, your posture a little stiffer than before. “I wouldn’t mind it. More, I mean.”

Peter blinked. “More?”

You nodded slowly, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Yeah. Like, we’re good friends. And you had fun. And I had fun. So maybe we could…” You trailed off, shrugging. “Continue? As like… a teaching thing? Or maybe friends with benefits? I don’t know.”

Peter didn’t answer right away. You could feel your heart thudding, loud and obnoxious in your chest, and you almost wished you hadn’t said anything.

But then he shifted, leaned in just slightly, and said, “So… does that mean I get a second lesson?”

Your eyes narrowed. “You’re so cocky suddenly. Who possessed you?”

He raised a brow. “You did. Last night, if I remember correctly.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, then shoved him lightly on the shoulder. “You are unbelievable.”

“But am I wrong?”

“No,” you admitted, dragging the word out with a hint of disbelief as you studied him. “But this is so not the Peter I know. Like—what’s going on? Why aren’t you like this all the time?”

Peter hesitated, his eyes flicking up toward yours before dropping again, sheepish. “Honestly? No clue. That came out way more confident than I meant it to.”

You waited. He scratched at the back of his neck again, the gesture boyish and guilty.

“Maybe it’s just… with you. You make me feel different.”

Your throat tightened. A frog lodged itself somewhere between your lungs and logic, and your brain immediately launched into full interrogation mode: Different how? Compared to who? Was it good-different or bad-different? What about you had changed him? Was he implying you were special—or just unfamiliar?

You shut the spiral down before it could sink its claws in too deep. This wasn’t the time for overthinking—not with the weight of his hands still warm on your hips, not when your body was still buzzing from the kiss you’d barely stepped away from. The lines between you had already started to blur. Redefining them now would just tangle you both up.

So instead, you rolled your eyes and muttered, “God, I can’t stand you.”

Peter blinked, wide-eyed and grinning, that slightly breathless look he always gave you when he wasn’t sure if you were about to laugh at him or hit him with a textbook. “Well... is that a yes?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him for a long moment—at his tousled hair and flushed cheeks, the way he still hadn’t figured out where to look when you stared too hard. The tension that had felt so suffocating earlier was lighter now, like it’d been reshaped into something you could almost laugh about. Almost.

“We’ll see,” you said eventually, letting your voice go soft around the edges. You leaned back like you owned the mattress again, stretching your legs, dragging your eyes slowly over him. “Depends on how good you are at taking notes.”

That made his ears go pink again. “I’ve got a notebook?” he asked, like he was trying to play it off, but his voice cracked ever so slightly at the end.

“You’re such a dork.” you said, shaking your head, but your voice was fond.

He opened his mouth, probably to defend his honor or throw out another awkward quip, but you didn’t give him the chance. “Come here,” you said simply, and he did—crossing the narrow space between you and sitting down beside you on the bed.

Peter obeyed, climbing onto the bed with you but instead of stopping at just sitting, you pushed him back gently until his shoulders hit the corner where the wall met the mattress. He blinked up at you in surprise as you moved forward, straddling him with practiced ease and settling yourself onto his lap. His breath hitched slightly at the proximity, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of him, hands on his shoulders for balance. Your bodies slotted together in a way that was impossible to ignore.

Peter blinked up at you, his cocky expression flickering into something far more honest—wide-eyed, flustered, very clearly trying not to combust.

“Okay,” you said, leveling your gaze with his. “How are you with criticism?”

Peter swallowed hard. “I mean… I’m a big boy. I can handle anything.”

“Right,” you nodded, resting your hands on his shoulders. “Well, first off—you’re a little teethy. Like, I don’t know what you were trying to do las time, but my teeth were clacking into yours like we were fencing.”

He winced. “Okay. Noted.”

“And your tongue was just...” You wrinkled your nose. “All over the place. Just follow my lead instead of trying to duel me with it.”

Peter bit his lip, his ears visibly reddening. “I feel like I’m failing a pop quiz.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You’re not failing.” You paused, cocking your head. “Just... clunky.”

“Geez,” he muttered. “I thought you said you were gonna be nice about this.”

“I said I’d teach you,” you corrected. “I didn’t say I’d lie on behalf of your ego.”

“You’re so judgy.”

“And a snarky bitch, yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.”

Peter looked at you again, half-annoyed, half-amused. “What else do you hate about me? Let’s get it out. List it off.”

“That was it, actually. The rest was decent.” You let your hands trail to his shoulders, resting there. “Better than, like, ninety percent of the men I’ve kissed.”

Peter tried not to let that sting, but it did. Just a little.

“So your standards are underground,” he muttered.

You shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl when the options are limited.”

Then, before he could recover, you shifted your hips slightly against his, enough to make his breath catch from the brief friction. You leaned forward and wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, your voice dropping.

“But I’m trying to be nice and help you out. So… touch me.”

Peter stiffened just slightly. “Touch you?” he repeated, voice cracking just barely.

You raised a brow. “Yeah. Touch me.”

Tentatively, Peter placed his hands on your waist, light and unsure.

“Like this?”

“Yeah,” you said, then leaned closer, breath brushing his cheek. “But more. Grab. Squeeze. Slide. My waist, my tits, my ass—wherever. It’s free real estate.”

Peter blinked. “Am I playing Bop It?”

You laughed. “Exactly.”

He looked dazed. “Jesus.”

You reached up and brushed a few strands of hair from his forehead, fingers drifting down the side of his face, thumb grazing his cheekbone with something close to fondness.

“Now,” you whispered, “show me you listened.”

Without hesitation, he leaned in again, lips finding yours with more purpose this time—less hesitation, more intention. His hands, newly emboldened, slid from your waist to your lower back, fingertips dragging slow, lazy patterns along the ridge of your spine like he was reading braille. The kiss deepened gradually, not rushed, almost curious. Like he was trying to trace the map you’d sketched into him the night before, but this time without fumbling. His teeth grazed your bottom lip—softer now, just a ghost of pressure—and it sent a sharp pull through your chest, your stomach, lower.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging him closer until your bodies pressed flush. His breath hitched against your cheek, warm and shaky. Then your own soft moan escaped when his hands slid lower and found the curve of your ass, gently squeezing. The noise made something short-circuit in him; he instinctively bucked up beneath you, just a little, enough for you to feel the weight of him, and it pulled another sound from your throat.

It felt too natural—too easy, too good, too fluid, but you didn’t want to pull away. Not yet.

Eventually, though, you broke the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, your forehead brushing against his as your eyes locked.

“Better,” you murmured, a crooked smile playing on your lips. “You’re a quick learner.”

His cheeks flushed a deeper pink—rosy and high on his cheekbones—but behind the embarrassment was something else, something bright and buzzing and proud. He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. His hands stayed where they were, gripping you firmly, and then he pulled you even closer—firmly enough that your hips met his again with a shared inhale.

And then he kissed you again. Slower this time, but deeper. Hungrier. Like he knew exactly how you tasted now and didn’t want to forget it. His hands roamed more boldly—up your sides, along the curve of your waist, his thumbs pressing into your skin just enough to make you lean into him. His fingers wound into your hair, tugging slightly in that same way you were doing to him, and it pulled the softest whimper from your throat.

Your hands explored too—sliding down his shoulders, feeling the solid lines of him beneath his hoodie and t-shirt. He was wirier than he looked. You brushed over his chest, his abs, his arms—realizing as you did that there was so much more to touch than you thought and feeling it under your fingers like this made you ache with curiosity. The scent of him, all clean detergent (that you still needed to get your hands on) and faint sweat and some subtle cologne you couldn’t place, was dizzying. 

When you pulled back again, barely, you saw it: his lips were flushed and slightly swollen, his eyes dark and wide and glassy like he wasn’t entirely in control of what he was doing. His chest rose and fell quickly beneath you, and you were sure you looked just as undone.

You slid your hands from his hair down to his shoulders, gripping tightly, and rolled your hips—slow, experimental, just a slight grind against him. Barely there, but enough to make him groan, low and gravelly, right into your ear.

That sound made you crave more.

You tilted your head and kissed down the sharp line of his jaw, soft at first, then more purposeful. You found a spot on the side of his neck and latched on gently, not hard enough to bruise but enough to make him shiver. Your hands tugged at the hem of his hoodie as your mouth kept working, kissing, sucking, dragging your lips just enough to make him squirm under you.

Peter got the message. He hesitated only for a second before his hands slid to your hips to lift you slightly as he tugged the hoodie off, over his head and to the side. You stared—maybe for longer than you should’ve. The white t-shirt he wore clung to him in all the right places, slightly see-through in the dim light. You could make out the shape of his chest, the subtle rise and fall of each shallow breath. Your mouth went dry.

You leaned in to kiss him again, but before your lips could meet, he flipped you.

Your back hit the wall gently, and suddenly he was on top of you—hands braced beside your head, his mouth dragging hotly down your neck. He was more intense now, less shy. When his lips found the space beneath your jaw, they were rougher, hungrier. He sucked, bit a little—definitely enough to leave a mark this time—but you didn’t care. Your head tilted back, breath hitching as his teeth grazed your skin again and again, branding you in the best way.

It was overwhelming, the shift in energy. He was mimicking what you did, but adding more of him to it. Less careful. More eager. More desperate.

And oh, how it was working.

His touch was becoming unbearable in the best way—too good, too fleeting, always leaving you craving more the second he pulled away. Your breath hitched again when his hand traced just under the curve of your chest, not quite touching, but hovering, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

You tapped his shoulder gently and he reacted immediately, pulling back like he’d crossed some line you hadn’t drawn. His face shifted fast, from flushed desire to open worry. He still held you, but it was tentative now. Looser. His hands ghosted over you instead of gripping, his fingers curling back like he was afraid of hurting you somehow.

“You okay?” he asked, breathless. “Should I stop?”

You blinked at him. Your heart was racing. Your lips were swollen. Your thighs were practically trembling from the tension building in your core.

“No—yeah. Yeah. Okay. I’m, uh, okay,” you stammered, brushing your hair out of your face with a shaky laugh. “Just—was thinking. Um. Do you... do you know how to take off a bra?”

Peter blinked. “No. No, I don’t.”

“Wanna learn?” you asked, voice quieter, laced with something almost teasing but still gentle—like an offering.

He didn’t speak for a second. Just looked at you with wide, stunned eyes, and then nodded slowly, cheeks flushing a pretty, warm pink. “I’ll learn,” he said.

Your lips quirked into a smile as you sat up straighter in his lap, your knees still bracketing his hips. “Okay,” you murmured.

You reached for the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head slowly—not to make a show of it, not really—but still aware of his eyes on you the whole time. When it dropped to the floor beside his bed, you sat back, now just in your bra, letting the room settle into the silence that followed.

He stared. Eyes wide, mouth parted, completely frozen.

You shifted slightly. “Say something.”

“Wow,” he breathed, completely overwhelmed. His eyes never left your chest. “Just... wow.”

A laugh bubbled up in your throat, soft and breathy. You reached for his hands again and gently brought them behind your back, guiding them to the clasp. “Okay, focus. This part’s important.”

His fingers hovered nervously at the back of your bra, brushing your spine so lightly it made you shiver.

You bit your lip. “Pinch the hooks,” you instructed, tilting your head. “Not too hard. It’s more finesse than force.”

His hands moved again, a little more focused now. He fumbled, of course. His fingertips brushed the clasp a few times before he actually got a grip. His hands were warm. Gentle. Careful in a way that made your stomach flip. You reached behind yourself, still holding the front of the bra tightly with one arm—just in case—while the other guided him through the motion.

“There,” you whispered, when he finally got it to unclip. “See? Not so bad.”

Peter exhaled like he’d just defused a bomb, his laugh sheepish and proud at the same time. “That’s... more complicated than it looks,” he mumbled, and his voice cracked slightly.

“You think this is complicated?” you teased, raising a brow. “You haven’t even tried putting it back on.”

“Okay. You forget I’m good at everything I do.”

“Oh, prove it then, genius.”

You watched him try—his fingers were clumsy again, slightly trembling as he fumbled with the small hooks and loops. You adjusted slightly so he could see better, guiding his hands without fully taking control, correcting his angles, biting your lip at the absurdity of how serious he looked.

After a few failed attempts and an embarrassed laugh from him, he finally got it. The click of the clasp felt like a victory.

He looked up, clearly proud of himself. “Boom,” he said, grinning. “Certified expert now.”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to laugh. “Barely. That was like a C-minus attempt.”

“But passing,” he said smugly.

“Don’t push your luck.”

His hands settled at your waist again, warm and firm now, no longer hovering. You leaned in, kissing him slowly—rewarding him, almost. And when you eventually guided his hands back to the clasp and told him to try again—without you helping this time—he didn’t hesitate.

He practiced. Three more times.

By the end of it, you weren’t sure who was flustered more—him, for figuring it out, or you, for letting him try so many times while sitting in his lap in just your bra.

You were still laughing softly when a loud click broke the mood.

The door swung open.

Ned stood in the frame, eyes wide and disbelief written all over his face. “Oh my god.” His voice was a mix of shock and barely contained amusement.

You froze, heart hammering.

Ned backed away quickly, giving you two privacy without missing a beat. “I’m gonna… wait outside.”

You exchanged a look with Peter, both equally mortified, before you reached for your shirt from where it had been tossed across the duvet. You tugged it on quickly, fingers smoothing down the fabric like that could undo the chaos, like straightening the wrinkles might help you recover some sliver of dignity. It didn’t. But it gave you something to do with your hands.

Across the room, Peter was doing the same, standing slowly, hands raking through his hair like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or sink into the floor. His cheeks were still flushed, his ears tinted red, his lips a little swollen. You tried not to look at them. Or think about them.

You opened the door with cautious fingers to find Ned standing there just outside—pacing, dramatically shielding his face with one hand like he'd been personally victimized.

“Oh my God, my eyes,” he whisper-yelled, peeking between his fingers before spinning in a small circle.

Peter groaned behind you, rubbing his face. “Shut up. We’ve literally seen worse from you.”

“Okay, rude and also not true,” Ned muttered, flustered beyond recovery. He waved his hands like he was swatting away a traumatic memory. “I didn’t need to see that. I can’t unsee that.”

Peter tilted his head. “Thought you said your lab went ‘til nine?”

“It did, but it got canceled. Betty and I just grabbed dinner instead.” Ned was still trying to blink the image from his brain. “So—what the hell is going on with you two? Is this why you’ve been acting so weird?”

Peter glanced at you—only for a second, just a flick of his eyes—and for some reason, against better judgment, he said, “Yeah.”

You blinked. Turned your head to look at him, brows pulling together. “Yeah?” you mouthed silently, confused.

Ned’s jaw dropped. “Wait—wait. You guys are dating? Like, together? For real?!”

You and Peter both froze, expressions shifting at once. His eyes widened slightly. You opened your mouth like you were about to correct him. But then… nothing came out. You didn’t say no. And neither did Peter.

“I knew it,” Ned said, utterly triumphant. “The tension was insane! You’ve been making everyone uncomfortable.”

You exchanged one more look with Peter, this time tinged with mild panic, and then—too deep now—you simply sighed and offered a half-hearted wave toward Ned. “Goodnight, Ned.”

Peter cleared his throat, stepping closer, clearly looking for a way to end the scene. “It’s late. I’ll, uh… I’ll walk you back.”

Ned was still standing there like he’d just discovered a new species. “You guys are dating,” he repeated, to no one in particular. “Holy shit.”

“Good night, Ned,” Peter said, ushering you both past him and down the hallway before Ned could say anything else.

By the time you stepped outside, the cold air hit your face like a splash of water, crisp and sobering. The dorm door clicked shut behind you, sealing the night in. Campus had settled into quiet. Overhead, the lamplight hummed faintly, casting long amber shadows on the pavement. The only sounds were the soft crunch of gravel underfoot and the distant, hollow chatter of someone’s late-night phone call echoing off the buildings.

Peter held the door for you. You stepped out slowly, hands tucked into the sleeves of your sweatshirt, not quite looking at him.

“It’s, uh… it’s okay,” you said softly, not stopping. “I can walk myself back.”

He paused for a second. You felt his hesitation behind you—like he wasn’t sure whether to argue or just let it be. But he didn’t push. You both kept walking, a quiet rhythm between your steps, footsteps syncing up as the silence grew heavier.

You crossed a patch of empty sidewalk before you finally turned your head just slightly, just enough to catch the faint lines of his face beneath the flickering glow of the nearest streetlamp.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, voice even but a little tight around the edges.

He blinked. “What?”

“You could’ve corrected him. About us dating.”

Peter slowed beside you. “I thought you were gonna say something.”

“Well… you said yes first,” you replied, glancing at him fully now. “It kind of felt like I was supposed to follow your lead.”

“I thought he was talking about us hooking up,” Peter admitted. “Like—that’s why we were acting weird. So I just… panicked and said yeah. I didn’t realize that was what he meant.”

You exhaled, something between a sigh and a tired laugh. “That’s why you said it?”

“I malfunctioned, okay?” he said, running a hand through his curls. “Like. Full-on brain crash. It all happened so fast and I didn’t want to be like, ‘No! Not dating! Just making out!’ That felt worse.”

“You could’ve just said no.”

“You could’ve said no.”

You paused. “Touché.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice softer now. “I didn’t mean to drag you into the world’s most awkward lie.”

“It’s not the worst thing,” you muttered.

He looked at you. “You sure?”

You nodded, shifting your bag higher up your shoulder. “Honestly, it’s easier. Now Betty and Ned stop poking at it. It’s not like it’s real, so it doesn’t matter.”

Peter’s eyes flicked away for a moment, then back to you. “Right. Just easier.”

“Yeah.”

You kept walking. The lamplight caught the edge of his jaw as he looked forward again, his His expression was unreadable again, eyes focused straight ahead like he was thinking too hard about something he’d never say out loud.

You didn’t press.

A few more steps passed in silence, the only sound the rhythmic scuff of your shoes on the pavement and the distant hum of campus life thinning out.

Then Peter spoke, voice soft and a little hesitant: “So... we’re fake dating now?”

You gave him a slow, wry look. “Guess so.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it in. Then a small, disbelieving laugh. “God, we’re bad at this.”

“The worst,” you said with a light shrug. “But hey—I get to live out my Lara Jean fantasies.”

That made him glance at you, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Wait. Does that make me... Peter squared?”

You snorted. “Seems like someone liked the movie more than they let on.”

He raised his eyebrows, mock-defensive. “I didn’t not like it.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Unreal. You really are a Peter.”

“Just not that Peter.”

“Mm. We’ll see.”

Before he could respond, you reached the edge of your dorm. The windows glowed gold above you, haloing the building in soft light. You slowed to a stop beneath the porch lamp, turning to face him.

“Well,” you said, tucking your hands into your sleeves. “Goodnight, fake boyfriend.”

He smiled, that lopsided, boyish grin you were starting to get a little too used to. “Goodnight, fake girlfriend.”

You lingered there for a beat too long—just enough to feel something settle unspoken between you—before you turned and walked inside. Peter watched you go, hands in his pockets, his breath fogging faintly in the air.

The moment hung there behind you, warm and weird and electric.

Neither of you quite knew what to do with it.

You were dead tired.

Your last class had finally ended—a particularly cruel three-hour block of genetics where the professor spent the entire time reviewing concepts you’d already learned junior year of high school. The fluorescent lighting buzzed faintly above your head, the radiator hissed behind you, and you had seriously considered resting your head on your desk and letting the heating pipes lull you into a coma. It had been a long day. An even longer week. Your only available elective had ended up being an Intro to Photography class scheduled at 8:30 a.m. and every morning had begun with you groggily squinting at the world through a heavy camera lens and a heavier sense of regret.

The rest of your class schedule hadn’t been any kinder. Labs, problem sets, two finals in the same week. But at least you had Peter.

Peter Parker—boy genius, Stark internship haver, resident overachiever with a brain or mouth that never seemed to shut off. Sometimes he made you so annoyed with how good he was at everything—how easily he answered questions in lecture, how he always seemed to know what the professor was really asking for on the test—that you had to remind yourself not to be resentful. Especially when he was also the reason you were surviving your classes at all. He’d spent hours tutoring you in chemistry and statistics, offering up explanations and mnemonic devices and cheat sheet sketches that looked suspiciously like Spirographs. (You kept them all in a folder labeled PB—short for Peter’s Brain, or, more likely, a subconscious craving for a PB&J when you named it.)

So yeah. You were tired. But not too tired to drag yourself toward Peter’s dorm.

Your bag was slung loosely over one shoulder, your phone cradled in the opposite hand as you reread Peter’s last text. A shaky breath puffed out of you as you stepped outside, cold air slipping in through the space between your collar and scarf. The wind cut sharply across your face, carrying with it that signature New York winter sting—slushy snow still half-melted in the gutters, salt crusted into the sidewalks, the whole city dipped in steel gray.

Peter’s dorm wasn’t far. You’d walked it more times than you could count, a worn-down path between your building and his, practically muscle memory by now. You’d practically lived in that dorm for the better half of the semester anyway—not just for Peter, but for Betty and Ned, too.

Betty and Ned had been on again, off again since that summer in Europe. Their relationship didn’t so much end as pause—like a sitcom with seasonal breaks. Betty would dump him with dramatic finality, and then two weeks later, she’d be wearing his hoodie again, acting like nothing happened. You’d stopped pretending to be surprised.

Their most recent reunion involved a scavenger hunt, a handwritten playlist, and Ned playing the ukulele in front of the NYU library while Betty cried into a half-melted Dunkin iced latte.

They were disgustingly in love. And you loved them. Truly. Betty was your person, and Ned—oblivious and overly enthusiastic Ned—was her person. It didn’t matter how stupid he acted sometimes. He made her happy. He remembered her weird soy milk preference and left notes in her books and once mailed her a postcard from a deli six blocks away because “it felt romantic.” You had been officially named godmother to their firstborn child that didn’t (and hopefully for a while, won’t) exist last Tuesday.

But being around them too long when they were in couple mode made you feel like an extra in your own story. Which was why you and Peter had naturally developed a kind of unspoken alliance—mutual third wheels, shielding each other from the emotional shrapnel of the Ned and Betty cinematic universe. Sometimes, when their PDA got too unbearable, you and Peter would just exchange a look and wordlessly migrate to the quieter room—the one where the couple wasn’t. His or yours, it didn’t matter. You’d hop between dorms like refugees, seeking temporary asylum wherever there was peace. A kind of third-wheel timeshare.

It worked. Mostly.

So your walk to Peter’s wasn’t unusual. But today, it felt quieter than usual. Heavier, maybe, because of how deeply sunken in your eye bags were. It was the kind of tired that seeps into your bones and makes your bag feel heavier than it actually is, every step a little slower than the last. You trudged through the patches of snow that hadn’t been fully cleared from the sidewalks, weaving around icy footprints and half-melted boot prints, wishing your biology professor would fall into a snowbank and disappear.

You were halfway across the quad when you shoved your free hand deeper into the kangaroo pocket of the hoodie you were wearing—and immediately remembered why the day wasn’t all bad.

Peter’s hoodie. Thick, worn-in, perfectly oversized. The softest fleece lining you’d ever felt in your life, like it had been blessed by sheep angels. You had stuffed it into your bag days ago, fully intending to return it to him—except you hadn’t. Every time you saw him, you forgot. And the times you remembered, you couldn’t be bothered to hike all the way back to your dorm to grab it. Besides, he hadn’t asked for it back. So really, you were just being efficient.

That was your story, anyway.

Except you kind of didn’t want to give it back. The hoodie was criminally comfortable. Just the right size to swallow you up without feeling like you were drowning in it. The sleeves pooled around your hands. The hood bunched perfectly around your neck. And it smelled like him. You hadn’t meant to notice that part, but it was impossible to ignore—something warm and clean and distinctly Peter, like soap and laundry sheets and maybe a hint of vanilla. The kind of scent you didn’t realize you associated with comfort until you were wrapped in it, walking across a freezing college campus, and thinking maybe this day isn’t entirely hell.

You’d tried to find the hoodie online the other night—just to get your own, not to steal his, of course—but Peter had cut out every single tag like a criminal. No brand, no size, not even a stray laundry symbol. It was as if it had materialized from thin air, dropped into his wardrobe by a benevolent god of fashion and coziness. You made a mental note—again—to ask him where he got it. And also which detergent he used. Because your clothes had never smelled this good in your life.

By the time you reached his building, your fingers were frozen and your cheeks were numb. You slipped inside, buzzing past the RA at the front desk who barely looked up, and took the stairs two at a time despite your exhaustion. The hallway to Peter’s floor smelled faintly of popcorn and something burnt. You knocked once and waited, listening to the familiar sounds behind the door—some kind of video game music, Ned’s voice shouting something, and then—

The door cracked open.

Peter blinked at you once, then smiled. His eyes flicked down to what you were wearing and you watched it register slowly—the hoodie, the sleeves bunched up around your knuckles, the hem skimming your thighs over your leggings.

He tilted his head. Smirked.

“Hey,” he said, stepping aside to let you in, “someone’s cozy.”

You rolled your eyes as you brushed past him into the room, warmth finally beginning to seep back into your limbs. “Don’t get too excited. I’m only here because Betty and Ned are making out in my room again.”

“I feel so honored,” Peter said dryly, shutting the door behind you.

“I think I might as well just move in at this point,” you muttered, toeing off your shoes and making a beeline for Peter’s bed. “I’ve slept over here more times than I’ve slept in my own room this week.”

Without waiting for permission—as if you’d ever needed it—you starfished across the mattress, sprawling dramatically like you lived there. Which, honestly, you kind of did. Part-time.

Peter let out a quiet scoff, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, before turning back to his desk. The surface was a disaster: loose papers, highlighters without caps, one lone paperclip desperately clinging to a corner of a worksheet. A mostly empty mug sat in the middle of the chaos like a sad paperweight.

“Pretty sure you like my bed better than your own,” he said, not even looking at you. “I’ve found, like, three new drool stains this week. Gross.”

“I do not drool! That was condensation.” you said indignantly, grabbing one of the throw blankets from the corner of the bed and folding it under your head like a makeshift pillow. 

“More like DNA evidence.”

You groaned dramatically, rolling over and tugging one of his fleece blankets toward you. “Whatever. Your bed is in fact way comfier than mine. Plus, it smells good. Like your hoodie”

Peter finally turned around in his chair, brows raised. “Are you seriously sniffing my bed right now?”

“No!” You yanked the blanket higher. “Maybe. But not like in a weird way. It’s just… your stuff always smells like clean laundry and—soap? And, like… you. But not in a creepy way. I swear.”

His mouth twitched. “You realize the more you explain it, the creepier it sounds, right?”

“I’m complimenting you. Take it and shut up. But after you tell me what detergent you use.”

“I don’t know,” he said, spinning back to his notes. “Uh, whatever May buys? Off-brand Tide, I think. It’s just in a big white bottle.”

You snorted. “You’re telling me I’ve been obsessively sniffing off-brand Tide?”

“You’re so fucking weird.” he chuckled, shaking his head.

“You’re so fucking mean.” you shot back, flopping deeper into the bed. “I’m pretending you don’t exist now.”

You unlocked your phone and opened TikTok like it was a survival mechanism.

“This is the only thing my brain can handle right now.”

“Shocking,” Peter muttered, dry but amused.

“So mean,” you repeated, dragging the word out dramatically. “Such a bully.”

Peter didn’t respond after that—he was too focused on whatever problem set he was scribbling through—but you didn’t mind. The soft click of his pen and the gentle hum of his desk lamp filled the space around you in that comfortable way that made his room feel more like home than yours ever did. Eventually, your eyes started to ache from the screen. Your brain had gone numb thirty minutes ago, every video blurring into the next. Without thinking, you powered off your phone and dropped it to the side, the silence ringing in your ears now that you had nothing to distract you.

The desk lamp cast Peter’s face in a warm yellow glow. You noticed little things you never did before: how long his lashes were, how his brows furrowed in concentration, and how he slightly clenched his jaw, something you’d lectured him about before. Something about how it was bad for his enamel. You remembered the conversation mostly because he’d asked if you got your dental degree from TikTok, and you’d told him that it was a very valid source and he should Google it himself next time.

You didn’t mean to stare. Really. But you found yourself watching him in quiet fascination, your body now tangled sideways across the twin bed like a lazy cat. You were still wearing his hoodie (since it was too soft to take off) and the blanket you'd folded under your head had long since unraveled, now only covering your legs. You dangled your head off the edge of the bed like a forgotten bookmark, eyes fixed upside-down on the curve of Peter’s brow. You shifted positions for the fifth time—now half-hanging off the bed, legs curled up, blanket puddled at your waist. Your head tilted upside-down, giving you a perfect view of the top of his messy brown curls.

Then he twitched, just slightly. You thought he hadn’t noticed—until he turned his head. Then his eyes.

He caught you staring.

“What?” he asked, pencil hovering mid-air, his brow raised with a mix of amusement and confusion.

You smiled, upside-down. “Yeah?”

Peter blinked. “Yeah… what?”

You hesitated. Then, because the thought had been simmering quietly in the back of your mind since before midterms, you asked it.

“Are you a virgin?”

The words hit the air like a dropped pin, sharp and loud despite how softly you said them.

Peter choked—visibly, audibly—his pencil flying from his hand as he sputtered. “What—uh—I—what?!”

You propped yourself up onto your elbows, flipping onto your stomach and letting your chin rest between your palms. “It’s a genuine question,” you said calmly. “You don’t have to be weird about it.”

“I—I mean—” he floundered, cheeks reddening so fast it was almost impressive. “Yeah? I think? I mean. Yeah.”

You raised a brow. “Why are you saying that like it’s up for debate? I feel like that’s something you’d… know.”

Peter dragged a hand down his face, then rubbed it anxiously against the leg of his jeans. “I just wasn’t expecting that question so you caught me off guard. And I dunno. Isn’t it kind of obvious?”

“You’re surprisingly mysterious for someone who once electrocuted himself trying to fix a toaster,” you said, grinning. “Could’ve gone either way.”

Peter made a face. “You literally pretend made out with me because I admitted I never kissed anyone. Would’ve been kinda weird if I lost my virginity before that, right?”

“I mean… some guys do that. Not ideal, but it’s not unheard of.”

He blinked, brows furrowed in genuine concern and confusion. “Really?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. But like, don’t be that guy. Kiss her first.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “Yeah. I’d like to think I’d do that. You know. If—when—that ever happens.”

There was a pause. Then Peter glanced at you again—quieter this time, his voice gentler. “Why’d you ask?”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Just thinking about how convincing I was in the closet.”

A flush crept up his neck. “It was… really convincing,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “So. Thanks—for doing that. You didn’t have to. But it made me feel… less like a loser.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed yourself upright, crossing your legs beneath you as you faced him. “You are not a loser, Pete. Yeah, sure—you’re a little dorky. And awkward. And weird.”

“Thanks,” he said flatly, but there was the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“But never a loser,” you said with a smile, softer now, your voice more sure.. “You intern under Tony Stark. You’re the smartest person in any room. And you’re genuinely kind. That’s like… stupid rare.”

Peter looked down, fiddling with the corner of his notebook. “Yeah, but it’s hard to believe sometimes when I haven’t even made it to first base. Not even half-base.”

You squinted. “What’s half-base? Like, holding hands?”

“Probably. And if so, I’ve only held hands with Aunt May. And you, when you drag me across Whole Foods like a lost toddler.”

You laughed under your breath. But then he hesitated.

“…Would you…” he started, then immediately cut himself off. “Never mind.”

You straightened. “No. Absolutely not. You can’t never mind me.”

“It’s dumb. Forget I said anything.”

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” you said, pointing at him. “You tell me right this instance.”

He looked so sheepish you almost wanted to hug him. “It’s just—it’s stupid, okay? I was gonna ask if you’d, like… I dunno… teach me. How to kiss. But that’s weird. That’s—weird. I don’t wanna ruin anything between us.”

You stared at him. “Peter.”

He winced. “Yeah?”

You shrugged, voice even. “I mean… maybe a little weird. But I don’t really care.”

He glanced up, eyes flicking to yours like he wasn’t sure he heard you right.

You offered a small, lopsided smile. “If you want me to, I’ll teach you.”

Peter blinked at you like you’d just spoken in binary—his brain visibly lagging, mouth parted, gaze flickering between your eyes and lips like he was trying to keep up with something he hadn’t fully processed yet.

“Now that you said yes, it feels really weird.”

You shrugged, casual, even though you could feel the air between you starting to shift. “I’m not gonna push you into anything. It’s just an offer. I’ve kissed friends before.”

That pulled him out of his spiral a bit—just enough to make him tilt his head, brows pulling together. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether to be nervous or curious. Or even jealous. Maybe all three?

“But like… actually? You would?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Do you, like… want me to do something for it?” he asked, cautiously. “I don’t know—pay you, or something?”

You blinked, then stared at him. “Is this your way of calling me a prostitute?”

His eyes widened in horror. “What? No! Oh my God, no—I didn’t mean it like that! I just didn’t want it to be, like, a one-way thing where I’m taking advantage of you or like, me pressuring you into—shit, I swear I didn’t mean it that way—”

You cut him off with a lazy wave of your hand and patted the mattress beside you.

“C’mere. I’m kidding. This isn’t a business transaction.”

He stared at you, like he wasn’t sure if this was real, then reluctantly slid closer, moving like someone about to defuse a bomb. He sat stiffly at first, hands gripping the edge of the bed like he thought gravity might suck him off the edge. You were cross-legged now, knee brushing against his thigh, and the contact made him twitch.

You gave him a look. “Relax. Lucky for you, I’m a great teacher.”

He gave a short, shaky laugh. “Okay… so what do I do?”

You scooted closer. “Well, first—read the room. If she wants to kiss you, you’ll know.”

You locked eyes with him—steady, deliberate. His lashes fluttered, and you let your gaze drop to his mouth, just for a breath, before flicking back up. His whole body went still.

“That’s usually your cue,” you said softly.

He nodded, dazed.

You smiled again, slower this time. “There’s not really a perfect formula to it. You just kind of… do it. Let it happen. It’s like swimming—my grandpa once threw me into a pool when I was three and I nearly drowned, but hey. Learned fast.”

Peter gave you a look. “That explains so much.”

You shoved his shoulder. “Shut up. I’m being serious. And this is your last chance to back out. Because kissing someone, even if it’s just practice, is still super intimate.”

“I trust you,” he said quietly—so sincerely, so without hesitation that it made your throat go tight.

You breathed out, heart thudding. “Okay then. Well, to start, just… pick a lip. Top or bottom. Go with the flow. If it feels right, maybe tongue—but don’t overdo it. No one wants to feel like they’re choking.”

Peter nodded like you were giving him instructions to pilot an aircraft.

Your eyes found his and lingered there, steady and unreadable. Then, just like before, your gaze dropped slowly and deliberately to his mouth before your eyes dragged back up to meet his again.

You tilted your head. “That’s your cue.”

He exhaled softly before he leaned in. It was soft and barely there at first, his breath brushing your lips before he finally closed the distance. His mouth on yours was warm and hesitant and too quick, and when he pulled away like he was waiting for you to laugh, you didn’t move.

You just looked at him.

He leaned in again.

The second kiss was deeper. Hungrier. His mouth found yours with more confidence now, like he’d realized he wanted this—and you let him have it. You met him halfway, lips parting slightly, inviting. Testing. His hand brushed your side, tentative at first, but you reached for it and guided it to your waist, pressing his fingers there with intention. You shifted closer until your knees were touching, until your body was nearly draped across his lap. Your fingers found the back of his neck, then wove into the soft curls at his nape, tugging gently as you deepened the kiss.

Peter responded instinctively—like something had clicked inside him and shut the thinking part of his brain off. His hand slid from your waist to your hip, fingers flexing like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to pull you closer or just wanted to. You made the choice for him—shifting until you were practically straddling one of his thighs, your hands buried in his hair, his breath catching in his throat as he tilted his head to kiss you harder.

The kiss turned messier. He groaned softly against your mouth, and you were surprised at the sound he’d made, but you didn’t stop. Your hand ran down the side of his neck, across the slope of his shoulder, curling into the fabric of his shirt as his other hand found your thigh, gripping—tentative but craving.

When you finally pulled back, your breath caught and your head spun. His lips were pink and swollen, his eyes dark and unfocused, chest rising and falling unevenly like he couldn’t catch his breath.

He looked wrecked. 

“See?” you said, voice slightly hoarse. “Nothing to freak out over.”

Peter stared at you, dazed, lips parted, curls mussed from your hands. He swallowed.

“Do I get… a second lesson?” he asked, already leaning back in.

You grinned. “Since when were you so bold?”

“Sorry,” he said, eyes wide, voice tight—like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

“You’re so tense. I’d be down for a second lesson, but not tonight. I actually do have homework I forgot about. And I don’t think I’d be able to focus in here.” you winked playfully.

Peter gave a short, nervous laugh, still perched on the edge of his bed like he didn’t know how to function. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”

You jumped down from the loft with a soft thud, then bent to put your shoes back on. He caught the way your shirt shifted up your back, revealing a sliver of skin, and quickly looked away like he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to.

You peeled off his hoodie he lent you and tossed it onto his desk chair with casual ease, adjusting your top beneath. Peter tried not to stare, but his body betrayed him. He shifted uncomfortably on the mattress, angling his hips slightly as he pressed his hands into his lap to hide his growing bulge in his jeans. He didn’t think you noticed. But you did.

You gave him a mischievous once-over. “I’ll see you, yeah?”

He nodded too quickly. “Yeah. See you.”

And then you were gone. The door clicked shut behind you, and the room felt colder somehow.

Peter sat there for a long time, unmoving. Staring at the spot where you’d stood. Replay after replay of the kiss ran laps in his head—how you’d looked at him, how your mouth had felt on his, how your hands had held him. And then the way you’d walked out, tossing his hoodie off your frame like it had never meant anything.

Eventually, his phone buzzed.

First, a text from you:

You: get ur roommate in check

You: i shouldve just stayed over omfg

A second followed almost immediately—this one from Ned:

Ned: just so you know, you got the room to yourself tonight ;)

He swallowed hard. His body still buzzed like static. The heat hadn’t left him—not even close. He knew he should’ve opened his laptop, worked on the physics problem set due tomorrow. But he couldn’t focus. His mind was stuck on you. How you’d kissed him. How he’d kissed you back. The way your lips had parted, the way your body had pressed against his.

And then… it got worse.

Worse, or better—he didn’t know. All he knew was that the memory of you straddling his thigh, your fingers in his hair, the soft sound you made when you kissed him deeper—it lit him up.

He turned off the lamp, leaving only the faint blue glow of the fan light and slits of streetlight pouring through the blinds. The room hummed in low tones, too still for what he felt in his chest.

And in his jeans.

Peter let out a slow, shaky breath as he lay back on the bed. He was already hard, achingly so. His cock throbbed against the zipper of his jeans and the guilt made it worse somehow. But shame didn’t stop the heat in his blood. Didn’t stop the way his hips tilted up seeking friction.

“Shit,” he whispered, hating himself just a little.

But he still slipped his hand down, fingers fumbling with the button and zipper, freeing himself with a hiss of relief. His cock was flushed and leaking at the tip, throbbing against his palm as he began to stroke—slow at first, like he could pretend this wasn’t happening.

But it was.

And it felt so fucking good.

He pictured you. Your mouth. The weight of you in his lap. Your breathy little laugh. The way your voice had gone soft when you said his name. The curve of your waist beneath his hand. The heat of your skin.

His hand moved faster. Up, down, tighter. He gasped when his thumb caught the head of his cock, slick with precum. His arm flexed, the tendons standing out in sharp relief as he stroked harder, hips lifting off the bed to meet his own grip.

His heart hammered. Sweat beaded at his temples, soaking into the curls at his hairline. He remembered how your lips had parted under his, how your tongue had tasted him. He imagined more. You on top of him. Under him. Saying his name like that again—but lower this time. Rougher.

His toes curled. “Fuck,” he gasped.

He kept going, desperate and breath shallowed. His thighs tensed, stomach pulling tight as the pressure coiled inside him, hot and unbearable.

He imagined your mouth—warm, wet, wanting. He imagined the drag of your teeth on his neck, your nails on his back, the way you subconsciously grinded on his thigh like you wanted it as much as he did. And when he finally came, it was sharp and sudden, his whole body seizing as he spilled into his hand with a low, guttural groan.

He stayed there, chest rising and falling, breath coming in unsteady waves. His hand was still wrapped loosely around himself as sweat clung to his skin, sheets twisted beneath.

The guilt came fast.

He swallowed hard.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, but softer this time.

Peter closed his eyes.

He wasn’t sure what felt more overwhelming: the way you’d kissed him, the way you’d left, or the way he already knew he wanted more.

You already had a good idea about what it was to do with, and you definitely wanted to participate in the teasing this time. You were on the way back to Quantico after finishing up a case in Los Angeles, following a string of rapes and murders around a few of the popular strip clubs and nightclubs. 

You weren’t with Derek and Spencer when they were interviewing the girls in the clubs, but you can only imagine what Spencer was like. 

Everyone knew Spencer was pretty inexperienced with females, and when he was required to talk to one his age, he got pretty flustered. Fumbling his words, doing his awkward smile that they usually thought was weird (you thought it was cute), busying his hands and blinking faster, everything out of a pre-pubescent teenage boy textbook.   

“The fact that genius boy here does not know anything about women”, Elle answers in a teasing tone aimed towards said genius. 

“That’s- that's not true, I’ve read things ab-”  Spencer retorts, fumbling over his words. 

“Oh my god, guys spencer reads porn!” Elle fakes a gasp with amusement.

Your cheeks hurt from how hard you try to keep your laughter in. The look on Spencer’s face is nearly enough to knock you overboard to the point of no return. His cheeks get redder, almost the colour of a ripe tomato during the heat of the summer, something you were sure was impossible. 

“Fifty Shades of Grey? Brigertons? J.D Ward?” You say with curiosity, a teasing smile finds home on your lips as the words spill from them. 

Doubt was a very vivid emotion when it came to the possibility of Spencer reading erotica; it was porn on paper, for god sakes, there’s no way he would-

“I’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey before, but it wasn't very good”, Spencer starts, sitting up, something he does before he starts explaining facts and talking statistics. “I finished it out of curiosity. From a literary standpoint, the character development is… limited. Also, the contract section is surprisingly unrealistic.” 

Oh my god 

“But when I purposely look for information on... women, it’s mostly blogs on how to- talk and other things.” 

“I’m sorry, blogs?” Morgan raises his eyebrow “You read blogs on how to have sex?” 

“Wha- I didn't say sex”, He squints his eyes, he speaks the word ‘sex’ as if it’s the most outrageous thing he’s ever spoken or possibly even been accused of. 

“Yeah, you didn’t have to”, Elle mutters behind her glass, which she brings to her lips. 

A small smile spreads over your lips at the picture this makes in front of you.  Inexperienced, shy, nerdy, scared of women, Spencer reading ‘how to’ blogs in the dark of his apartment, wondering how to make a woman feel good whilst so desperately needing someone to touch him. 

Holy shit. 

You don’t know why, but that thought causes a heat in the bottom of your stomach. As a small throb makes itself recognised between your legs, you clasp your thighs together in a motion you hope goes unnoticed. 

And for fucks sake, apparently you're ovulating because you’ve also just noticed how good Spencer looks when he’s flustered.  

He’s got those pretty puppy eyes, his dark brows are furrowed in such a way that you almost lean over to kiss them. What the fuck? 

“Look, pretty boy, if you want tips on how to get laid, just ask me” Derek shrugs his shoulders; he’s got such an ego when it comes to the topic of getting laid or hooking up, his smugness is evident on his face. He nudges his broad shoulder with Spencer's. 

“Yeah, everyone knows you’re run through Morgan”, Elle comments with a chuckle laced in her words, and Derek responds with a playful eyeroll that you're surprised doesn’t reach his frontal lobe.

“It’s not- It’s not that, I just want to make a woman feel-” Spencer sighs like he already regrets his next word before he speaks it, “good.”

Spencer looks at you as soon as the sentence leaves him, a silence forms between you, and you have to wonder why the silence feels so heavy, why it has that buzz to it, the one that rings in your ears and through your bones. He looks away quickly, but quickly isn’t the way you describe the buzzing leaving, because it doesn’t. 

It doesn’t leave. 

“What do you mean by good? You know, there are thousands of ways to make a woman feel good,” You inquire, your tone sounding a little too interested in the matter. “Oral, kissing, fingering, licking, sucking, uh- words i guess, dirty talk maybe” You count them off on your fingers, you can feel Spencer’s embarrassment rise with every word spoken, and yet you find that’s the reason you're doing it. 

“Money”, Elle adds.

“That too”

“Touching and.. Tasting,” Spencer says softly, but also like he had to force them out at the same time. 

He looks so pretty flustered. And those words coming from his mouth sound the equivalent of dirty talking, at least they sound dirty to you. Is that weird? 

“I already see it”, Elle nods her head, “Proper munch.” 

As if you all have a sixth sense, you and the others turn around at the same time and face the eyes burning into you from the jet's couch. You had felt it, the way it always felt, like a parent scolding their children for misbehaving.

“Let’s not talk about Spencer’s sex life on the jet”, Hotch chides, glancing up from the file he had been reading. He has one of those looks that only went to one of the team members (Elle) but felt like it was aimed at all of you, even Spencer, whose cheeks still burn like the sun shining through the plane windows.

As though you were dogs just told they’ve been bad, you turn around again. The jet goes awkwardly silent for a minute before Elle’s poor mistake of trying to hold her laughter fails. You let a chuckle out alongside her, and when you hear one slip from across the table where Spencer sits, you look up.

Again, meeting his eyes, holding eye contact for longer this time. It speaks louder than last time, the absence of words wither at the heat between your glances. He smiles softly, it's genuine and warm and matches like a perfect pair with his golden eyes, they both shine from unimaginable heights and knock the breath out of you just the same. 

The rest of the flight is filled with those heated glances between you and Spencer, words not spoken because even if they were… they wouldn’t live up to the feeling of catching his eyes from across the table. 

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩   

After you and the team had gotten back to the BAU, Penelope had come up to you, Elle and JJ and asked if you could all go out for drinks.

 You knew you couldn’t say no; it was Penelope. 

Derek had also somehow managed to sneak himself into the plans to get pissed at the nearest bar, using his flirting tricks and good looks to sway Garcia. 

                                   ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ 

When Garcia normally pulled you to the bar after a long case, you had some control over yourself when it came to drinking, but tonight was different. Tonight, you had things on your mind that you wanted to push back into the farthest parts of yourself, and nothing did that better than shitty alcohol in a bar that stunk of cheap liquor and sweaty bodies.

You had been sitting in the booth at the far end of the bar for a while now, just observing with your hazy eyes and dizzy head. Elle and Penelope had ditched you for an interesting conversation with a lone guy sitting at the bar, and JJ had headed home half an hour ago, so you were currently alone and wallowing in the unspoken feelings that had been eating away at you since the jet.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Derek being rubbed on by a group of three females who all look like they are trying very hard to get lucky tonight. You don't think their attempt at dancing did much for them, though, but you could tell that Derek wasn't paying much attention to their so-called moves and more to the cleavage that was being moved about in his line of sight. 

He was very noticeably enjoying the female attention, a wide grin is plastered over his face, and his chuckle rings out when one got close enough to his lips in a teasing motion that you were surprised they weren't full-on making out in the middle of the room.  

Your head buzzes like you were a million miles away, and your head sways to the speaker's music with a motion you swear you don’t control. You had a bad habit of doing things you weren't particularly in control of when you were more than four shots deep. 

The words that came out of Spencer's mouth earlier on the jet had been vivid in your mind since: his cheeks that warmed as his words became more revealing, the way his voice went up a pitch when Elle had lightheartedly accused him of reading porn. And the genuine laugh when he looked up at you, the pretty one that sounded like a melody coming from a vulnerable place in his chest.

You tighten your legs together as the presence of the vision and the sound of his voice from earlier dance in your head, slow, fast, quiet, loud and oh so good. You’ve felt that way about Spencer a few times on occasion, but you always brushed it off as needing to get laid after so long. This was different in a way you weren't accustomed to, and you had no descriptive words for it other than… want. Pure unfiltered want.    

You blame your actions on the stuffiness of the bar and the six empty shot glasses in front of you as you pick up your phone that had been left on the table and click on the contact you only ever really texted when it related to a case or something another to do with work.

You thought about how to word your text to him, but it wasn’t exactly up to you as the vodka in your system took the reins and sent a text that sober you would have paled over.  

(you) 11:02 pm: do yu wnat me to teach you?

(you) 11:20 pm: please 

                                     ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You didn’t want to see Spencer; your only thoughts whilst riding the elevator up to the BAU were the hopes that Spencer was off sick. Well, not sick exactly, you’d rather he wasn’t actually unwell, you weren't that cold-hearted. 

But you were delusional enough to hope that once you stepped out onto the floor where you worked, you would come across an empty desk where Spencer would normally sit.

Your manifestations had come out cold and were not of any use as you hesitantly stepped through the glass doors to the BAU and met the hazel eyes at the desk you had so desperately hoped was empty. You look away as quickly as you can manage and speed walk to your desk at the other end of the bullpen so fast you send out a hissed curse when your hip comes in contact with the edge of the wooden table. 

The dividers between the desks kept Spencer out of eyesight as you slump down on your seat and let out a groan when your elbows rest on the desk with your head in your hands. You had fucked up so bad when you sent that text last night that you couldn’t even come into work the next day without feeling like you were committing a crime. 

Your chest had a burning feeling you couldn’t quite differentiate between guilt or a soul-eating dread; you had a good feeling it was the latter. 

You had woken up early that morning with a pounding headache that was later soothed with painkillers and a burning hot embarrassment (that was not cured with painkillers) as you checked your phone and saw the two blue ticks next to your stupid, so fucking stupid text. 

You had gotten ready with the pace of a snail as you contemplated crawling back into bed and pretending you didn’t exist. You couldn’t, but you came to the conclusion that you could pretend Spencer didn’t exist and that last night didn’t happen. And whilst that is hard to do because it is not only hurting you, but you're sure Spencer will start to feel hurt too, you have manipulated yourself to think that it's the best thing you can do as an outcome to your fucking stupid, drunk, pussy ass, fuck ass text that drunk, horny you thought was genius to send, just fucking genius.

You had asked yourself a million questions on the way here with an angry tone to your thoughts, and you only had two answers to them that you had only just admitted to yourself. 

You were attracted to Spencer Reid.

You wanted to teach Spencer how to make a woman feel good, and you badly wanted that woman to be you.

                                    ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You had managed two hours of writing reports and going through old case files, ones that contained photo evidence that had made your stomach twist, before you started heavily craving caffeine as the effectiveness of your painkillers depleted when the seconds ticked by. 

It took some persuading from yourself, but you get up and make your way to the bullpens' corner kitchen that you and your team only used for the coffee machine. 

You remember the last time you opened the off-white mini fridge in the corner, and the putrid smell of well gone of food had you and JJ gagging, you decided to hold your nose when you planted the mouldy chinese on Gideon's desk and told him to never leave it that long again. You remember leaving his office and hearing the soft huff that sounded a lot like a chuckle seep out from the crack of the half-closed door.

You had joined the Behaviour Analysis Unit two weeks after Spencer had joined, and since that day two years ago, you have come to find yourself a family, one that didn’t just have that family feeling during working hours but all the time. 

But out of everyone on the team who you held close to your heart and considered family, Spencer was your person, and he was like an extension of you most of the time. You suppose that's why you feel so much guilt about the text you sent him the night before; you didn’t want to fuck up the bond you both already cherished so deeply.

You knew you had always felt more with Spencer, but like, with pretty much everything in your life, you chose to ignore it. Until the results of your bottled-up feelings came out in a drunk text that had been weighing heavily on your heart since the morning.

You were so consumed in your own thoughts that you hadn’t been aware that you’d been stirring your coffee for at least a minute, that was, until you heard a honeyed voice behind you.

“You’ve been stirring for one minute and thirty-two seconds- and counting” 

It’s like your body short-circuits and stops working on you as you freeze up in response to Spencer's words. Turning around, you meet his gaze, and so many unsaid words drift in the space between you. 

You swear he looks more beautiful than the last time you saw him, but you can’t tell if it is your mind playing tricks on you, maybe it was the still-fading pain meds or just… just. Maybe it came down to the feelings you had only just admitted to yourself that were still new in your head.

He has a small wrinkle between his softly furrowed brows as he sets his eyes on you and then to the cup of ‘going cold by the second’ coffee on the counter behind you. 

“Yeah- yeah, I'm sure it's mixed by now” You turn back to your coffee and toss away the wooden stirrer into the trash can by your feet. You feel a warm heat travel up your neck, curl around your ears and settle like a blanket, a very heavy blanket, on your cheeks. You knew the whole ‘ignoring’ wasn’t going to last long, but three hours felt kind of feeble. You should have expected it wouldn't go on for long. Spencer had a habit of noticing when things were ugly or, more so, awkward in this case, between him and someone, and wanting to fix it as soon as he could, as soon as he found the courage for it.

“Did you- did you have fun last night?” Spencer says with a voice that made it obvious he was trying to hide the awkwardness that was surely settled deeply in him. 

“Yeah, it was good” You nod to your words and sip your coffee, trying to look at anything but him. 

“Derek told me you had a lot to drink and uh- showed me the video of the karaoke” 

You mentally groan so hard you accidentally let one slip out of your own throat that you don’t bother covering up. You only half remembered the poor attempt at singing to 22 by Taylor Swift after being dragged on stage by Penelope, but you find enough memory of it to know it involved drunken giggling, slurring and pure fumbling over your words that really wasn't attractive in any way.  

“I was way too out of my mind to even notice that he had been filming” 

“How out of your mind?” Spencer's voice was quieter than it had originally been, almost like he was getting his hopes up that you would give him the answer he wanted. 

Whatever that was.

“Spencer..” 

He takes a step closer, not a big one but one that shows he’s listening.

“Were you drunk enough that you’d say things?” he breathes out in soft frustration “, things that you didn’t mean”. His brows go up in question.  

You shake your head in disagreement as he takes another step closer; you had never witnessed Spencer so determined to get an answer from someone in such a way that he looked like he was holding onto every word said and every shaky breath you exhaled.

He looked at you through his thick lashes that you had always said you were jealous of, and you thought you might melt right there as a result of the tension swirling around the air.

“I need you to tell me what you're talking about so I don't say something stupid about a thing that's not even relevant to what you're on about” You ask gingerly.

Spencer was acting in a way you had never seen before, and you didn’t understand how you were meant to feel knowing it was the result of you, of something that you had caused.

“Well, last night you sent me a text-, do you remember?” Spencer questions as if he couldn’t actually decide whether you knew what he was on about, like the possibility of being too drunk to forget a text like that was a high chance. 

“Yeah, I remember- I know”. 

“Okay, then, tell me what you meant, " he remarks. 

You look down at the steaming mug in your hands, carefully moving your palms so the coffee would sway and malipulate small ripples across the surface ever so slightly. It was almost calming in a way, something so minuscule like the movement of your own hands was an enticing hypnosis. That was a habit you had had for a long time, moving whatever was in your hands as a way of distraction from the fact that you had to answer and were too flustered to even think of a right response. 

“That I wanted to teach you”

“I need more than that” 

“Do I really need to speak it out loud, because I'm starting to think this is a humiliation ritual” 

“I would prefer if you did” His pretty puppy dog eyes that he wore so well catch your eyes and hold contact as he waits for a response, " Please.” 

You exhale a sassy breath and look up to the water-stained ceiling above you so you wouldn’t have to hold eye contact and gauge his reaction in response to your answer. 

“You said on the jet that you wanted- this is so stupid- that you wanted to know how to make a woman feel good. It was all I could think about last night, so I sent you that text to let you know that I'm always here if you need… a lesson. A physical one” 

The prolonged silence rings out louder than any words ever could, and the burning behind your eyes starts with no grace or warning. Not with embarrassment or anxiety, but with an achy feeling commonly known as ‘I fucked up so bad, he hates me and thinks I'm a right weirdo, and why did I ever think he would want to go down on me, blah blah blah’.  

“Okay” 

Okay??

Tearing your eyes off the ceiling and blinking away your blurry vision, you take notice of Spencer's slicked back hair that you're sure looks more out of place than it had been before you looked up, as though he was running his hand through it absentmindedly. The tips of his curved ears are a shade darker on the blushed scale, and the pupils in the middle of his hazel eyes are a size bigger, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he looks more flushed and perhaps hungry in a way he wasn’t even certain he knew how to feel about. 

“Okay?” You repeat, trying to figure out what exactly he could mean by okay, okay was such a versatile word that could be taken any which way, depending on the tone of voice, but when the word drifted from Spencer’s pressed lips, he revealed nothing. 

“I- I’d like that, " he stutters, “If the offer is still up.” 

You stand there stunned for a while before you speak up, your voice wavering, “Actually?”  

“Unless the text was only a drunk thing- and you didn’t mean.”

“I meant it”, You say matter-of-factly, the previous unease within you flattens at the statement. 

You’d gone through all the possible outcomes of this conversation when he had come up to you a few minutes ago, and you didn’t have a single ounce of hope that Spencer would agree; in fact, it hadn't crossed your mind once that Spencer would be acquainted with the idea of a lesson between your legs.

“Good, good, well, I’ll Em- do you do Email?”

“Text me, Spencer” 

He nods, stepping away to walk back into the bullpen “Yeah- okay, I’ll do that”.

 A small smile graces his mouth before he walks away, and the contagiousness of the upturned lips passes onto you and lingers even after he’s sat down at his desk a few meters away and you start making your way to your own desk. Your desk that was covered in silly little figures that Penelope had planted there on your first day, she told you that the minute you had stepped into the bullpen, you had a look about you that came across to her as you needing some sparkle in your life. 

But the sparkle that had changed your life around for the good wasn’t the small unicorns that littered your desk, the pom pom pens in your tabby cat mug or the stickers decorating your name plaque, but instead it came in the form of bright hazel eyes, brown slick back hair, an IQ of 187 and a soft mouth grazed with frequent smiles that would soon find a place between your legs.

                                   ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You could swear you still felt a small curly hair tickle the soft skin of your upper thigh; you couldn’t exactly pluck out a pube in the middle of an apartment building hallway, so you could only hope that it was dark enough in Spencer's apartment that he wouldn't even notice the single hair on your otherwise smooth skin that you had shaved, scrubbed and moisterized more times than once. 

Every step closer to his apartment door had your heart beating faster in a way that was almost a cause for concern. 

You had received a text from him two hours ago, two days after the conversation in the BAU’s corner kitchen, and it only consisted of four words.

(reid >ᴗ<) 4:58 pm: Can you come over?

Shortly after reading it, you had sped into your bathroom and spent an hour under the warm rush of hot water whilst bending and stretching in awkward positions to shave the skin between your thighs, and when you were as satisfied as you could be, you had dried and moisturised with pure determination. 

Only as you had been ready to slip on your underwear had you replied to Spencer.

(you) 6:03 pm: black or white?

(reid >ᴗ<) 6:05 pm: Context? 

(you) 6:05 pm: doesn’t matter 

(you) 6:05 pm: just answer 

(reid >ᴗ<) 6:05 pm: Is this part of my learning?

(you) 6:05 pm: yeah, and it’s important

(reid  >ᴗ<) 6:06 pm: White.

(reid  >ᴗ<) 6:08 pm: And lace.

You gently rap your knuckles against the smooth wooden door, and on the final firm rap, you stop midway as you hear the unlocking behind the wood. The second you hear that small sound of the metal clicking out of place, your brain runs around frantically, overthinking every small thing you did whilst getting ready only a few minutes ago. 

Did you put enough deodorant on? Should you have drunk more of the sweet pomegranate juice that had been in the fridge for a couple of weeks that you knew would have its use at some point? Is the lace showing above your jeans slutty in a good way or a bad way? Is the black push-up bra that you got a size too small a bad fashion decision, or should you have matched it with your underwear? Is your pussy smooth enough? What if you didn’t exfoliate right? 

As the creak of the door opening sounds out, you meet the warmth of his gaze and the overthinking is reduced to a small buzz at the very bottom of your list of important things. He’s not wearing his usual work attire that normally consists of a tie and a kitted vest, but instead he’s traded it out for a loosely fitting long-sleeved grey t-shirt and a red, white and black plaid pair of trousers you recognise as pyjamas. 

You don't know why it feels so foreign to see him wearing his sleep clothes, and why the foreign feeling is quite a nice feeling that settles happily in your chest. You suppose not many people have the opportunity to see him in this state, so as you do now, you cherish it.

He opens the door up, and you turn one side of your mouth up in a half-smile as you walk through the door and into the warmth of his apartment. 

You’ve only stepped foot into his apartment once, one year ago, when you needed to sleep on his couch for the night, when the smell of wet paint churned your stomach so much you couldn’t stand sleeping in your own apartment until the renovations had been completed.

You found as much ease walking into the room as you did the first time; the feel of Spencer’s apartment had that effect on anyone who had the chance to visit. Since the last time you had been in the apartment, there were more spaces filled on the bookshelf and more worn books piled on top of the storage unit where his stereo sat against the far right wall in the open-plan living room.

Knowing Spencer, he’d probably read all the books he already had and needed to buy more or borrow some from the library to feed his reading addiction. 

“Would you like some coffee? Milk and three sugars?” Spencer asks from behind you; it’s very obvious he’s not got any idea how to create a sexually intense thread of tension between the two of you.

You had already told yourself that you would need to take charge and tell him what to do, to lead, but standing in the middle of his apartment with nothing in your palms to fiddle with, you didn’t actually know how to start something like this. With your previous relationships or hookups, you’d just lie there and let their mouth wander, and you’d never have to say or do anything but moan and look pretty as they tried their hardest to find the clit (they never did, and you ended up faking it 80% of the time). 

You couldn’t with Spencer; you had to teach, show him how to touch and taste and make you feel good so he would know how to in the future…for other women. That’s why you were doing this, you reminded yourself. So he would know how to make women feel good, not just you. 

“Just water”, your reply comes out softly. 

Spencer strides to the kitchen at the same time you sit yourself down on the brown leather couch facing the window. You hear the kettle boil as he makes his drink, and the turning of the sink as he pours yours. 

You reach behind the back of your head and undo the messy ponytail you put up in a rush on the drive here. Because you didn’t decide to bring a bag due to the fact that you had only brought your phone and keys, you slip it onto your wrist. You find yourself subconsciously flicking the black band on your wrist, not in a way that brings you pain or discomfort, but more so in a way your mind subconsciously finds soothing, a way to comfort the anxiety and dripping arousal.

As the sound of a cup being put down follows another, you watch the smooth movement of Spencer sitting down next to you, creating a small dip in the couch. The tension pulls between you, like a string being tugged or north pole and south pole magnets colliding. 

Spencer’s gaze flickers down to your lips in a motion far from subtle. You watch his chest rise and fall with a steady rhythm, a movement that shows he’s feeling something like need, like it’s a pure hunger flowing through his veins. 

“You know, if you're having your tongue on my pussy soon, it’s reasonable to kiss me” 

Your words have him moving his eyes from your lips. He nods nervously as he agrees, “Yeah, I guess that makes sense”.

Getting ready to flutter your eyes closed, you pause midway to closing them, and then you fully open them again. You had half expected Spencer to take charge of the kiss, but you were mistaken; he looked like he didn’t have the slightest clue about how to lean in and what was right. 

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” You question softly, shuffling closer to him. 

“Once in high school, but we got our braces caught together” 

You huff out a chuckle and shuffle even closer to him, watching his face for the emotions that fleet across his face, whether fast or slow. Accidentally bumping your knee with his thigh, Spencer’s finger tips graze over the top of your leg in a soft caress before settling his hand down like he wasn’t sure if you were about to tell him to take it off or press down even more. 

You don’t say anything, but look him in the eyes as you move your body so you're straddling his lap and pressing your chest to his. His hips buck up slightly at the sudden movement, but like it’s almost natural, and he’s gone through his head practising this. He moves his hand up your body, sending shivers up your spine with every touch of your atoms meeting.

He seems to know what to do this time, driven by desire, desire evident from the growing bulge beneath you, strained by the layers of clothes. It’s quick but not rushed as he plants his other warm palm on the side of your neck, ever so gently and tugs you towards him. 

The hand still resting on the side of your clothed waist squeezes gently as the rest of his body eases when your lips gently meet his in a way only described as euphoric. 

Your brain transcends into mush as you find yourself melting into the soft lips of your co-worker, the same co-worker who sends a thrill up your spine as he pushes on your waist, moving you forward and then pushing you back. He tries to chase the friction between both of you by manually moving your hips with his grip on you and grinding you down on him; he does it so gently, never gripping too hard.

He makes a small gasp into your mouth as your lips move together; there’s no tongue yet added into the mix, but the softness of each other's lips and the unfiltered lust drive you both enough as it is. 

When you do add tongue to the mix, Spencer is the one to initiate it as he opens his mouth and probes his tongue against your lips, swiping it against the slit in a question. 

Your answer comes as opening your mouth and accepting his tongue; you moan against his mouth as you meet halfway. He tastes like black coffee (or sugar with a side of coffee, you suppose) and desperation, both things you love when served by Spencer. 

Everything Spencer gives you, when he lets out a whimper, when he bucks up against you, when he pulls back and breaths heavily against your half-open mouth while looking up at you through his lashes, you take it. You take everything he gives you, and you make it yours.

His touch moves from where it resides and comes up to the hem of your ruffled shirt; it has you pulling back and looking at him.

“Can I?”

You nod. 

You feel the hot exhale against your bare collarbone after he slides your shirt off and drops it on the floor behind you. Your body shivers from where his fingers narrowly skim across the sensitive skin of your waist.

You feel intoxicated with every touch or breathy gasp exchanged, your mind is set at a current setting that only lets you think of touch, taste and the lust that's filtered through every expanse of your being.

Spencer is definitely an inexperienced kisser, and you can tell when he has the occasional slip-up or when he accidentally clashes his teeth against yours, but the sexual desire coming from a pit within him controls the movements of his mouth and body, and that is more attractive than any slip-up he could make. 

“I want to take you to the bedroom, I want to make you feel good”, He begs you, his voice sounding needy. 

You only had to whisper a plea, and he had stood up, you around him, without much effort. It surprised you that he did it with that much ease; he wasn’t exactly fit. He wasn’t unhealthy by any means; you just assumed that without the muscle building him up, that he wasn’t exactly capable of heavy lifting, but he had proven you wrong.

It was a short distance to his bedroom, and you have your head buried into the warm skin between his shoulder and neck as he walks with you in his hold. You feel safe in a way you have never felt before. 

He drops you down onto the softness of the mattress in such a gentle way that you feel like a treasured artefact. He positions you so your back is against the mattress, but your legs are half on the bed. You take your shoes off by pushing them against each other, and they fall to the floor by Spencer with a small thump. 

With only your socks covering your feet, you place them on the edge of the bed, bending your legs at the knee. Spencer stands before you, admiring the sight of you splayed out on the bed, not yet fully undressed but beautiful, with regard. The tent in his pants is visible, and the imagined vision of what was under the layers, just by guessing based on the imprint, was an intoxicating picture displayed in the front of your mind. 

He leans down, bracing a hand to the side of his head. He presses a quick kiss to your lips, the first kiss that didn't feel like lust or sexual desire but instead something unspoken, something that has you widening your eyes and feeling a precious warmth settle in your chest. 

You were doing this for Spencer, you were teaching him how to make a woman feel good, and yet your personal attraction to Spencer that you had become accustomed to recently was causing a hot wire in your head. You were allured by him with a captivating charm you had never experienced. 

His mouth was about to find home on your pussy, and you had to pretend like you weren’t falling for him even more every time he touched you. 

When he pulls away from the soft peck, you lay a hand on his jaw and turn him back towards your lips and turn the softness of his kiss to a needier sweep of your tongues. 

“Can- can you tell me what to do?” He catches his breath as he pulls away reluctantly and focuses on your face, his eyes moving from your lips. 

“Take my bra off” 

His dark eyes flicker down from your face and land on the black bra you had decided wasn’t as bad as you had thought earlier, because from your angle, your boobs looked amazing. 

The small pulse that came from the bulge resting on your leg told you he thought so to.  

You prop yourself up with your elbows, giving Spencer more space to move his hand behind your back. With one palm planted on the mattress beside your head, he uses his free hand to reach behind your back, trying and failing to unclasp the back of the bra. 

You admire the way he bites his bottom lip in concentration, his fingers fiddling with the metal clasps in an effort to strip your breasts bare. You feel the skin of his knuckles gently graze against your back; it sends pulses of arousal through your body, pulses that travel slowly to your lower stomach. 

“Spencer, do you want me-”

“No, I-” 

You feel the fabric behind you loosen. 

“Got it” 

His eyes hold a captivating look that spreads like glitter everywhere his glance settles on your silky skin. With the way you're propped up, the straps that were sitting on your shoulders now slip down your arms and rest at the crooks of your inner elbows. The cups of the bra still hold your breasts, no more skin shown except the strip of your shoulder that the straps were covering before they fell. 

Lying down again, the bra cups finally slip, and you pull it off the rest of the way, discarding it next to you, exposing the swell of your breasts and the rose coloured nipples that were perked up so beautifully.

Your body arches up in a wordless question, a wordless beg for touch. 

“Spencer, touch me” 

His eyes are stuck on your breasts, admiring them like they were the most gorgeous thing he had ever laid eyes on, like they were deserving of worship. 

“I- here?” He doesn’t take his eyes off your tits.

Gently holding his wrist, you move his hand to cup your breast closest to him. The first touch of his palm sends a thrill through your nipple, and a little gasp escapes from the confines of your mouth. 

“I- oh god- I don't know how” Spencer gently squeezes your tit with his hand before removing it. 

“Put your mouth on my nipple”

“Yeah, I know that- I just don’t know how to use it”

“Then watch me, look for reactions, and you’ll know what I like” You breathe out, desperation's presence is known. 

He watches you for a few seconds, just as though he was looking for permission, even though you had already solicited the act. 

He looked so innocent like this, unaware of what to do and on edge about the possibility of doing the wrong thing. It gave you a small thrill knowing it was you he was doing this with, that despite it being a lesson, you were still his first. 

Through half-lidded eyes, your attention forms on the shift of Spencer as he hesitantly flattens his tongue against your hard nipple; he licks a stripe along the peak, soaking the skin where his dripple lands. He moves so he’s lying on his side more than leaning, so he can get a better angle as he takes your nipple into your mouth. 

The first feel of the inside of his mouth feels like something equivalent to heaven, your eyes roll back, and your nipple gets impossibly harder on the soft bed of his tongue. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to calm down the throbbing of your ever-so-needy clit that was begging for attention. 

For someone who had never sucked a girl's tit, he was impressively good at it, combined with the magnetic pull that you already felt for him was the cause for the wildness you felt so deeply as he sucked and licked your sensitive flesh. 

Opening your eyes, you notice Spencer looking up at you through hungry eyes that also some way or another, still looked pure, even in the act of being the cause of such pleasure, that your sure was evident on your face. 

He examined every small gasp you made and every shiver that wracked your body. And when he sucked in the way that had you moaning his name, he drank it in and learnt how to draw out as much pleasure as he could using his mouth on one nipple and his fingers on the other. 

He learnt how to pinch and twist using his hand, and when on the occasion it was too hard that you’d wince, he pulled back and kissed your lips with a whispered apology. 

Both nipples were dripping with his spit, and the redness from pinching the peaks was stark against your skin. Spencer looks boob drunk when he pulls away, his lips pink and swollen, drool running down his chin, something you never classified as hot until this moment. 

With newfound confidence, he reaches down to the waistband of your washed-out jeans and undoes the single button with one hand. Following his movements, he moves off the bed and again stands up before you. He leans down and unzips your jeans slowly, a small inhale slips through him as he moves his hands down to trace a finger against the lace of your panties that show through the opening of your jeans.

“Can I take your jeans off?” He asks.

“Please”, A small whimper slips out of you at the mere thought that you were only a couple of minutes away from having him settled over the throbbing wetness between your thighs. 

He doesn’t watch his own movements as he shimmies your jeans down your legs with your help and plops them on the floor, where your discarded shoes sit. All of his attention is on you as he observes the desire written over your face in the most enticing colour he could ever imagine.  

You bring the heels of your feet against the edge of the bed again, bending your legs at the knees; this time, you spread wider, giving Spencer more of a view. You can feel the wetness soaking your white underwear so much that it sticks to your pussy like a mould. 

Without question, he kneels, his knees lightly hitting the hardwood floor beneath him. The sight is enough for you to prop yourself up again, just to view him on his knees at a better angle. 

He experimentally brings his hand closer to the heat radiating in the middle of your thighs, stroking two steady fingers along the dampness seeping through the cotton. The gentle sweep over your covered clit has you opening your mouth on a silent moan, the bud his fingers are settled over throbs with hunger. 

“You wore them”, Spencer addresses, looking up at you through his dark lashes. His voice is still nervous, almost boyish. 

Spencer refers to the lacy underwear he had spoken about over text. You’d never told him what you had referred to when you asked him the question, ‘black or white’, but you guessed his IQ had come in handy when it came to the understanding of what you were on about. 

You only owned two pairs of white lace underwear, and one pair had holes that your ex had been the reason for, so the options were narrowed down easily. The pair that you are currently wearing are your newest addition to your sexy underwear. You didn’t have many, so you had decided a few weeks ago that you should save up and treat yourself to a few more. 

One of the best ideas you've ever had. 

“I like them”, he says softly, cherished.

He moves his slender fingers towards the lace decorating your panties, tracing the delicate, floral openwork that you wore so well. Every touch against your skin brings electricity through your nerves; it feels like he’s painting a graceful lightning strike across your skin that can only be admired through feeling.    

“You can keep them as long as you don’t rip them”  You exchange eye contact with him. 

“-keep them? I- why would I do that?”

You shrug as much as you can in the position you're in. “Smell them, wrap them around your cock?”

“People actually do that?” His eyes wide, and his voice is husky. 

You nod, and Spencer's eyes furrow lightly like he’s contemplating the idea; you're sure a pros and cons list is being visually drawn through his eyes. 

The pulsing of your clit only gets angrier with every awareness of time passing, every second Spencer is stuck in his thoughts and absentmindedly moving his fingers across the details on your panties and not on your clit like you desperately want them to be. 

“Spencer, please do something”, You whine, drawing him from his thoughts. 

“Hm? I'm sorry, so sorry,” he shakes his head like he's trying to clear his earlier thoughts out of his mind, a blush settles across his cheeks again, a sight you love to see. 

He pokes his tongue out slightly, dragging it across his top lip when his attention falls back to your weeping pussy in front of him, the soaked white fabric not doing much to cover your flesh. His blink is slow, as though he’s entranced with the sight before him. 

“What do you want me to do?” He asks, ready to do anything you ask of him with a simple word from your lips, “How should I make you feel good?”

“Most girls would want tongue first and then, whilst your mouth is on the clit add a finger, if you pull my panties down and-”

Your name falls out of his lips, and your eyes meet his as they glance up through a half-lidded gaze, “I don’t - I don’t want to know what other girls want, I want to know what you want” 

Your body tenses, goosebumps rise over your arms at the devotion slips from Spencer's lips. So much for the ‘lesson’.  

Holy fuck, that was so attractive. 

You almost squeeze your thighs together with the pleasure that travels up your spine, but at last it’s probably not a good idea to suffocate Spencer with them before his mouth is even on you.  

“What do I want?”

He nods, “What should I say and do to make you feel... good. Or the best I can make you feel, I suppose.” 

You hesitate. 

“Pull my panties down” 

His fingers come to the waistband of the lace decorating your hips. 

“Kiss my thighs and then my clit… if you find it”, You tease. 

“I’ll find it, I’ve looked at enough anatomy books” 

You huff out a laugh at his confidence. “Then put your mouth on me, suck, use your tongue, whatever and then spit on your finger and slip it inside of me”  

You close your eyes as you speak, heightening the sense of touch, the feel of his fingers holding your underwear in his grip, and grazing them against the inside of your thighs as he slips the fabric down your thighs, and then as he gets you to close your legs together so he can bring them over your knees and slip them off fully. 

Once he nudges his hand against your thighs and gets you to open your legs as wide as they were previously, he presses a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh, close to your knee. He hasn’t looked at your bare pussy yet, something he will cherish enough when he gets to it, you're sure. 

“And what do I say to you?” he whispers, his heated exhales making your skin jump with every meeting. 

“Praise me”

He nods and presses another kiss against your thighs, every press of his lips leading up higher than the last until you feel the smoothness of his lips press where it aches. 

You divulge a sound stuck between a gasp and a whimper, and the silk bedding finds itself tangled up in your hand by cause of your grip. Such a small contact between your clit and his lips has you wanting more; your mind only speaks in desire, it speaks in a language only Spencer knows how to talk in. 

He presses an open-mouth kiss right over your clit, and hollows his cheeks as he sucks gently. You respond by throwing your head back in pleasure, a gasp falling from your lips, one that edges him on.

‘There we go,” He smirks against you, proud of his achievements.   

His tongue spreads across your clit, and his mouth moves in a dance of sucking, licking and kissing so sweet you almost find it affectionate if it wasn't such a dirty activity. He takes his time dragging the pleasure out of you; he plants his hands just below your ass, gripping for hold as he feasts on the sweet arousal dripping from every moment his mouth makes on you.

He whimpers against your pussy, and the sound has you pressing your hips further against him in an attempt to get more of him, as much as he is willing to give you. 

For a man who’s never done this before, he sure is fucking incredible at knowing exactly how much pressure you want and when you want it, how long you want him to kiss for or what sounds he can make that have you shivering when they murmur against your clit. 

You look down at him, devouring you thoroughly, and the blissed out eyes that meet yours are those of a starving man who has just had his first taste of real food in as long as forever. 

He pulls back for only a second to mutter a few words, “You taste so sweet.” 

“Need your fingers”, you beg, you're so fucked out at this point that there is no embarrassment resting in any part of you, all you know is that you need him so bad that if you don’t, you might cry, so you're prepared to beg as much as you have too to get what makes your legs shake and your head buzz. 

“Yeah?” he teases. 

You eye him as he spits on a single digit and runs it across your entrance before gradually pressing it inside you, dragging out your pleasure. You feel every motion he makes, to the press of the finger at your entrance to the curl that presses against the spongy part of you. 

When Spencer reads at work, and his long fingers flick through the pages with velocity, you always find yourself watching the act in awe at how someone could do something so attractively with just a movement from their hands. His fingers were slender and long, something you had always admired. 

But the difference of having one inside you was that it wasn’t just long, but it was filling. 

You whimper loudly as he hits that precious spot inside of you that you can only reach on good days, the squelch of your wetness being played with stops, and so does the thrust of his finger.

“Is that a bad sound? Did I hurt you?” Worry is palpable in his tone, and it has your eyes softening at just how concerned he sounds.

“No, no, it’s good, really good”, You assure him, your fingers coming to thread in his hair, you push his head with encouragement to go back to the task at hand. He has an understanding of your wants; his finger brushes against your tight walls with a thrust, and he accommodates the feeling by sucking your clit between his lips and into the comfort of his mouth. 

He works you with his finger until he knows you're ready, and follows along by drenching another finger with your slick and pressing it into you with gentle ease. You flutter your eyes closed and exhale a whimper. He’s exactly where you want him, and he's doing exactly what you want of him. 

“Good girl” 

His words cause a splutter of white-hot pleasure deep in your abdomen, and your pussy clenches around him with eagerness. His fingers fuck deeper into you; he’s obvious about how his words made you feel by the flushed look in your eyes and the grip your pussy has on him. 

You can tell he wants more reactions like that from you because his fingers are suddenly moving with more speed, and praises fall from him like prayer; every word he speaks is made against your clit, and it sends a vibration through you every time. 

He stops swirling his tongue around your sensitive, swollen bud, pulling off with a pop and exchanges it for kissing your stomach. He pecks along the fat at the base of your stomach; every peck feels like a comfort, something so soft and gentle compared to the ruin he was in the process of making you. The soft ‘mwah’ sounds he makes as he kisses you are a melody alongside your wimpers, moans and gasps that he drags out of you with determination. 

You start to feel a coil tighten in your stomach. 

“I'm close”, You manage to gasp out, wanting to give Spencer enough warning so you don’t just start spasming around him without him having any notice beforehand. 

His fingers start thrusting faster, and you shake your head, “No, No, same pace, means- mh- means you're doing right” You gasp out.

His movement slows down to the pace it was when you had told him you were close, the coil comes back, this time tighter. You look at him, his lips are no longer resident on your skin, just hovering over your belly, his eyes are glancing down and watching you greedily suck in his fingers. 

“Spencer- baby, kiss me” You beg and grip the back of his neck at the same time he perks up at your words, the heat coiling in your stomach burns hotter with every thrust of his finger. 

His lips clap around yours, full of desperation. It’s a hot and heavy kiss; there’s nothing kind about the way your tongue fights with his as his fingers encourage the orgasm building up inside.

“This doesn’t feel like just a lesson anymore”, He says.

Your orgasm comes before you can decipher his words properly.   

The coil snaps, and you pull your lips from the feisty makeout, pressing your forehead to his. Your orgasm washes over you in pulses, his fingers wring out every drop of release you have to give. Your vision goes fuzzy, and the self-control when it comes to the noises leaving your mouth was nonexistent. You gasp, moan and whimper as the charge of the orgasm reaches everywhere, every nerve ending in your body is not left untouched. 

His eyes move quickly between your face and the sight of his fingers plunging into you between your legs. No matter where his eyes glance, it’s still the same look, an awed observation. 

Once all the pleasure is wrung out from you, and Spencer's fingers retract from your soaked walls, you collapse for a better word. Your chest heaves as you gulp down all the air you can manage,your head hits the mattress, your body unable to keep holding you up.

Sweat tickles every where is runs, as though it’s teasing you with its fingertips.

“Are you okay?” Spencer's voice rings out, sounding as if he, too, is trying to get his heart rate down with the ragged breathing he expels. 

You nod weakly, “mhm” 

“Are you sure?” His voice is tense and on edge, his eyes never leaving your face. 

“Yeah, just- give me a- give- a second” 

                                  ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You start coming back to yourself, becoming more aware of your senses. You don’t know how much time has passed, but the faint buzz behind your ears tells you not too long. 

It smells like black coffee, sex mixed with sweat, and old books.

You taste Spencer, you don’t know how to describe it other than ‘Spencer’. 

And it feels.. Cold. Your forehead feels cold. Why does just your forehead feel cold?

You become cognizant of the pressure against your head, just above your eyebrows. Where it feels cold. 

“You said you were okay” 

You move your attention to your left, where Spencer sits beside you on the mattress, holding a damp cloth to your forehead. Worry is unmistakable; you notice the signs straight away. Tight lips, knitted brows and an increased blinking rate. 

“Did I pass out?” You question, concern lays itself heavy. 

“No-no, you just were a little out of it” He shakes his head. 

You sit up, noting the fact that you were still naked and sitting down in the same place you had been when his fingers had been giving you attention. It comes back to you without any flashes or pictures, just memories of a few moments ago, before you lost your sense of who you were. 

Your orgasm, his fingers leaving your heat, the kiss he pressed on your temple and then the quick rush of motion he made when he felt you burning up under his touch. He had left the room and came back with your discarded glass of water and a damp towel that was now resting against your forehead. 

“I'm sorry, I didn’t mean for my mind to go somewhere else” You softly apologise. 

“It’s alright- I was just scared I hurt you”

“You didn’t” 

“Yeah, I know that now”, he whispers. 

A beat of vulnerable silence passes. 

“Would you be okay with staying the night?” His voice breaks the quiet. 

Maybe the silent prayers you had sent up whilst getting ready earlier had worked; this seemed like a pretty good sign they had, considering one of the things you had pondered in your prayer had been whether you could have him longer than just a lesson went on for. 

“Like with you?” 

“In bed- sleeping. If that's okay” 

You hear the unspoken words behind it, the real intent. He was just like you, having the same thoughts about whether you could share a moment like this longer, longer than the hour his hands and mouth had been on you. You both wanted more than just sex.

You lean towards him and take him by surprise by pressing your lips to his; it speaks kindness and affection. He melts against your lips and deepens the kiss, his tongue finds home in your mouth, joining yours and tangling together, only breaking apart when either of you needs to catch your breath. 

When you pull back, Spencer chases the kiss and presses his lips against yours for as long as he can until you speak up.

“Yeah”, You smile with joy, just thinking about the non-sexual intimate act of sharing a bed is causing a warmth to line your cheeks.  

“Good because I’d like that alot” 

“A lot?” 

“Mhm, I also quite like your lips against mine”, Spencer says against your lips after he leans towards you to catch you in a kiss again. 

“Mhh, maybe I should give you a lesson on it” 

“I’d like that” 

“A lot?”

If you want to be added to the tag list for part 2, go here

You’re slumped against the breakroom counter, one hip dug into the laminate, tugging at the waistband of your jeans like they’ve personally betrayed you.

They bite. They judge. They have the audacity to be rigid.

“I swear,” you mutter to JJ, fingers hooked under the button like you’re considering popping it mid-shift, “these pants were not this hostile yesterday.”

JJ snorts, leaning back against the table with her usual effortless grace. “Yeah, that’s the problem with regular clothes when you’re, you know—” she gestures vaguely at your torso.

“—entering my expansion era?” 

“Exactly,” She nods solemnly. “It’s a metamorphosis.”

“Right,” you say firmly. “Like a Pokémon. Except less cute and with more back pain.”

JJ laughs, bright and unrepentant. “Either way, you need something looser. Something forgiving.”

You groan and let your head thunk lightly against the cabinet behind you. “I don’t want forgiving. I want my dignity intact.”

“You can have both,” she says. “Elastic doesn’t automatically mean surrender.”

“I don’t trust that,” you say. “That sounds like propaganda from Big Maternity.”

“It’ll be fun,” She grins. “You could take someone with you.”

You straighten, horrified. “Why? So they can watch me wrestle with stretch panels and have a spiritual crisis under bad lighting?”

“For emotional support,” JJ says sweetly. “Or moral backup. Or to hold your purse while you glare at mirrors. Reid would be perfect.”

You laugh, sharp and immediate. “Absolutely not.”

And at the exact same time, from directly behind you—

“Perfect for what?”

JJ, traitor that she is, turns slowly—slowly—and her face is pure, unfiltered chaos. She’s radiant with it.

She glances at Spencer, and in that single look you recognize the same dangerous enthusiasm Penelope usually reserves for romance and revenge.

“Oh my god,” she says, delighted. “Perfect timing. Destiny. The universe has spoken.”

You clear your throat. “It was a joke.”

Spencer blinks. “What was?”

“Her suggestion,” you say quickly. “Which was… not serious. At all. Just workplace banter. Very normal banter. We do that.”

JJ crosses her arms. “She needs maternity pants.”

You shoot her a look. “Jennifer.”

She waves it off. “And emotional support.”

Spencer’s gaze flicks—brief, polite, almost clinical—to your midsection, then snaps right back to your face like he’s afraid he’s violated several federal statutes.

“Oh,” he says. “Okay.”

Okay.

You do not like how calm he sounds.

“You don’t have to,” you rush in. “This is not a thing you need to be involved in. I can go alone. I’ve been buying pants my whole life. I am extremely qualified.”

“I’m sure you are,” he says, nodding earnestly. “But if you’d like company, I don’t mind.”

JJ hums. “See? He's volunteering.”

“He’s not volunteering.”

Spencer frowns slightly, genuinely perplexed. “I can volunteer. Do I need to volunteer?”

JJ beams.

You close your eyes and consider faking your own death.

—and so, somehow, catastrophically, after work you find yourself standing under fluorescent retail lighting that feels actively hostile to your soul.

The sign above the entrance reads MATERNITY, which feels rude. Judgmental. Too loud.

Spencer stands beside you, hands folded around the strap of his messenger bag like he’s waiting to be called as an expert witness.

“This is a terrible idea,” you mutter.

“I’ve reviewed worse,” he says mildly.

You glance at him. “This is not a case.”

“We'll, anecdotally…”

You huff, pushing the door open. The air inside smells like fabric softener and optimism. Soft music hums overhead—something acoustic and earnest that suggests all problems can be solved with linen and a positive attitude.

Immediately, a sales associate looks up and smiles with the warm, knowing expression of someone who has Seen Things.

“Welcome in!” she chirps. “Let me know if you need help.”

You do not make eye contact. You keep walking.

The racks are… a lot. Flowing tops. Stretch panels. Jeans with suspiciously aggressive elastic waists. Everything looks comfortable in a way that feels like a personal attack.

You pick up a pair of pants and stare at them. “They don’t even have real buttons,” you whisper.

“They’re designed to expand,” Spencer says, peering over your shoulder. “Which is… practical.”

“They look like they’ve given up.”

“They're an inanimate object.”

You turn, narrowing your eyes. “Are you siding with the pants?”

“I’m trying to remain neutral.”

You sigh, dropping them back onto the rack. “Okay. Rules.”

He straightens. “Rules?”

“Yes. Ground rules.” You hold up a finger. “You do not comment on how anything looks on me unless I explicitly ask.”

He nods immediately. “Understood.”

“Rule two: you are not allowed to say ‘that makes sense biologically.’ ” You mimic him.

“I do not sound like that.”

“You're not allowed to prove that because you're not allowed to say it.”

“Fine.”

“Rule three: if I cry, no eye contact.”

He hesitates. “What if—”

“No eye contact.”

“Okay.”

You grab a few things at random—pants, leggings, something that claims to be a ‘supportive lounge trouser’ and feels like a lie—and march toward the fitting rooms with grim determination.

“I’ll be right here,” Spencer says, stopping just outside.

You pause. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says gently. “But I want to.”

Your chest does something irritating.

You disappear into the fitting room, tug the curtain closed and stare at the mirror like it might flinch first.

Okay. Pants. Easy. You’ve faced worse things than pants. Gunmen. Courtrooms. Spencer Reid’s furrowed brow when he’s thinking too hard.

You step into the first pair and pull them up.

They stop at your hips.

You tug again. Firmer this time.

Nothing.

Your chest tightens—quick, sharp, unexpected. Like your body’s done something without consulting you.

“No,” you murmur, absurdly. “That’s not right.”

You exhale and try again, fingers digging into the fabric, coaxing, bargaining. The pants remain unmoved, smug in their refusal.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not even surprising.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

You straighten slowly, hands braced on your hips, staring at your reflection.

This—this is what you didn’t plan for.

You prepared spreadsheets. Doctor schedules. Vitamins. Emergency contacts. You memorized week-by-week fetal development like it was a case file. You learned which cheeses could kill you and which ones merely betrayed you.

You planned for a baby.

You did not plan for your body to stop being neutral ground.

Your throat tightens. You take a shaky breath and let it out carefully, like you’re disarming something volatile inside your chest.

“Okay,” you whisper. “That’s… fine. I'm growing a human, and I need pants with room for that. This is fine. Fine.”

You peel the pants off and reach for the next size up.

Your hands hesitate.

Because trying a bigger size feels like admitting something out loud. Like signing a form that says this is real and it’s happening to you and you don’t get to be the same shape anymore.

You swallow.

Then you step into the next pair.

They slide on.

Not easily—but they fit. The waistband stretches, leaning more towards accommodating instead of fighting, and you freeze, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs.

Oh.

Your reflection looks… different. Softer in places you were taught to keep sharp. Changed in ways you didn’t notice day-to-day, but can’t ignore under fluorescent honesty.

You step out of the fitting room slowly.

Spencer is exactly where you left him, back turned with deliberate care, studying a sign about return policies like it holds the secrets of the universe.

“They didn’t fit,” you say.

He turns instantly, concern flickering across his face—then settling into something gentler when he sees you standing there.

“The first pair,” you clarify. “And, um, I think I need to try a size larger than this, too.”

Spencer nods immediately. “Okay. No problem. We’ll find some.”

Simple. Easy. Like he’s offering to grab milk instead of helping you rewrite your relationship with gravity.

You nod back, once. Maybe twice.

And then—traitorously, catastrophically—your face crumples.

It’s subtle at first. Just a hitch in your breath. A warmth behind your eyes you absolutely do not authorize.

“Oh no,” you whisper.

Spencer freezes.

Then he steps forward anyway, concern flashing sharp and unguarded across his face. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did something hurt? Should I get someone—”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, voice already wobbling. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” he says at once, like it’s reflexive. Like it doesn’t even occur to him that this could be trivial.

That does it.

Tears spill, hot and humiliating, sliding down your cheeks before you can stop them. You laugh weakly through it, swiping at your face with the heel of your hand.

“I said no eye contact,” you accuse, gesturing vaguely. “That was a rule.”

He blinks, then immediately turns around again, facing the wall quickly and stiffly. “Right. Sorry. No eye contact.”

You hiccup. “You’re very bad at following rules under pressure.”

“I’m actually—” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “I’m not great with emotional ambiguity.”

You let out a wet, broken laugh. “I’m crying over pants.”

“You’re not,” he says gently, still facing the wall. “You’re crying because something changed without asking you first.”

Your chest tightens all over again.

“I had everything planned,” you say, voice small now. “I knew what week symptoms start. I knew what to eat, what not to eat. I even knew how much weight I was supposed to gain. But I didn’t think about how it would feel when my body stopped… listening to me.”

Spencer’s shoulders soften.

“That makes sense,” he says quietly. “I mean—not biologically.” A beat. “Emotionally.”

You sniff. “You’re on thin ice.”

“I know.”

Silence settles between you, not awkward—just careful. The store hums around you. A hanger clinks. Somewhere, someone laughs like pregnancy is an inside joke they’re in on.

“I don’t hate how they fit,” you admit. “That’s the worst part.”

“That doesn’t sound bad,” he says.

“It is.”

He turns just his head slightly, clearly fighting the urge to look. “Can I… break the rule? Just for a second?”

You hesitate. Then nod.

He turns fully this time, eyes soft, steady. Not studying. Not assessing. Just there.

“You’re not losing anything,” he says. “You’re adapting. And you’re allowed to be afraid of that.”

A tear slips free anyway.

“Damn it,” you mutter.

He reaches into his bag without thinking and offers you a tissue like it’s muscle memory. You take it, dabbing at your face.

“Okay,” you say after a moment. “Okay. I'll be okay.”

He smiles, small and proud. “Good.”

You gesture toward the racks. “Can you… Help me find pants that don’t look like they’ve emotionally checked out.”

Spencer hesitates. “Okay, but full disclosure—I may already have opinions.”

“Why would you have opinions.”

“Well,” he says, a little too casually, stepping closer to the display, “earlier today, after I finished my files, I did some browsing.”

You stare at him. “You… what?”

“Online,” he clarifies quickly. “Not, like—lurking. Just reading reviews. Forums. Comparative analyses.”

“Spencer.”

“Apparently,” he continues, warming to the subject, “the key factors people prioritize are abdominal support without compression, adjustable waist panels, and—this was mentioned repeatedly—pockets. Real ones. There was a lot of anger about fake pockets.”

You open your mouth. Close it. “You researched maternity pants.”

“Nothing extensive,” he says modestly, lifting a pair from the rack. “But these scored highly across multiple sources. They’re supposed to be supportive without feeling restrictive, and the fabric blend allows for temperature regulation.”

You look at the pants. Then at him.

“…You did homework.”

“I had time,” he says simply. Then, softer, almost sheepish, “And I wanted to be useful.”

Something in your chest tilts.

You pause. Then sigh. “Fine. But if I start feeling too comfortable, I’m blaming you.”

“I’ll accept responsibility.”

You take the pants from him like they might vanish if you don’t.

“Don’t get smug,” you warn. “This could still go terribly.”

“I’m emotionally prepared,” he says solemnly.

You disappear back into the fitting room, curtain swishing shut behind you. For a moment, you just stand there—pants in hand, heart still a little tender, eyes a little puffy from crying.

Okay, you think. One more try. Low expectations. Protective pessimism.

You step into the pants.

They slide up.

Not with resistance. Not with negotiation. They just… go. The waistband stretches and settles, snug without biting, supportive without judgment. Nothing digs. Nothing pinches. Nothing feels like it’s daring you to outgrow it by lunch.

You blink at your reflection.

“Oh,” you breathe.

You turn sideways. Then the other way. You bend experimentally. No protest. No mutiny. Just comfort—soft, miraculous comfort—like your body and the fabric have reached a ceasefire agreement.

Your shoulders drop.

Your chest loosens.

The knot you didn’t realize you were holding finally unravels.

You peek through the curtain. “Spencer?”

“Yes?” Immediate. Attentive.

“…These are good.”

There’s a pause. Then, carefully restrained delight: “Good how?”

“Good like… I might forgive the concept of pants.”

“That’s significant.”

You step fully out this time, bracing yourself for a complicated feeling.

But Spencer doesn’t stare. Doesn’t analyze. Doesn’t do that micro-calculating thing he does when he’s thinking too hard. He just looks at you—soft, relieved, quietly pleased, like he’s watching a problem resolve itself.

“They look comfortable,” he says simply.

You nod. “They are.” Your voice wobbles—not sad this time. Something warmer. Something steadier.

You glance back at the fitting room. Then at the pants.

“…I’m getting these.”

“Excellent,” he says.

“And,” you add, already moving toward the rack, “probably three more pairs.”

His eyebrows lift. “Three?”

“I’m not surviving this pregnancy on a single good decision,” you say. “That would be reckless.”

He watches you gather more—black, gray, one that promises ‘everyday stretch’ like it’s a lifestyle philosophy—and nods approvingly.

“Diversification,” he murmurs.

“You get it.”

He looks at you. “Is there anything else you need?”

You consider it. Really consider it.

Thirty minutes later, you leave the store carrying nothing at all.

And Spencer trails behind you, hands full with the five shopping bags he insisted on carrying for you.

The day starts ordinary enough.

Spencer’s in his usual weekend rhythm—hair still mussed from sleep, sleeves pushed up, moving around the kitchen like it’s second nature. You watch from the couch as he empties the dishwasher, humming softly under his breath. He pauses to line the mugs neatly in the cabinet, then wipes his hands on a dish towel before reaching for the coffee pot.

It’s nothing flashy. Just him being… him. Thoughtful, careful, methodical.

And yet, every small thing he does sends a slow, molten warmth through your veins.

He glances over his shoulder to ask if you want sugar and you can’t even form a coherent answer. You nod, a little too quickly.

Later, he’s in the living room, glasses sliding down his nose as he fixes the leg on the wobbly bookshelf you’ve been complaining about. His hair keeps falling into his face, and he keeps huffing it away with a puff of air, muttering to himself like an old man. You should be helping. You’re not.

You’re watching the veins in his forearm flex every time he tightens a screw.

Then it’s the laundry—him methodically folding towels, matching socks like it’s a puzzle. Then it’s him remembering to water the plant on the windowsill.

And then, Christ, it’s the way he looks at you—his eyes soft and sweet and his voice so, so gentle when he tells you to go get ready.

“For what?” you ask.

He smiles. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”

He doesn’t phrase it like a question. He’s not asking permission.

And something about that makes your knees a little weak.

You take a quick shower, throw on a pretty sundress, do your makeup and hair, and when you’re about to step into your heels, he kneels down in front of you.

His fingers brush your ankle as he buckles the strap. Then he does the other foot.

It’s so simple. But it turns you on more than you can explain.

He stands and looks at you, brushes your hair behind your ear. “You okay?”

You can tell by the look on his face—gentle, knowing, a little amused—that he knows exactly where your mind has gone. But you just smile and say, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He says, “Okay,” and the two of you walk out to his car.

Your hands are wrapped around his elbow like it’s 1942 and he’s taking you to the dance. He opens the door for you, and you freeze.

For a second, you're glad he can't hear your thoughts. The dirty ones. The ones where he bends you over the hood of his car and fucks you in broad daylight. But he’s just standing there, waiting for you to get in the car.

Then he raises a brow at you—a bold smirk on his lips and you wonder… maybe he can hear your thoughts.

“Let’s go back inside,” he says. And you nearly melt into the ground.

You’ve been living together for a couple of months now. And he’s finding out—little by little—how unbelievably, downright, unhinged horny you are. He leads you back upstairs. And as soon as the door falls closed behind you, you’re pinned against it, his soft lips on yours.

You can taste the toothpaste on his tongue.

You’re still in your heels and sundress, and he’s fully clothed, and he’s kissing you so hard you can’t catch your breath. His hands are in your hair, tugging, pulling, and your fingers are fumbling for his belt. You think how easy it would be to undo it, unbutton his pants, let them fall. You want them to pool around his ankles; you want him to kick them away and take you right here, up against the door.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers. And even though his tone is loving and tender, he’s also a little rough. A little commanding.

You have to tell him. He won’t move until you do.

“I want you,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “No. Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper. “I want you to bend me over the couch. I want you to pull my hair and make me come on your cock. I want it to hurt just a little bit.”

He nods. “Good girl.”

Then he spins you around, bends you over the arm of the couch, flips your dress up, and yanks your panties down to your knees.

And for a second it's embarrassing—the idea of him seeing you like that. It’s easier when it’s dark, when you can pretend he can’t really see you.

But it’s broad daylight and you know he can see everything. The way your thighs are shaking, the wet spot on your panties, the way your body is so, so ready for him.

“Spencer,” you whisper, trying to look over your shoulder at him. But he presses a hand to your back—keeps your face and chest pinned to the cushions.

“Don't move,” he tells you. “I’m going to take care of you.”

You feel his lips brush the back of your thigh.

He kisses a path from your knee to your ass. And when he reaches the soft flesh there, he sinks his teeth in.

“Ow,” you whine, even though it doesn’t really hurt.

He soothes the skin with his tongue, and you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading you wider for him. Then his tongue is on your pussy—licking a slow stripe up your center, and you nearly whimper.

“Shh,” he tells you.

And you don’t know why you have to be quiet. The two of you are alone in the apartment. But something about the command, about him shushing you, makes you bite your lip to stay quiet. You press your cheek into the couch cushions, muffling a moan.

“Good girl,” he praises. “You look so pretty like this.”

You can feel his tongue on your clit, lapping at your slick folds, dipping into your hole. He fucks you with it, pressing it inside you as he grips your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh.

He hums against your pussy, and the vibrations make you shiver.

“God, you’re so wet. You’re making such a pretty mess, baby.”

His words send a shockwave through you. And you wonder if this is turning him on as much as it is turning you on. If it’s possible for him to be just as gone, just as crazy for you.

You hear the sound of his belt being undone, then his zipper coming down.

And then he’s pushing inside you, so slow, so careful—like you’re fragile.

You feel every inch of him stretching you, and you let out a gasp. He’s so hard. You can feel it in the way his cock twitches inside you. In the way he hisses when he bottoms out, and his fingers dig into your ass.

He pauses for a moment, lets you adjust, and then he’s pulling out, and thrusting back in—so hard you let out a cry.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers. “Tell me if it hurts.”

You shake your head, and he thrusts again.

It hurts just a little, but it feels good, too. Feels like you’re full. Like your body is being rearranged to fit him.

And you can’t help the way your walls clench around him.

He groans.

Even though he’s being dominant—even though he’s telling you what to do, fucking you from behind—he’s still so, so loving. He mutters soft compliments, tells you how good you feel, tells you he doesn’t deserve you.

And every time he’s all the way inside you, he sits there for a second—lets you clench around him, lets you feel every inch.

“You’re taking me so well,” he purrs, fingers tangling in your hair. He yanks, and you move with him, sitting up on your elbows. “Good girl.”

He reaches around to yank your dress down, freeing your tits. And his fingers are kneading, massaging, before he’s pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers.

You let out a whimper.

“Tell me you want it,” he hisses. “Beg me to keep fucking you.”

“Please,” you cry, pressing back against him. “Please don’t stop.”

He keeps that deep, torturous pace—keeps toying with your nipples, pulling and rolling them between his fingers.

“What got you so horny for me, baby?”

And you have to tell him. You have to say the words out loud, even though they sound so dirty, so depraved.

“It was you helping me. Fixing the bookshelf. When you emptied the dishwasher. God, I wanted to drop to my knees and blow you right then.”

He moans and fucks into you—hard and fast.

You swear you feel him hit your fucking cervix. You let out a loud moan.

Then he pulls out, and you’re empty and cold and you whimper at the loss.

"Stand up."

You do, shaky legs and trembling thighs.

He sits down, looks up at you.

“Come here, ride me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice.

You straddle him. Your knees sink into the soft cushions, and your hands find his shoulders. You raise up on your knees and position him at your center. And slowly—oh, so slowly—you sink down on him.

You can see his face now. The way he watches you like you’re a work of art. Like you’re something to be worshipped.

And it makes you feel powerful and sexy.

You raise up again, and slam back down. He lets out a hiss and bites his lip. So you do it again.

His hands are on your hips, helping you, guiding you. And it’s not long before the two of you find a rhythm. He thrusts up to meet you, and you fuck yourself on him—slow and deep. It’s so good. He’s so good.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His eyes haven’t left your face. He kisses your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your breast.

Then his lips find yours again.

And it’s sweet and gentle, the way he kisses you. The way his hands hold your face, his tongue licks at yours. He sucks on your bottom lip before he bites it. And it takes your breath away. It feels like a dream—the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re the only person in the world.

Like nothing else matters.

“I love you,” he breathes. “God, I love you so much.”

His voice is so soft, so sincere, you feel a lump form in your throat.

“I love you too,” you whisper back.

And he smiles—this little boyish grin that makes him look so young. Makes him look like the world isn’t weighing him down. And you press your forehead to his, feeling his breath on your lips, and then you’re riding him again.

“Touch yourself,” he tells you.

His voice is husky, and his eyes are on you—watching the way you bounce on his cock. You reach down between your legs, playing with your clit in slow circles as you fuck yourself on him. 

He grips your hair, pulling your head back gently so he can look at you.

“I’ll always give you what you want,” he tells you softly. “Anything you ask for.”

“I love you,” you moan again.

“I love you, too.”

You’re still touching yourself like he asked you to. Like you promised. And he notices.

“Good girl,” he moans, and starts fucking up into you—harder. Faster. “My girl.”

“Spencer,” you're breathless as you say his name. “I’m gonna come.”

He’s thrusting up, hitting that spot inside you that feels so fucking good. “You feel so good, baby. So warm and tight.” He bites your neck softly, sucks the skin into his mouth.

“Please,” you whine. “Spencer, I can’t.” Your hands are gripping his shoulders, your nails are biting into his skin, and you can feel your orgasm building. “Please let me come.”

He kisses your lips—soft and gentle.

“Of course you can come, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “Come on my cock. I want to feel it.”

You let out a moan and do exactly that. You clench around him and see white. You’re gasping for air and shaking and whimpering.

He keeps fucking you through it—slow and gentle, and it feels so good you think you might come again.

“That’s it,” he coos. “You did so good, sweetheart. You made yourself come on my cock.”

And you nod, biting your lip, still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm as he fucks you. He’s going harder now. You know he’s close. He whispers how good you feel. How beautiful you are. And then he’s coming—groaning softly as he fills you. You can feel him pulsing inside you and you clench around him. It makes him moan and bury his face in your neck. You can feel him smiling against your skin. And the two of you sit there for a moment—him still inside you, his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, smoothing your hair down. He pulls back to look at you and you smile. He kisses you again—so lovingly, so tenderly you melt into him.

And then you’re lying on the couch together. He’s holding you in his lap, your head on his chest. You’re tracing the lines of his chest as he strokes your hair. It’s quiet—save for the sound of your breathing.

You could fall asleep like this. With your head on his chest and his fingers in your hair.

*~*~*

Spencer wasn’t paying attention to you as you were all leaving the local police station where the team is based for their current case, because he tries his best to not pay attention to you at any time, but hotel elevators are very confined spaces and it’s not as if he could insist on waiting for the next one instead of getting in with you without looking like a petulant child, and Spencer is quite adamant that everyone understands that you’re the immature one.

Which is why he spots the case folders sticking out of your bag and realises what you’re doing. So he does the only thing he can and follows you out of the elevator when it gets to your floor, ignoring the confused look JJ gives him as she walks out next to him.

“What’s that?” he asks you, grabbing you by the arm and then immediately releasing you when you look at his hand with a frown. He points at your bag in explanation. “Are you going to continue working on the case?”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees JJ looking between the two of you, probably deciding if she needs to mediate, but then she must decide she’s off the clock, because she just points a finger first at him and then at you. “8 o’clock. Be ready.”

“Yes, mom,” you say, and to Spencer you sound like a brat, but JJ just smiles like you said something cute.

“Spence?” JJ looks at him expectantly.

“Of course.” 

“Okay,” she  says, holding up both hands. “I’ve done all I can.” Then she walks down the hall and disappears into her room, the door clicking shut behind her.

“Goodnight, Reid,” you say, giving him a fake smile and turning to walk away.

“Are you going to continue working on the case?” he asks again, louder this time, following you.

“Why do you care?” You get out your key card and unlock the door to your room, then turn to look at him. 

“Because if you are, I should help you.” 

You snort and pull open the door. “What? Are you actually trying to be helpful or are you just worried I’ll find something you didn’t notice?”

“That seems unlikely,” he says dismissively, following you into your room uninvited. 

“You being helpful? I agree.”

“Hilarious.” 

“Thank you.” You throw him that fake smile again.

Without asking for permission, Spencer pulls the case files from your bag, trying to get an idea of what you think you’re going to find.

You kick off your shoes and then start unbuttoning your shirt. “Hey, Reid.” He looks up. “I’m going to change my clothes now.”

He frowns. “Go to the bathroom then.”

“This is my room,” you argue. “You go to the bathroom.”

Spencer shakes his head and turns back to your files. Thirty seconds later his view is obstructed by your shirt being thrown at him and landing on the papers he’s holding. When he looks up you’re unzipping your skirt, a challenging glint in your eyes as you look straight at him. At least you’re still wearing a top.

He clears his throat and turns his head away quickly, trying to look at anything but you as he scurries to the bathroom.

When he closes the door he hears you making a chicken noise. God, he truly loathes everything about you.

You take your time changing out of your work clothes and into something more comfortable. If Spencer Reid thinks he can just invade your room because he can’t handle the idea of you maybe being smarter than him about something, you’re going to make it as uncomfortable as you possibly can for him. Luckily making Spencer Reid uncomfortable isn’t the hardest job in the world.

You dig through your duffel bag, trying to find clothes that are inappropriate but not too inappropriate. In the end you settle on your sleep shorts, which are definitely short, and a boatneck tee that’s been in the bag ever since you couldn’t find your pajama top a month and a half ago. You consider taking off your bra but decide that’s going too far. At least with the boatneck he’ll get a good look at the pink straps, though.

Satisfied with your outfit, you settle on the bed and spread out the files in front of you, notepad and pen next to you, and then you wait.

Another five minutes go by and you’ve actually forgotten that Spencer is still there, caught up in the work, when he suddenly knocks on the bathroom door. Actually knocks. Jesus, what an idiot.

“Are you—um, are you done changing yet?”

“No, Reid. I’m still me. Sorry.”

His sigh is so loud you can hear it through the closed door. “I’m coming out now.”

“Congratulations,” you say flatly once he’s back in the room.

“What?” He frowns, looking at you, then quickly turns his eyes to the floor. You look entirely too casual and he can see far too much of your legs.

“On coming out. I’m flattered you chose to tell me first. Or does everyone else already know?”

He just shakes his head at you and steps out of his shoes before sitting down crosslegged at the foot of your bed, on the other side of the photographs you’ve got spread out on the blanket. “What are you thinking?”

You point at four of the photographs, one from each crime scene. “There’s something about these, I just can’t put my finger on it.”

He turns them so he can look at them right side up, licking his lips as he thinks. Annoyingly, he can’t even see that there’s something to see. But maybe you’re just yanking his chain? He pushes the photos back to you and picks up a different one.

An hour later, you’re still trying to find a pattern and Spencer is trying to convince you to brainstorm possible explanations for the choice of murder weapon instead. In an attempt to make you see reason, he launches into an explanation of the psychology behind using a long range weapon at close range.

“I have a question for you,” you say, disrupting his flow of words mid-sentence.

“What?” he asks, trying not to be annoyed at the interruption. If you actually want him to educate you then he should encourage that by being friendly. 

“Do you ever just shut up without being told to?” You smile, amused by your own joke. 

“Of course,” Spencer says, deciding that he's allowed to be openly annoyed with you now. “If I believe the person I'm talking to has something to say that's remotely worth hearing.”

“But how will you know if you never give them a chance to speak?”

“I’m basing my assumptions on past experience. This is not the first conversation we have had. Unfortunately.” He tacks on that last word although it feels unnecessary. You already know he thinks having to talk to you is unfortunate.

“But I could surprise you,” you say, smiling. It's not a friendly smile, though. It's the kind of smile that has alarm bells going off in his mind because you're up to something and there's no way to predict what it might be. 

“Many things you do surprise me, that's not the same as suggesting you'll suddenly have any useful insights.”

“Sure,” you agree with a roll of your eyes.

Spencer picks up his explanation from before, rewinding only far enough to restart the sentence you interrupted for no good reason. He doesn’t get far before you interrupt him again.

You lean forward, a hand on the bed in between the notes and photos to maintain your balance, and press your lips to his. Just a quick peck, the way his mother might kiss his forehead, except it feels nothing like that. Spencer freezes.

“Oh,” you say, smiling as you sit back. “That shuts you up. Good to know.”

He knows you’re mocking him, that he should make some disparaging remark, tell you you’re being inappropriate, this is not professional behaviour, but his mind is almost completely blank. The only thing he’s able to focus on is the ghost of the pressure of your lips.

“Reid?” You’re frowning, and he thinks you might sound a little worried.

Spencer looks at your lips, at the pink bra strap on your exposed shoulder that he has been fighting valiantly to ignore since he sat down, your bare legs. Then back at your lips. “Why did you do that?”

“It was an experiment,” you say. “You should appreciate that. You like to pretend you’re a scientist.”

“I am a scientist,” he says automatically. “I have PhD’s in—”

“Keep talking and I’ll kiss you again,” you warn him.

Which is a dilemma. Does he… want you to do that? Bizarrely, he thinks he might. His eyes follow the trail of your pink bra strap; your top is actually just a little bit see-through and he can see the faint pink shape of the rest of your bra underneath, the cups of it.

He swallows. “How long will I have to be quiet for in order to avoid that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, smiling easily. Clearly you’re finding this very funny. “I guess until I decide you’ve been quiet for long enough. Which won’t be until I’ve told you all about how once in a Physics class we were doing an experiment with—”

He can’t bear it. Whatever you’re about to say, he’s sure it’ll be a crime against all natural sciences. Also, your lips were so soft and your bra strap is so pink. He doesn’t even particularly like pink, but it really draws the eyes in. He leans forward, but unlike you he hasn’t actually thought it through so he doesn’t put out a hand to balance himself, which means when his lips crash into yours, he tumbles forward and pushes you back on the bed, him on top of you. Photos of crime scenes scatter to the floor, some by themselves and some because you push them.