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co-workers - peter prior

part 2

summary: you meet peter in your new job, a job that you hate, and in one way or another he makes it easier and you fall in love with the wrong person

word counter and tw: (9,8k) smut, sex without protection, cheating…

The snow crunched under your new boots as you walked toward the Ennis, Alaska police station. The wind cut like knives, and even though you were wearing three layers of thermal clothing, you could feel the cold seeping into your bones. You had arrived two days earlier, but this was your first official shift. The uniform was a bit big across the shoulders, you had requested the smallest size available and it still looked borrowed.

“Just one year,” you repeated to yourself mentally, like a mantra. “You fulfill your dad’s last wish and you leave. You go to Anchorage, or Fairbanks, or anywhere that doesn’t smell like frozen fish.”

Your father had been a cop his whole life. On his deathbed, voice broken by cancer, he had taken your hand and whispered: “Promise me you’ll try it. Just once. I know you hate guns and paperwork and… all of this. But I want to know my daughter walked where I walked.” You promised. And now here you were, fresh out of Criminology, hating every second before you even walked through the door.

You pushed open the double metal door. The artificial heat hit your face along with the smell of burnt coffee, old sweat, and disinfectant. The main room was small: four desks, a map of Ennis covered in red pushpins, and a sad Christmas tree that no one had taken down yet, even though it was already March.

“New, right?” said a deep, tired voice from the back.

You looked up and there he was.

Peter Prior.

You had seen him in the internal WhatsApp group photo they sent you when you were hired. Short blond hair, blue eyes that always seemed half closed. Tall, but not imposing, more… tense. Like a compressed spring ready to snap. He wore the uniform impeccably, badge shining, but there was something in his posture that screamed “don’t fuck with me today.”

He approached with quick steps, extending his hand.

“Peter Prior. I’m the liaison officer for new recruits. Danvers asked me to show you everything before he throws you into the icy water. Welcome to the shithole that is Ennis.”

You smiled, shaking his hand. His palm was warm, but the grip was brief, almost mechanical.

“Thanks. I’m… well, the new one. Call me whatever you want, just not ‘rookie’ if you can help it.”

Peter let out a short laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Deal. Come on, I’ll show you your desk. It’s right next to mine. Lucky you.”

You followed him between the desks. The place was organized chaos: stacked reports, coffee mugs with dregs, a police radio that crackled every so often with distorted voices battling the cold. You sat down. The seat was still warm, someone had just gotten up.

Peter leaned against the edge of his own desk, arms crossed. He looked you up and down, not in a rude way, but evaluating.

“You just finished college, right? What brought you to this frozen hell? Most new grads run to the big cities.”

You hesitated for a second. You didn’t want to tell him the whole truth yet. Not a stranger, even if those blue eyes seemed… interested. Genuinely interested.

“My dad,” you said finally, shrugging. “He wanted me to try. Last wish and all that. So here I am, pretending I know what I’m doing.”

Peter nodded slowly. Something in his expression softened for a moment.

“I understand that more than you think.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “My father was a cop here too. Hank Prior. You’ve probably heard the name. He’s… not the best example, but anyway. Guess we all have our chains.”

Before you could reply, the back door slammed open. It was Hank, his father, storming in like a bull.

“Prior! Where the hell is last night’s report? Or did you spend the whole night playing house with your little wife?”

Peter visibly tensed. His shoulders rose half an inch, his jaw clenched. He said nothing, just slowly turned his head toward his father. But you saw it: how his fingers gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white.

Hank kept talking, louder, gesturing with open hands, breathing heavily through his nose as if every word was a personal grievance.

“…and now on top of that we’ve got a little girl who doesn’t even know how to load a damn rifle. Great. Just what we needed.”

Peter didn’t answer. He just exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. But you noticed the detail: every time Hank breathed heavily, Peter’s jaw tightened a little more. Every time his father raised his voice in that dramatic way, Peter blinked more slowly, as if counting to ten to keep from exploding.

Hank finally left, muttering something about “brats and favors.” The silence he left was heavy.

Peter released the desk and turned to you. His voice came out calm, almost kind.

“Sorry. My father is… intense. Don’t take it personally.” He ran his tongue over his lower lip, a nervous tic you were already starting to recognize. “Want me to show you the evidence locker or would you rather I explain the reporting system first? Your choice. I don’t want to overwhelm you on day one.”

You smiled, even though inside you felt a strange mix. You liked him. Really liked him. He had this calm way of talking to you, as if he genuinely cared that you didn’t feel lost. But at the same time… it bothered you.

That constant tension. The way he went rigid whenever someone breathed too hard, spoke too loud, or simply existed too noisily.

You didn’t know why he was like that. You didn’t know that behind that clenched jaw were years of shouting in his house, of his father blaming him for everything. You didn’t know that Peter had learned as a child that any strong emotion was a threat. That a sigh too long could mean someone was about to break… and he would have to pick up the pieces.

All you knew was that it bothered you. Because you were tense too. Because you hated being there too. And seeing someone else carrying that same rigidity all the time made you want to grab him by the shoulders and yell “breathe, damn it.”

“Reports first,” you said finally, resting your elbows on the desk. “And if you explain how the hell to file this so Danvers doesn’t kill me, I owe you a decent coffee. Not the poison in that machine.”

Peter let out a real laugh this time. Small, but real. The corners of his eyes crinkled.

“Deal.” He sat in the chair next to yours, turning it to face you. His knees almost brushed yours under the desk. “Official welcome, then. We’ll try to make sure you don’t regret it… too soon.”

And while he explained the system, you watched him out of the corner of your eye. You liked him. Way too much for day one.

The day dragged on as if the station clock were frozen. Twelve hour shift that felt like twenty four: patrols on icy roads where the wind made the car shake, false calls about “strange noises” that turned out to be foxes rummaging through trash, and tons of paperwork that left your fingers numb from typing. Peter stayed by your side almost the whole time, patiently correcting you when you messed up an incident code, explaining how to avoid getting chewed out by Danvers for a badly filed form. He spoke little about himself, but when he did it was in that low, measured voice, as if every word cost him effort.

At the end of the shift, past nine at night, both of you stayed a bit longer tidying up. The station was almost empty, only the hum of the fluorescents and the occasional creak of the radio remained.

“Survived your full first day,” Peter said as he put on his jacket. “You didn’t die, that’s already a win.”

You smiled, exhausted but strangely content.

“Thanks for not letting me drown alone. Tomorrow will be better, right?”

He let out a short laugh.

“Or worse. Depends on the day. Rest. See you at seven.”

You said goodbye with a nod and a murmured “take care.” You stepped out into the night cold, breath forming white clouds under the streetlights. You walked the three blocks to the small apartment you rented in the old part of Ennis. The living room light was on, your mother wasn’t in bed yet.

You entered, taking off your boots at the door so you wouldn’t dirty the floor.

“How’d it go, honey?” she asked from the couch, teacup in hand, TV on mute.

“Good,” you answered, unwrapping your scarf. “Lots of cold, lots of paper, but good. The partner they assigned me is… patient. Helped me a lot.”

She smiled, satisfied.

“I’m glad. Your dad would be proud.”

You climbed the stairs with heavy muscles. In your small bedroom, with its single bed and window overlooking a snowy alley, you collapsed onto the mattress without even changing. Your phone buzzed in your pocket: Instagram notification. You pulled it out on autopilot.

You didn’t know why you did it. Or maybe you did, but didn’t want to admit it. You opened the app, typed “Peter Prior” in the search bar. You hoped he had nothing, that he was one of those guys who didn’t use social media. But he appeared. Public profile, few posts.

Most from years ago.

Photos of snowy landscapes, a couple of blurry selfies in uniform, and then… a child. A baby with big eyes and very light blond hair, wrapped in a snowsuit, smiling with two teeth. In another photo, the same child a bit older, maybe two or three, sitting on a sled, laughing while Peter pushed from behind. No elaborate captions, just dates and snowflake emojis.

And then, one single photo of him with a woman. She was pretty, dark skin, long black hair, shy smile. The two of them on a pier, summer, his arm around her shoulders. The photo was old, four or five years. No more recent ones.

You stared at the screen too long. Your thumb brushed the screen by accident… and you liked it. The little red heart appeared like a gunshot.

“Shit,” you whispered.

You unliked it instantly, heart in your throat. Closed the app, turned off the phone and threw it to the other side of the bed like it burned. Buried your face in the pillow.

“Please don’t let him see it. Please don’t let him see it.”

The next day you arrived at seven sharp, dark circles hidden under concealer and stomach in knots. Peter was already there, sitting at his desk, reviewing something on the screen. He looked up when you entered.

“Morning,” he said in his usual calm tone. “Sleep well?”

“More or less,” you replied, sitting quickly and avoiding his eyes. “You?”

“Like always. Come on, today I’ll teach you how to do the chain of custody report.”

The shift started the same as the previous one: detailed explanations, gentle corrections, the occasional dry but funny comment from Peter that made you smile despite the exhaustion. He said nothing about the like. Not a word. You started to relax a little.

Maybe he hadn’t seen it. Maybe he didn’t even check the app often.

At lunchtime, when everyone started pulling out their Tupperware or heading to the diner next door, you stood up.

“You’re not eating?”

Peter shook his head, eyes still on the screen.

“No time. Gotta finish this before the afternoon shift. Go ahead.”

You left, but couldn’t help feeling a strange pang. You came back twenty minutes later with two to go coffees from the corner machine. You placed one on his desk.

“It was the least I could do,” you said, shrugging. “For being so patient with me.”

He looked up, surprised. Took the cup, sipped, and nodded.

“Thanks. Really.”

You sat in your chair, sipping yours in silence. The coffee was awful, but it warmed your hands. After a while, Peter cleared his throat.

“Hey… last night I saw you liked an old photo of mine on Instagram.”

You choked. Coffee came out your nose. You started coughing like an idiot, wiping yourself with your sleeve while your face burned.

“Sorry, sorry,” you stammered between coughs. “Yeah, that was me. I’m so sorry. It was an accident. Well, not an accident, but… I unliked it right away.”

Peter let out a low, genuine laugh.

“No problem. Seriously. Doesn’t bother me.”

You stared at him, still red.

“It’s just… I like to check out the people I work with a little. You know, curiosity. I’m not a stalker, I swear.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Didn’t think you were. Relax.”

There was a short silence. You took a breath.

“That baby in the photos… is he your son?”

Peter nodded slowly, looking at the coffee cup as if the answer were there.

“Yeah. His name’s Darwin. He’s three.”

“He’s beautiful,” you said, and you meant it. “He has your eyes.”

Peter smiled, but it was a small, almost sad smile.

“Thanks. Most people say he looks more like his mom.”

You didn’t ask more. No need. You knew there was a story there, one he wasn’t telling yet.

And he went back to work, as if nothing had happened.

The day passed in an exhausting fog: more reports, a minor accident call on the main road, a truck that slid on ice, no serious injuries, and Peter following you step by step with that patience that was starting to seem almost supernatural. When nine o’clock came, you both stood up almost at the same time.

“Another day survived,” he said, stretching a little as he put on his jacket. “Rest. Tomorrow might be busy.”

“You too,” you replied with a tired smile.

He just nodded, gave that half smile that never fully reached his eyes, and you each went your separate ways. The night cold hit you as always, but this time you walked faster toward home, head full of thoughts you didn’t want to organize yet.

The next day the shift started with the usual routine until Danvers appeared in the main room with a sour face.

“Prior, new girl. I want both of you at West Lake. A fisherman reported something weird in the ice: footprints that don’t match, a hole that shouldn’t be there, and a bunch of trash thrown around. Probably nothing, but go check before someone calls the press saying it’s another ‘unsolved case.’ Prior, you’re in charge. Teach her how it’s really done in the field.”

Peter glanced at you sideways. Your stomach rose to your throat.

“Me? In the field?” you asked, trying not to sound as pathetic as you felt.

Danvers was already leaving.

“It’s not an action movie, it’s walking on ice and taking pictures. You’re not gonna die. Move.”

In the patrol car, silence lasted the first five minutes. You clung to the seatbelt as if it could save you from something. Peter drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, staring straight at the snowy road.

“Breathe,” he said suddenly, eyes still on the road. “It’s not your first time on ice, right? You’ve walked in snow before.”

“Sure, but not in uniform with a gun that weighs like a brick,” you replied, voice a little shaky. “What if I screw up? What if I see something weird and don’t know what to do?”

Peter exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh.

“Then you look at me and I tell you what to do. You’re not alone. Relax. Your body gets tense when you’re nervous, and on ice that’s dangerous. Deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Do it now.”

You tried. Inhaled slowly, exhaled slower. It helped a little. The knot in your chest loosened enough for you to speak without trembling.

“Thanks. It’s just… this isn’t my thing. I’m doing it for my dad, but every time I go out in the field I feel like I’m betraying him if I quit.”

Peter turned his head for a second to look at you. His blue eyes were softer than usual.

“I get it. My dad forced me into this too. It wasn’t a ‘last wish,’ it was more like ‘become a cop or you don’t exist to me.’ So yeah, I know what it’s like to feel you’re keeping a promise you never asked for.”

The car stopped at the edge of the lake. The ice crunched under your boots as you got out. The wind was weaker there, but the cold felt rawer in the stillness. You walked together toward the hole the fisherman mentioned: an irregular circle about two meters wide, jagged edges, footprints around it, big boots… and smaller ones, like someone dragging something.

Peter crouched first, pulled out the flashlight and started scanning.

“Look at this,” he said, pointing. “This isn’t a normal ice fishing hole. Someone cut it with a saw. And those footprints… two types. One big person and one lighter.”

You crouched beside him, imitating his movements. You took photos with the department phone, like he’d taught you. While you worked, the silence broke again.

“Was your dad one of those who pushed you hard?” Peter asked, not looking directly at you.

“A lot. He said I had to be strong, that I couldn’t be ‘just another face in the crowd.’ When he got sick, the last thing he told me was that he wanted to see me with a badge. That it was his way of knowing I wouldn’t break easily.” You paused, staring at the black hole in the ice. “But I break easily. I hate the cold, hate guns, hate feeling like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.”

Peter stayed quiet for a while. Then he spoke, voice low.

“My dad broke me when I was a kid. Yelled about everything: if I cried, if I didn’t cry, if I breathed too loud. I learned to stay still, to make no noise, to show nothing. That’s why I get like this when someone raises their voice or breathes like they’re about to explode. It’s… automatic.” He straightened up, looking at the horizon. “Kayla, my wife… she knows, but she still gets tired. And Darwin… he shouldn’t grow up with a dad who can’t find a moment of peace.”

You stared at him. It was the first time he’d talked so much about his personal life. You felt a lump in your throat, but not from nerves, from empathy.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I didn’t know.”

“You weren’t supposed to.” He shrugged. “Just saying that… neither of us is here because we want to be. We’re keeping promises that weigh on us.”

You worked in silence a bit longer: marked the perimeter, took ice samples, photos of the footprints. When you were finally heading back to the car, Peter stopped.

“Hey… what we just talked about. Let’s forget it, okay? I don’t want this turning into ‘the day Peter opened up like a book.’ And I’m guessing you don’t want to be seen as the one who hates her job either.”

You nodded quickly.

“Forgotten. Completely. It was just… two people talking.”

He smiled, that small, tired smile.

“Exactly. Two people talking.”

You got in the car. The ride back felt lighter. You didn’t talk about the deep stuff, but the silence was no longer uncomfortable. It was shared.

When you got back to the station and handed in the report, Danvers just grunted “good” and let you go. As you said goodbye at the door, Peter looked at you a second longer than usual.

“Tomorrow at seven. Try to sleep.”

“You too,” you replied.

And as you walked home, the cold stinging your face, you thought that maybe, just maybe, being in Ennis wasn’t going to be as unbearable as you’d believed.

A month later, Ennis no longer felt like the end of the world. The cold was still brutal, but you’d learned to dress in layers that actually worked, to stop slipping so much on black ice, and to tolerate the station coffee without grimacing. Work had become routine: patrols, reports, absurd calls that led nowhere. And Peter… Peter made everything more bearable.

Not that he was the perfect movie partner. He was still tense, still clenched his jaw when someone raised their voice or breathed too hard, still disappeared into long silences. But with you he was different. He explained things with infinite patience, covered for you when you messed up a form so Danvers wouldn’t find out, and every now and then dropped a dry comment that made you laugh in the middle of the heaviest shift. You’d shared more car conversations, more comfortable silences, more glances that lasted a second too long. Nothing explicit. Nothing that crossed the line. But enough that, alone in your apartment at night, you scolded yourself for noticing how attractive he was: the way he ran his hand through his short hair when frustrated, how his blue eyes softened when he talked about Darwin, the line of his jaw when he focused on the road.

“He’s your partner. He’s married. He has a kid. Stop,” you repeated like a mantra. And it worked… until the next day.

That day was one of the worst.

You arrived early, as always, and found him already at his desk. He wasn’t reviewing reports or talking on the radio. He was just staring at the blank screen, elbows on the table, head in his hands. Shoulders slumped, hair messy as if he’d spent the night pulling at it. When he saw you come in, he tried to straighten up quickly, but it was too late: you’d seen him vulnerable.

“Morning,” you said, dropping your backpack on the chair. “Everything okay?”

He let out a long, painful sounding sigh.

“Not exactly.”

You sat across from him, unsure whether to ask or wait. Peter rarely opened up like this. In the end, he spoke, voice low, almost hoarse.

“Kayla kicked me out last night.” He paused, as if saying it out loud made it more real. “We fought. A lot. She says I’m absent all the time, that I’m not there for Darwin, that I bring work home… and that she can’t stand seeing me wound tight like a steel cable every time I walk through the door. So… I went back to my father’s.”

You froze. You didn’t know what to say. The image of Peter sleeping in the same house as the man who broke him as a kid… hurt in your chest in a way you didn’t expect.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured finally. “That… sounds awful.”

Peter shrugged, but it wasn’t convincing.

“That’s how it is. Not the first time. I just… need a couple days for her to calm down. Or for me to calm down. I don’t know.”

The silence stretched. You looked at him: dark circles, red eyes like he hadn’t slept. And something inside you, that soft side that always got you in trouble, spoke before you could stop it.

“Hey… my apartment isn’t big. It’s small, there’s an extra room I use for storage, but… there’s space. If you need a place to stay for a few days, no questions, no drama… you can come. Seriously. You won’t be in the way.”

Peter slowly raised his eyes. His gaze locked onto yours, surprised, almost vulnerable.

“Thanks. Really. But no. I don’t want to drag you into this.”

“You’re not dragging me into anything,” you insisted, leaning forward a little. “It’s just a sofa bed. Or the room. Whatever. You don’t have to sleep at your dad’s if you don’t want to.”

He smiled, but it was a tired, sad smile.

“It’s not about that. It’s that… if Kayla finds out I’m staying with a coworker, a woman… she’ll explode even worse. And she’d be right. I don’t want to give her more ammunition to fight with. I’ve already fucked up enough.”

You understood. Of course you understood. You nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“You’re right. Sorry. I just wanted… to help.”

Peter reached across the desk and touched your forearm for a second. Brief, warm, electric.

“Don’t apologize. It’s sweet that you offered. Really. Means a lot.”

He pulled his hand back quickly, as if realizing the touch had lasted too long. He looked back at the blank screen.

“Let’s work. Distracting myself is the best thing I can do right now.”

The rest of the day was strange. Peter ran on autopilot: patrols, statements, filing. He spoke just enough. You tried not to look at him too much, not to notice how his neck tensed every time the phone rang, how he rubbed his eyes when he thought no one was watching. But you noticed. Everything.

And deep down you scolded yourself again. Because while he was dealing with his broken marriage and his son far away, you couldn’t stop thinking about how much you liked seeing him vulnerable. How much you wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be okay. How unfair it was that someone so good still smelled so good after twelve hours on shift.

At the end of the shift, as you said goodbye at the station door, Peter looked at you a second longer than usual.

“Thanks for today. For listening. And for the offer. Really.”

“Anytime,” you replied, voice a little hoarse. “Take care, okay? And if you change your mind… door’s open.”

He nodded, pulled up his jacket hood, and walked off into the snow that was starting to fall.

You stood there a while watching him walk away, hands in your pockets, heart beating too hard.

“Fuck,” you thought. “This is getting complicated.”

It didn’t take long. Just three days after that conversation at the station, Peter showed up at the end of the shift with a small backpack over his shoulder and an expression that mixed relief and shame. He found you gathering your things and approached slowly, as if he was still deciding whether to take the step.

“Hey… is the sofa bed offer still good?” he asked quietly, looking at the floor.

You looked at him, surprised but not entirely. You knew Hank’s house was hell, he’d mentioned it in passing a couple of times, minimizing it the way he always did: “It’s just temporary,” “It’ll pass.” But that night his voice sounded different. Bone tired.

“Of course it’s still good,” you answered without hesitation. “You sure?”

Peter nodded, running a hand over the back of his neck.

“Things with Kayla… got a little better. We talked on the phone, didn’t yell as much. But it’s still not enough to go back. And living with my dad…” He paused, exhaled hard. “I can’t take it anymore. I need to get out of there even if it’s just a few days.”

You didn’t say anything else. Just nodded and tilted your head toward the door.

“Come on then. My mom’s home, but she’s leaving for her town tomorrow. You’ll like her, she adopts anyone who looks lost.”

The walk to the apartment was short and quiet. The snow had stopped, leaving the air still and biting. Peter walked beside you with the backpack hanging off one shoulder, not saying much. When you reached the building, you climbed the stairs in silence. When you opened the door, the smell of lentil stew and fresh baked bread greeted you like a hug.

Your mother came out of the kitchen drying her hands on her apron.

“Oh honey, you’re late today…” she started, then saw Peter behind you. “And who’s this?”

“Mom, this is Peter. My work partner. He’s going to stay a few days in the back room. Things at his house are… complicated.”

Your mother looked him up and down: wrinkled uniform, dark circles, tense but polite posture. Instead of asking more, she smiled with that warmth that always disarmed people.

“Come in, come in, son. Don’t stand there at the door like you’re going to rob us. Are you hungry? There’s plenty of stew and I just took bread out of the oven.”

Peter looked startled for a second, but then smiled and stepped inside.

“Thank you, ma’am. I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not a bother. And call me Elena, ‘ma’am’ makes me feel old.” She gave his arm a gentle pat. “Sit down, I’ll serve you a plate. And take off that jacket, it’s warm in here.”

Dinner was… easy. Your mother chatted about everything: how the cold wouldn’t let up, how she missed the sun from her childhood which she said was warmer, silly stories from when you were little. Peter listened more than he spoke, but answered when asked: about Darwin, he showed a photo on his phone and your mother said “how gorgeous, he looks like you”, about work. By the end of the night, when your mother went to bed saying “I’m leaving early tomorrow, but take care of my daughter, okay,” Peter helped you wash the dishes in silence.

“Your mom is amazing,” he said while drying a plate. “She made me feel… good. Thanks for this. Really.”

“No problem,” you replied, glancing at him sideways. “The sofa bed is made up in the little sitting room. The back room has a bed, but it’s full of my boxes. If you want more space, we can move them tomorrow.”

“The sofa’s fine. I don’t need much.”

He settled in quickly: backpack in a corner, uniform hung over a chair. Before turning off the light, he looked at you from the doorway of the sitting room.

“Good night. And… thanks again.”

“Good night, Peter.”

The next day the shift started as usual: seven sharp, uniforms on, horrible coffee in hand. No one at the station asked anything, Danvers just raised an eyebrow when he saw you arrive together, but said nothing. The day was calm: routine patrol, a noise report at an abandoned house, just wind, paperwork. Peter seemed more relaxed, though that baseline tension never fully left.

You talked normally, but there was something different in the air: a new complicity, as if sharing a roof had brought you closer without needing big words.

That night you returned to the apartment together.

The door opened to the same smell of home cooked food, your mother had left leftovers and a note: “Eat well, don’t fight over dessert”, Peter took off his boots at the entrance, as he’d already learned to do, and dropped onto the couch with a long sigh.

“Long day,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

“They all are,” you replied, sitting in the armchair across from him with a cup of tea. “How are you?”

Peter nodded slowly.

“Much better. No yelling here. I can breathe.” He paused, looking at you intently. “I don’t know how long I’ll stay, but… thanks for letting me in. Literally.”

You smiled, feeling that treacherous warmth in your chest you tried to ignore.

“No rush. Stay as long as you need.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you a second longer, as if he wanted to say something and couldn’t find the words. In the end he only murmured:

“Good night.”

And as he settled on the sofa bed and you went to your room, you closed the door carefully, leaned your back against it, and let out the breath you’d been holding.

“This is temporary,” you told yourself. “Just a favor to a friend. Nothing more.”

But deep down you knew it was no longer that simple.

During that first week, the routine settled in almost unnoticed. At first it was practical: you came back exhausted from the shift, cold clinging to your clothes and stomach growling after hours of bad coffee and stale station cookies. You’d open the fridge, see the little that was there and say something like:

“Tonight it’s whatever we find. Eggs? Pasta? Or shall we revive Elena’s leftovers?”

Peter, who upon arriving took off his boots and hung his jacket with automatic movements, always answered with that tired half smile:

“As long as it’s not lentil stew again, I’m in.”

And that’s how it started. Cooking together became the moment of the day when the uniform was forgotten. Peter wasn’t a great cook but he chopped onions without complaining and quickly learned not to let the pan dry out. You put on soft music on your phone and between laughs at how clumsy he was peeling garlic or how you almost dropped the pot trying to drain the noodles, time slipped away.

After eating, you’d stay at the small kitchen table or on the couch, with mugs of tea or coffee. You talked about everything and nothing. At first it was work stuff: Danvers anecdotes, the latest idiot who called about “ghosts in the basement” that turned out to be rats, how Hank kept sending passive aggressive messages that Peter deleted without reading. But little by little the guards came down.

One night you talked about your father, how his last wish had dragged you here and how sometimes you felt you were betraying him by hating every second of the uniform. Peter listened without interrupting, just nodding, and when you finished he said quietly:

“You’re not betraying him. You’re fulfilling it. And afterward… afterward you can choose your path. No one’s forcing you to stay forever.”

Another night it was him who opened up more. He told you about Darwin: how the little boy had started saying “daddy” in that tiny voice that melted him, how much he missed him that sometimes he stared at photos on his phone until his eyes hurt. He spoke of Kayla without anger, only with deep sadness: that he loved her, still loved her, but didn’t know how to become the man she needed again. You didn’t give advice, you knew he didn’t want any, you just listened and occasionally placed your hand on the table near his, without touching.

Sleep overtook you late. Eleven, midnight, one. You said good night in a murmur and each went to their side: him to the sofa bed in the sitting room, you to your bedroom. But not always did you sleep through.

Some early mornings you woke up from the cold, the heating was crap, or from a noise, or simply because your brain wouldn’t let you rest. You’d go out to the living room in pajamas and socks, and there he was: awake on the couch, dim table lamp light, staring at the ceiling or at his phone with the screen off. The first time it happened, you stayed in the doorway.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked softly.

Peter turned his head, surprised but not annoyed.

“No. Thoughts. You?”

“Same.”

You sat in the armchair across from him, wrapped in a blanket. You didn’t talk much that time. You just stayed there, in shared silence, listening to the wind against the window and the distant tick tock of the wall clock.

It happened two, three more times that week. Sometimes you chatted a bit: about bad movies you’d seen, how Darwin was turning four soon and Peter didn’t know what to get him, how strange it was to wake up in a place that wasn’t his house or Hank’s. Other times you just looked at each other in the dim light, saying nothing, and the silence was enough.

Every morning you got up early, as if nothing had happened. Coffee, quick shower, uniform, out together to the station.

No one at work suspected anything, or if they did, they said nothing. But at home, between the smell of home cooked food and talks until dawn, something was being built.

Slow, subtle, inevitable.

And you, every time you saw him sleeping on the couch with an arm hanging off or caught him really smiling at something silly you said, scolded yourself less. Because it was no longer just physical attraction. It was something more dangerous: connection.

It was Friday night and the shift had been one of the worst in weeks: a domestic fight that ended in an arrest, a road accident with two minor injuries, and a false shots fired call that turned out to be some idiot’s fireworks celebrating nothing. You got home past eleven, exhausted, clothes smelling of smoke and gasoline. Peter took off his boots at the entrance as usual, and you went straight to the bathroom because you needed a hot shower before the cold got permanently into your bones.

“I’m going first,” you said, already taking off your jacket. “If not, I’ll freeze.”

Peter nodded, dropping onto the couch with a sigh.

“Take your time. I’ll make something to eat after.”

The bathroom was small, like everything in the apartment: old white tiles, narrow shower with plastic curtain, mirror that always fogged up. You undressed quickly, leaving your clothes piled on the floor, and turned on the hot water. Steam rose almost instantly, filling the space. You stepped under the spray, closed your eyes, let the water wash the day away.

You didn’t hear the door open at first. The sound of the water covered everything. But then you felt a thud: the door flew open because Peter, distracted and with his mind elsewhere, thought you’d finished or simply forgot to knock. He came in looking for the soap he’d left there earlier and froze.

You turned instinctively, water running down your back, and he was there: half a step inside the bathroom, hand still on the doorknob, eyes wide open. The steam enveloped you both, but it wasn’t enough to hide anything. You were completely naked, water sliding over your skin, and he… he was too close. The bathroom was so small that when he took a step back to leave, his chest brushed yours. Body against body. Wet heat against the cold fabric of his t-shirt. The contact was electric, accidental, inevitable.

Neither of you moved for an eternal second.

“Sorry,” he murmured, voice hoarse, but he didn’t pull back completely. His eyes dropped for an instant, involuntary, then returned to your face. He swallowed. “I didn’t… mean to…”

You didn’t finish hearing the apology. Something broke. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe the whole week of stolen glances and loaded silences, maybe it was simply that you could no longer pretend. You raised your hand, placed it on his chest, right over the heart pounding like crazy under the now wet fabric, and looked at him fixedly.

Peter didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand slowly rose to your waist, wet fingers brushing your warm skin. The steam wrapped around you like a curtain. And then it happened.

The kiss was rough at first, almost desperate. Lips against lips, no preamble, as if you’d both been waiting for this moment since the first night you cooked together. You pulled him closer, he pressed you against the cold bathroom wall, water now falling on both of you. His mouth tasted of salt and exhaustion and something neither wanted to name yet. His hands moved up your back, tracing the curve of your spine, and you tangled your fingers in his wet hair, tugging a little.

You separated for a second, gasping. His eyes were dark, dilated.

“This is wrong,” he whispered, but his forehead rested against yours, and his hand never stopped caressing your hip.

“I know,” you replied, voice trembling. “But don’t stop.”

And he didn’t stop.

He lifted you easily and you wrapped your legs around his waist. The water kept running, soaking both of you, but it didn’t matter anymore. He walked the few steps to the next room, your bedroom, leaving a trail of water on the floor. He laid you carefully on the bed without breaking the kiss and yanked off his soaked t-shirt. The fabric fell to the floor with a wet sound.

He lay over you, skin against skin. The feeling of his hot, heavy body against yours was like fire. His hands roamed your sides, your waist, your thighs, as if he wanted to memorize every inch. You arched your back when his lips moved down your neck, leaving open kisses, soft bites. He let out a low moan against your skin.

“Your skin… it’s so warm,” he murmured, almost to himself, as if he couldn’t believe it. His fingers dug a little into your hips and you felt him trembling. “Fuck…”

You watched him from the bed, water still dripping from your hair and his skin, forming small puddles on the sheets.

Peter stood at the edge of the mattress, t-shirt already on the floor, chest rising and falling fast, muscles tense with anticipation and something that looked like fear. His uniform pants hung low on his hips, belt buckle still closed, but the erection was already straining against the dark fabric.

You rose onto your knees, the cool room air contrasting with the heat still burning your skin. You extended your hands toward him slowly, giving him time to back away if he wanted. He didn’t.

Your fingers found the belt buckle.

You opened it with a soft click, the sound echoing in the silence broken only by your breathing. You lowered the zipper slowly, brushing the hardness beneath with your knuckles. Peter let out a low, almost inaudible moan and closed his eyes for a second.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, broken. His hands rested on your shoulders, not to stop you, but to hold on. “If we say stop now… we can stop. I don’t want you to regret this tomorrow.”

You looked at him steadily, eyes locked on his. The blue of his irises was almost black from dilated pupils.

“I’m sure,” you answered, and you meant it. For weeks you had wanted him like this: vulnerable, needy, yours even if only for this night. “I want this.”

Peter exhaled shakily. Nodded once, as if he needed to confirm it to himself.

Your hands pulled down his pants and underwear in one gentle tug. He stepped out of them, standing completely naked in front of you. He was beautiful. More than you had imagined in the nights you scolded yourself for looking too much. And that line of blond hair running from his navel down to his erection, hard, thick. The tip already glistened with a drop of pre cum.

You moved closer, still kneeling on the bed. Your fingers wrapped around his length carefully at first, feeling the heat, the smooth taut skin, the veins pulsing under your palm. Peter gasped loudly, head tilting back for a moment.

“Fuck…” he murmured, hands tightening on your shoulders.

You stroked him slowly, up and down, feeling him harden even more in your hand. Then you guided him toward you. You lay back, spreading your legs, and pulled him closer with your other hand on the back of his neck. He leaned over you, bracing his knees on the mattress, his body weight covering you without crushing you.

With the hand still holding him, you guided him to your entrance. The brush of the tip against your wet folds made you both gasp at the same time. It was electric: hot, slippery, perfect. You were soaked from the kiss in the bathroom, and he… he was trembling all over.

“Slow,” you whispered against his mouth, though your voice came out broken.

Peter nodded, teeth clenched. He pushed just barely, the head entering first. You both let out a simultaneous moan. You felt him opening you, filling you inch by inch, slow, careful. The stretch was intense, delicious, and when he was halfway in, your nails dug into his back.

“More,” you begged, arching your hips to help him.

He obeyed. One deeper thrust, and he sank all the way in. You both stayed still for a second, panting. You felt everything: the way he filled you completely, how he throbbed inside, how his pelvis pressed right against your clit. It was too much and perfect at the same time.

Peter lowered his forehead to yours, breathing against your lips.

“You’re… so tight,” he whispered, voice broken. “So warm… fuck, I don’t know if I’m gonna last.”

You smiled, though it came out shaky, and rolled your hips in a slow circle. The friction made you moan loudly, uncontrollably.

“Move,” you pleaded. “Please.”

He started slowly. Pulled almost all the way out and slid back in, a controlled rhythm that drove you crazy. Every deep thrust pulled a moan from you, every brush of his pubic bone against your clit made you arch your back. Your hands roamed up his back, nails digging in, sliding down to his ass to pull him harder against you.

“Harder,” you moaned, voice cracking. “I want to feel all of you.”

Peter growled, a raw, animal sound you’d never heard from him. He sped up. The thrusts became harder, deeper, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room along with your moans and his. You watched him as he took you: sweat on his forehead, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, lips parted releasing hoarse gasps. He was beautiful. So beautiful it hurt. Seeing him like this, undone, lost in you, forgetting for a moment everything that broke him, was better than any fantasy you’d ever had.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured suddenly, opening his eyes to stare at you while he kept moving inside you. “So fucking beautiful… I can’t believe you’re like this with me.”

You moaned louder, the words hitting you straight in the chest. You kissed him desperately, tongues tangling, while your hips rose to meet every thrust. The pleasure built fast, too fast, coiling in your lower belly like a wave.

“Peter…” his name came out like a sob. “I’m close…”

He shifted the angle just slightly, hitting exactly where you needed. One, two, three more times and you shattered. The orgasm ripped through you, hard and intense, making your muscles clamp down around him, your nails dig into his back, a choked scream tearing from your throat. Peter growled your name against your neck, thrust once more, twice, then tensed completely. He came inside you with a long, broken moan, body shaking, filling you as he collapsed on top of you.

You stayed like that for a long while: panting, sweaty, joined. Him still inside, softening now, but not pulling out. You stroking his wet hair, his back, feeling his heart racing against yours.

Neither of you said anything yet. Just breathed. Together.

Neither of you wanted to talk about what had just happened. There was no “this can’t happen again” or “it was a mistake.” Just loaded silence, still ragged breathing, and the weight of Peter on top of you, still inside you, soft and warm. He slowly lifted his head, looked into your eyes for a long second and, instead of saying anything, lowered his mouth and kissed you. It was a slow, deep, almost tender kiss, as if he wanted to memorize the taste of your mouth before reality returned. Your fingers tangled in his damp hair and you kissed back with the same softness, no hurry.

Afterward he rolled to your side, pulled you against his chest and covered you with the blanket. You rested your cheek on his warm skin, listening to his heartbeat slowly calm. Neither spoke. You just lay there, tangled together, breathing in the same rhythm until sleep took you.

The next morning you woke first. Gray morning light came through the window, cold and soft. Peter slept on his side, back to you, sheet low on his waist, revealing the curve of his back and the small tattoo on his shoulder blade. The heat from the night before was still there, smoldering under your skin like an ember that hadn’t gone out. You moved slowly, pressing yourself against him from behind, and felt his body react even in sleep: a deep sigh, his back tensing slightly.

You slid one leg over his hip and climbed on top of him carefully. Peter opened his eyes slowly, confused for a second, but when he saw you there, naked, sitting on his thighs, hands on his chest, the blue of his eyes darkened instantly.

“Good morning,” you murmured, leaning down to kiss his neck.

He let out a low moan and his hands automatically rose to your hips.

“Fuck…” he whispered, still hoarse from sleep. “Are you…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. You moved slowly, grinding against him, feeling him harden beneath you in seconds. Peter closed his eyes for a moment, breathing hard through his nose.

“Wait,” he said suddenly, opening his eyes with concern. “I don’t have condoms here. Yesterday was risky enough.”

You smiled, leaned down and gave him a slow kiss on the lips while your hand slid between you both to guide him.

“Relax,” you whispered against his mouth. “I’m on the pill. Have been for years. You can enjoy… everything.”

Peter swallowed hard, visibly relieved, but the worry mixed with pure desire when you felt the tip of him brush your already wet entrance. You guided him yourself, sinking down slowly, inch by inch, until you had him all inside. You both gasped at the same time. This time there was no rush, the rhythm was yours. You began to move in slow circles, rising and falling calmly, feeling every vein, every pulse inside you.

Peter couldn’t take his eyes off your breasts. His hands rose and cupped them with reverence, thumbs brushing your hardened nipples while you moved.

You sped up a little. The wet sound of your bodies colliding filled the room along with your soft moans and his low growls. Peter gripped your hips, helping you slam down harder, but without taking control. Just enjoying. Enjoying the view, the feeling of being inside you, the way you clenched around him every time you sank fully.

“Just like that… fuck, just like that,” he gasped, eyes fixed on your breasts rising and falling with each movement. “Don’t stop… please don’t stop.”

You braced one hand on his chest and with the other touched yourself, finding the exact spot you needed. The orgasm came fast, intense, making you tighten around him and release a long moan that was almost a sob. Peter followed seconds later, fingers digging into your hips as he spilled inside you with a deep growl, body shaking beneath you.

You stayed joined for a long while, breathing hard, you still sitting on him. Then, with a tired smile, you got up and offered him your hand.

“Shower. Both of us. Before we’re late for shift.”

Peter laughed softly, taking your hand.

You went in first and he waited outside, sitting on the edge of the bed with a towel around his waist.

While the water ran over you, you heard Peter’s phone ring in the bedroom. You heard him answer in a low voice.

“Kayla? …Yeah, I’m fine. What’s wrong?”

The rest of the conversation was murmurs you couldn’t quite catch. But when you came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, Peter was sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. The phone was silent now.

He looked up at you. His eyes were red.

“It was Kayla,” he said quietly, almost broken. “She said she misses me. That Darwin asks for me every day. That… she wants me to come home. That we should try again.”

The world crashed down on you in an instant. You felt a cold void in your stomach, as if someone had ripped the air from your lungs. But you didn’t show it. You forced a small, fake smile.

“Then you should go back,” you said, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “It’s the right thing. For Darwin. For her.”

Peter stood up slowly.

“I didn’t want this to happen like this. Last night… this morning… it wasn’t just…”

“No,” you cut him off, soft but firm. “It’s okay. Really. It was… nice. But we both knew it was temporary.”

You turned quickly and went into the other room, closing the door behind you. You leaned your back against the wood, eyes squeezed shut. Peter followed almost immediately.

“Hey, let’s talk,” he said from the other side, voice muffled. “Please. Don’t shut me out like this.”

“Go, Peter,” you replied, and your voice came out weaker than you wanted. “It’s for the best. For both of us.”

He tried the knob, but you’d locked it.

“Please…”

You didn’t answer. You slid to the floor, hugging your knees, and let the tears come in silence. No sobs. Just hot tears falling one after another while you listened to his footsteps slowly move away toward the front door.

Peter left without saying anything more. You heard the front door close with a soft, almost respectful click, as if he didn’t want to make noise while breaking your heart. The silence he left was deafening. You stayed sitting on the sitting room floor, back against the closed door, knees to your chest, the towel still damp against your skin. The tears kept falling silently, hot and slow, until they dried on their own and only the burning in your eyes remained.

You felt dirty. Not because of the sex, that had been the most real and beautiful thing you’d felt in months, but because you had wanted him so much. Because you had let him into your home, your bed, your skin, knowing he had a family waiting for him. Because you had been selfish.

Before it got much later you grabbed your phone and sent a short message to Danvers:

“Feeling really sick. Vomiting and fever. Not coming in today. Sorry.”

You sent it before you could regret it. Then turned off your phone and threw it across the room. You didn’t want to see if Peter tried to contact you. You didn’t want to see his name on the screen and have to decide whether to answer or not.

The day was hell.

You dragged yourself to the bathroom and vomited everything in your stomach: the breakfast you hadn’t eaten, yesterday’s coffee, bitter bile that burned your throat. It wasn’t just your body, it was the disgust you felt for yourself. Every heave came with a thought: “How could you? He has a wife. A son. And you… you wanted him for yourself. You’re pathetic.” You looked in the fogged mirror: swollen eyes, messy hair, pale face. You hated yourself so much you wanted to scream.

You went back to bed and curled up under the sheets that still smelled like him, his mint soap, sweat, sex. You tried to sleep, but every time you closed your eyes the images came back: his hands on your hips, his mouth on your neck, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in that moment. And then Kayla’s voice on the phone, distant but clear in your head: “Come home.”

You vomited again at noon. And again in the afternoon. Your empty stomach hurt, but your chest hurt more. You felt like an idiot for believing, even for a second, that something between you could be real. That the nights cooking together, the talks until dawn, the shared silences in the dark… meant anything more than a temporary escape for him.

The phone vibrated several times on the floor. You ignored it. You knew who it was. Peter. First messages: “Are you okay?”, “Please answer”, “I’m worried.” Then calls. One after another. The sound of the phone against the wood was like a hammer in your head. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. If you heard his voice, if you heard the worried or guilty or whatever tone he had, you would break completely. And you were already broken enough.

At dusk you got up only to drink water and vomit again. The apartment was too quiet without him: without the sound of his boots in the entrance, without the clatter of the pan in the kitchen, without his low laugh when he burned his fingers peeling garlic. You sat on the sofa bed where he had slept those first nights, hugging the pillow that still carried his scent, and cried for real this time.

Muffled, ugly sobs that left your throat raw.

When it got dark, the phone stopped vibrating. Maybe Peter gave up. Maybe he understood you weren’t going to answer. Or maybe he was already on his way home to Kayla and Darwin, trying to fix what he broke for one night with you.

You crawled back into bed, curled into a ball, and stared at the ceiling. The self disgust didn’t go away. The “love” for him didn’t either. And that was the worst part. You still thought about how his skin felt against yours, how he told you you were perfect while looking at you with those blue eyes.

Tomorrow you would have to go back to work.

You would have to see him.

You would have to pretend nothing had happened.

And you didn’t know if you could.

i didn't remember the boy (Darwin) in the series and i portrayed him as i wanted, then i looked for him but i didn't have time to change his description, SORRY, if i write more about Peter i'm going to do it well

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#peter prior