Chapter Text
You hadn’t planned on getting drunk with Midtown people again in college. But then again, you were never one to say no to Liz Allan.
The sky was already bruising deep blue by the time you and Betty arrived. Your breath fogged the air, fingers numbed despite gloves, and the wind bit through your coat like it had something to prove. Most of the Decathlon team had scattered: some stuck around for ESU, others fled the city entirely, and a few just fell off the map like loose pins on a board no one bothered to update.
Liz had gone west to USC. Sunshine, palm trees, golden-hour selfies and sorority formals that looked like movie sets. Her Instagram grid was all curated chaos and beachy light, which made Queens seem like a fever dream. But now she was back for winter break—and naturally, she wanted to “reunite Midtown’s finest,” as her group text read.
You had promised Betty an hour. Two max. Just long enough to drink some alcoholic trash, nod at people who once dissected Shakespeare with you, and prove to yourself that Flash Thompson’s voice no longer triggered your fight-or-flight response.
Liz’s place hadn’t changed. Sleek modern house, sharp lines and too many windows—like it had nothing to hide. You could see almost everything from the doorstep: the warm blur of people moving through the living room, the gleam of curated furniture that looked like it had a skincare routine, the soft pulse of string lights casting everything in jewel-toned color—amethyst, garnet, citrine. Inside, a throwback playlist thumped through the speakers, just audible through the glass. Early Rihanna, naturally. The kind of music engineered to make people scream lyrics into solo cups and pretend high school never ended.
You leaned close to the window and raised your brows. “I’m way too sober for this.”
“Should’ve pre-gamed,” Betty said, squinting through the window. “But hey—looks like there’s a couple bottles on the counter, so we’re not totally doomed.”
You gave Betty an unsure smile, the kind that tried to telepathically communicate we could still bail. But your knuckles were already rapping against the door—and unfortunately, you weren’t very good at telepathy. Inside, a burst of laughter exploded—loud and unfiltered, the kind that came from too much sugar, too much vodka, or both. Something clattered to the floor with a dramatic crash, followed by a chorus of “oh my god”s and someone yelling “it was already broken!”
And then the door swung open like it had been waiting—like Liz had been standing just behind it the whole time, grinning before she even saw your face.
“Oh my God, finally. My babies!” Liz grinned, pulling you and Betty into a hug that smelled like cinnamon gum and something vaguely expensive.
“You look amazing,” Betty said into her shoulder. “Seriously. Maybe I need to move to California, because you’re glowing.”
Liz laughed, brushing it off. “It’s the sun. And the fact that I’m three thousand miles away from anyone who knew me in braces.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Except for tonight.”
She shrugged, already heading toward the kitchen. “Had to make an exception for my favorite girls.” As you followed her in, she nodded toward the fridge. “Come on, let’s get you a drink. I’ve got permission to raid the alcohol stash, so we’re set.”
Leaning back against the counter, Liz grabbed two glasses and started mixing—definitely too much vodka compared to the Sprite, but the overabundance of maraschino cherries probably balanced things out.
“Is that—” Betty squinted over your shoulder. “Oh wow, is that Brad Davis?”
“Yep,” Liz said with a smirk as she stirred. “I wasn’t going to invite him since he wasn’t on Decathlon, but I heard about whatever he and MJ had, so figured why not stir the pot.”
Betty cocked her head. “He’s kinda cute now.”
Liz rolled her eyes, pushing the two pink drinks your way. “Honestly, can’t believe it’s him. He looks like he models in a Gap ad or something.”
You grabbed your drink gratefully and lifted it to your lips. Way too much vodka, but necessary—the flight-or-fight response was definitely still triggered every time Flash wandered by, voice still grating as ever.
“Hesitated on Brad but not Flash?” you muttered, eyes tracking Flash’s sloppy, drunk parade through the living room. Gross. “I swear, I’m getting goosebumps just being in the vicinity as him.”
Liz shrugged and leaned on the counter. “Felt wrong not to invite him, you know? If I’m going to drag us all back into the vortex, might as well go all in.”
She gave you a look. “Oh, and he’s calling himself Eugene now. Says he’s ‘rebranding’ or whatever, and can’t be ‘acting like a kid’ because, quote, ‘I’ve got a business to run.’”
You rolled your eyes. Flash was mid-story, one hand flailing dramatically while the other clutched a highball glass. The two poor souls hanging on his every word looked like they’d just realized they signed up for a TED Talk and had no idea how to escape. He wore skinny jeans that looked a size too small and a blazer way too formal for this party—definitely an attempt to seem sophisticated, but honestly, it just made him look like someone allergic to humility (which, spoiler alert, he was).
“Wow,” you said. “Even time can’t fix everything.”
You all laughed, picking apart Flash’s ridiculousness until Liz waved you toward the back patio. “Everyone’s out there. I lit the fire earlier. Come say hi.”
The backyard was draped in more string lights, warm halos looping over the fence and beneath a canvas awning. The cold hit harder out there, despite the fire pit crackling nearby—brisk and biting, the kind that made your cheeks sting and your drink go down faster. MJ sat curled in a patio chair, hood up, legs tucked under her like a cat on a windowsill.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, especially considering who RSVP’d,” you said, sliding onto the chair beside her. Liz followed Betty off to catch up with some girls they knew better from high school.
MJ shrugged, leaning back. “Yeah, I’m trying exposure therapy. Haven’t ripped any hairs out because of Flash yet, so I’m counting that as progress.”
“I think some hairs are to come,” you said. “He’s just back inside with other victims for now. We might be next—don’t think he saw me and Betts come in.”
“Well, if that happens, I’m hiding in the bathroom,” MJ said.
“And leaving me to fend for myself? What a friend,” you teased.
She snickered, sipping her drink. “I don’t think she put any orange juice in this like I asked.”
Liz passed by and caught the comment, grinning mischievously. “I pour heavy—what can I say?”
She settled into the chair across the fire pit, hands held out to the warmth.
MJ smiled faintly, which in her language meant delighted. The three of you slipped into an easy rhythm—updates, petty roommate drama, class gossip, and MJ’s work-study gig at Barnard’s art museum, where she may or may not have knocked over a replica statue by “casually existing too close to it.” Betty eventually wandered back over and plopped down a little too close to the firepit for your comfort.
You were mid-story about how your Calculus professor almost ran you over one afternoon near the High Line—and then, embarrassed, gave you extra credit without even asking—when the sliding glass door behind you slid open. Instinctively, you turned.
“Whoa,” someone said, stepping in. “It’s like we went through a time machine or something.”
Betty’s face lit up immediately. She sprang away from the fire pit like it owed her money. “Ned!”
Ned nearly dropped the snacks in his hands—because he was way too sweet to show up empty-handed—as Betty hugged him tightly. “Betts—my ribs!”
“Hey guys!” Liz called from her seat, waving them over. “Glad you showed.”
You glanced over and sure enough, just behind Ned stood Peter Parker—chestnut locks mussed under his hoodie—rocking slightly on his feet like he wasn’t quite sure where to plant himself. He blinked when he saw you and gave a small wave, that familiar soft smile tugging at his lips. You waved back, finger half-frozen.
“Hey,” he said, breathless and a little shy. “This place has, like, five too many string lights.”
“Visual overstimulation is great for your brain activity,” you joked, eliciting a soft chuckle from him.
“Did you guys walk from campus?” MJ asked.
“Yeah,” Ned said. “It was this, or try to parallel park here.”
“And he’s not good at parallel parking. This one time he almost—”
“Shut up!” Ned shushed him as Betty returned to her seat. He followed and flopped down beside her, carefully setting the snacks on the table.
“I got you some stuff. Didn’t wanna show up empty-handed.”
“Aw, thank you, Ned! You didn’t have to,” Liz smiled, hopping up to grab the snacks. “I’ll put these away and get you guys a drink. What do you want?”
“I’m good with anything,” Ned said.
“Peter?”
“Uh, whatever Ned gets. Less hassle for you,” Peter answered, eyes still taking in the chilly night.
“Got it! I’ll be right back,” Liz said, disappearing inside where it was definitely warmer.
You weren’t sure why you were still outside either—should’ve gone in the second your ears stopped feeling—but now it was too late, so you stayed put.
“Come sit, Pete,” you said, motioning to the empty chair. “I was just telling them about Professor Harding almost hitting me on the street by the High Line.”
Peter eased down beside you, rubbing his hands together against the cold. “Wait, was that the time you were on your way to study with me at the library?”
You nodded. “Yep. The guy’s like a blur whenever he hits the crosswalk. Honestly, I’m more afraid of getting run over by him than failing his class.”
Peter chuckled. “No joke cause he almost took me out twice this semester. Pretty sure he’s got a personal vendetta against pedestrians.”
You smirked. “And the extra credit? Totally unprompted. Like, ‘Oops, almost killed a student—here’s a pass.’”
He smirked. “Calculus class or near-death experiences? Which one’s the real final exam?”
You giggle. “If the midterm is surviving a crosswalk, I’m definitely failing.”
MJ snorted softly from her chair. “You two should probably focus on the derivatives instead of dodging cars.”
You were about to respond with something snarky when the sliding door creaked again. Liz reappeared like clockwork, the amber firelight catching in her hair as she stepped back onto the patio, balancing two drinks in both hands like she’d just placed top three in a bartending speed round. Her entrance cut through the cold like static. She had a mischievous glint in her eye and condensation running down the sides of the glasses like they were sweating in anticipation.
“Okay,” she said, holding them out. “One Vodka Cran, one Vodka Lemonade. You two can arm wrestle over who gets what.”
The drinks were suspiciously vibrant—liquid candy with a kick. It was obvious Liz had ignored every standard pour recommendation and gone entirely by instinct—or maybe by beat drop. Whichever came first. Judging by the way the liquor clung to the rim and threatened to spill with each step, it looked like the spill beat the chorus to it.
Ned leaned in, squinting suspiciously at the pink and yellow liquids. “I’ll take the one on the right. Less scary.” He cradled the glass carefully, took a tentative sip, and immediately scrunched his face like he’d been hit with a surprise punch. “Whoa. That’s strong.”
MJ’s grin was knowing, almost conspiratorial. “Because Liz made it. It’s basically a chemistry experiment in a glass—proportions determined by whimsy.”
Ned held up his drink like a trophy, flashing a playful smile at Betty. “Hey, you want this? I’ll stay sober for you tonight, babe.”
Betty’s eyes lit up, her grin so wide it threatened to split her face as she snagged the glass and settled closer to him. The way they leaned into each other, their laughter mingling in the cold air, was so sweet it bordered on nauseating—but also kind of impossible not to smile at.
Peter rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. “You two are relentless.”
You laughed, nudging him lightly. “College romance is an Olympic sport. They’re gold medalists.”
The conversation blurred in that warm, tipsy way where everything felt funnier than it had any right to be—bad professors, worse dining hall food, a group project that ended in a passive-aggressive group chat implosion, and Ned accidentally getting locked inside an escape room because he thought a prop bookshelf was a real exit.
"Wait, wait," Betty said at one point, already wheezing, “remember when Mr. Vargas fell off that stool during morning announcements?”
“Oh my God,” Ned groaned. “And Flash tried to catch him but just made it worse?”
“He tried to body block him,” Cindy added, wide-eyed. “Like he thought he could intercept gravity.”
Laughter rippled across the patio like no time had passed at all—easy and familiar, like slipping back into an old song. But slowly, the cold started to creep in, not all at once but in little fingers—nipping at ankles, slipping beneath jackets, teasing the tips of your ears. The group slowly unraveled. Liz wandered inside to rescue the playlist from a rogue Doja Cat remix. Ned and Betty disappeared toward the hallway under the guise of “charging their phones,” which no one believed. MJ took one look at Flash stepping outside for a breath of fresh air and, true to her word, bolted directly for the bathroom.
Before long, it was just you and Peter lingering under the string lights, the backyard now quieter than it had been all night. The fire pit crackled between you, casting a warm flicker that danced across his face and softened the sharp edges of the cold. From inside, you could hear the pulse of the music shift—something bass-heavy and familiar, making the windows thrum like a low heartbeat.
You both sank deeper into the chairs beside the fire pit, settling into the warmth as your eyes drifted to the steamed-over sliding glass door. Through the misted pane, the living room had shifted into a softer mood—lights dipped low, casting a haze of warm orange and bruised violet that pulsed gently in time with a house remix of Rihanna’s Only Girl. It looked like a music video viewed through a fogged lens, or maybe found footage.
You’d finished your drink ages ago, but Peter had let you steal sips from his—a fizzy pink concoction Liz made that hit way harder than any vodka cranberry you’d ever had. It wasn’t sweet or smooth, more like a sharp punch wrapped in bubbles, the kind that made your throat burn and your head spin just a little faster. You wrinkled your nose at the first sip but kept sneaking more anyway.
Inside, Betty and Cindy were dancing like no one was watching—hair everywhere, cheeks flushed, laughing breathlessly between lyrics. Ned was slouched on the couch with a paper plate and the fondest look on his face, like he’d stumbled into a memory he didn’t know he missed.
Peter glanced at the scene, then back at you, voice low. “She’s definitely drunk.”
“She hugged me earlier and called me ‘mama,’ so… yeah. Probably.”
He laughed quietly, leaning a little closer. “Well, are you?”
You playfully swatted his arm. “I think you’d know.”
You bumped your shoulder lightly against his, and his smile lingered—soft around the edges, quiet in that way only Peter could be. The two of you stood there for a while, watching the chaos unfold behind the glass like anthropologists observing the rituals of a lost civilization. Someone had brought out a bottle of whipped cream and vodka, and someone else was wearing a cowboy hat that hadn’t been in the room earlier.
“I never thought I’d willingly hang out with these people again,” Peter said, almost to himself.
“Same. I almost bailed, but Betty was relentless.”
“Ned basically guilt-tripped me into coming. I told him my social battery was shot and he just said, ‘Recharge it at the party.’ Like it’s an iPhone.”
You smirked, lips pulling up despite the cold. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. I think I’d be wallowing in a corner if you weren’t.”
“I thought you loved parties,” Peter teased, giving you a side glance.
“I do. This just isn’t a party. It’s a high school reunion in a fancy house. I’m getting PTSD but it just smells like Liz’s expensive candles now.”
He laughed, low and soft. “Fair.”
There was a beat of silence between you, not awkward, just weightless.
“I miss high school sometimes,” Peter said after a pause. “It felt smaller. College is just... bigger. Like everyone’s already so far ahead.”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah, I get that. I still see a lot of people from high school, so sometimes it feels like nothing’s changed. But then I blink, and realize everything really has. Still, it helps that you, Ned, and Betty are there. Makes it feel less like I’m faking adulthood.”
Peter gave you that quiet, crooked smile, thanking you without words. Just then, Liz burst through the sliding door like a comet, breaking the moment.
“Alright!” she grinned, lopsided and flushed. “Get your asses inside, we’re playing Seven Minutes in Heaven!”
You stared at her, arms crossed but already smirking. “Elizabeth Allan, how old are we again?”
“Old enough to have better alcohol,” she said, undeterred. “Come on. I’m leaving for USC again in, like, five minutes—indulge me.”
Peter hesitated beside you, brows lifting. “Do we have to?”
“I mean… we could sneak out and ghost everyone,” you offered.
A beat passed.
“But we won’t,” he said, already sighing as he stood and held his hand out to help you up.
“Nope,” you muttered, taking it, your fingers cold in his warm palm.
Liz practically buzzed as she ushered you both back in, shivering dramatically. “How are you guys not freezing? I feel like my bones are made of popsicles.”
You shrugged as she grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the crowd gathering around the coffee table, which had been unceremoniously shoved aside to make room for a messy circle of half-sober twenty-somethings. Everyone sat cross-legged on the floor, knees bumped awkwardly together, eyes already half-dreading whatever was about to happen.
Peter sat across from you, folding his long legs and giving you a look—equal parts amused and mildly terrified. His hoodie had slipped slightly off one shoulder, and the firelight from the candles made his face glow soft and gold.
Liz clapped her hands for attention. “Okay, here’s how it works. You spin the bottle—if it lands on someone, you go in the closet for seven minutes. If you chicken out, you take a shot and answer a truth.”
MJ groaned, already standing. “This is how we never speak to each other ever again.”
“We’re adults now,” Liz declared, very unseriously. “It’s fine.”
You glanced around the circle and grimaced. Flash—or “Eugene”—had definitely swiped a fancy rocks glass without asking, cradling it like a trophy. His blazer was buttoned all the way to the top, like he’d just stepped off a Fashion Week runway. Jason was here too, along with Brad, and a few other vaguely familiar faces you couldn’t quite name but vaguely remembered cheating off in sophomore bio.
“To ease the tension…” Liz grinned, already spinning the bottle. “I’ll go first.”
The bottle clattered dramatically before landing on Betty. A chorus of oooohs followed. Liz waggled her brows at her, and Betty looked at Ned, who gave her a supportive thumbs-up like he was sending her into battle.
“Alright, alright,” Liz said, hands raised. “I’ll take the shot—out of respect for you two.”
Betty placed a hand over her heart, mock-touched. Liz grabbed the red plastic shot glass waiting on the table and knocked it back like a pro. “Okay, truth time. Hit me.”
Betty didn’t hesitate. “So… is it true you hooked up with Ryan Callahan at your prom after-party?”
Liz grinned through the burn. “Oh, yeah. Not only true—we got kicked out of the Airbnb for it.”
Laughter rippled around the circle. MJ shook her head, a sly smirk tugging at her lips. “I fucking knew it. Nobody ever trusts my gut.”
You rolled your eyes, grinning. “Because your gut’s usually full of conspiracy theories.”
The bottle spun again, a slow, teasing whirl that had everyone leaning in. It was MJ’s turn, and the room collectively braced itself. Liz even started to reach for a shot glass, expecting that she would take the shot and truth instead of going into the closet.
But as the bottle head slowed, it landed squarely on Brad.
A stunned silence fell. Brad blinked, swallowed, and before anyone could react, MJ rose—calm, unreadable—and slipped her hand into his without a word. No eye rolls, no nervous laughter. Just quiet confidence as they vanished into the closet together.
Liz raised her eyebrows, half amused, half impressed. “It’s like the universe is rewarding me for inviting him,” she murmured with a grin, sipping her drink.
The room hummed with a mix of anticipation and awkward laughter. Conversations paused, and eyes stayed fixed on the closet door. Seven minutes stretched long enough for everyone’s imaginations to run wild.
Then, the door creaked open.
Brad stepped out first, looking like someone had just handed him a riddle he wasn’t quite ready to solve—dazed, disoriented, maybe questioning his life choices. Behind him, MJ appeared completely unreadable, her expression neutral, blink-and-you-miss-it casual. She didn’t smile, didn’t flinch, just blinked once, then slid back into her seat like nothing had happened.
A few people exchanged glances. The spell was broken, and the room exhaled collectively, the tension folding into a new, quieter buzz.
You caught Liz’s eye, who shrugged with a smirk. “Well. That was unexpected.”
MJ glanced over at you, eyebrow slightly raised, clearly daring anyone to ask questions. But no one did.
And then it was Peter’s turn.
He hesitated a moment, eyes flicking around the room, then slowly reached for the bottle without saying a word.
It spun.
It spun.
It landed on you.
Silence. Or, rather, a sudden collective intake of breath from the circle like they’d just witnessed a rare solar event.
You blinked. Peter blinked. He opened his mouth like he might say something, but then just… laughed nervously.
“Well,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s, uh—”
“Well, well, well,” Liz cut in, already shoving the shot glass toward him. “Closet or confession, Parker?”
You bit the inside of your cheek, staring at the bottle like it had just pulled a cosmic prank on you. The tip of it pointed directly at you—clean, sharp, like a red bullseye stamped onto the hardwood by fate and how drunk Liz was. Peter shifted, rubbing the heel of his palm against his knee. You looked up to meet his eyes, and offered him a small, steadying smile and a small nod.
He swallowed and gave a nervous laugh, glancing at the circle like maybe someone else would volunteer as tribute. No one did.
“Um... closet?” he said, like he wasn’t even sure it was a word. More question than declaration.
Everyone looked to you. Waiting.
“Mhm,” you hummed, cool and unbothered—but your stomach did a little cartwheel anyway. The second your agreement hit the air, the room exploded into cheers and teasing groans.
“Okay, Penis Parker!” Flash called from somewhere to your left, like he was fifteen again and had just discovered the letter P and alliteration. Some people do not change with time, in fact.
Peter’s face flushed a deep, almost impossibly dark red—the kind of red you hadn’t seen since that time he accidentally walked in on you changing junior year. The color only deepened as he reached the closet and opened the door cautiously, like it might snap at him. You slipped inside first—cramped and dim, with a faint scent of sandalwood and jacket lint—and made room as he eased in behind you, gently closing the door. The only light came from the thin strip beneath the door, slashing across the floor.
“Time starts... now!” Liz called from the other side, dramatic as ever. You could hear people shuffle closer, their laughter muffled but present, crowding in like sharks waiting for blood in the water.
You leaned in, your voice low and near his ear, careful. “We don’t have to do anything, Peter. Not unless you want to.”
His silhouette was just barely visible—broad shoulders tucked in awkwardly, eyes wide like he wasn’t entirely sure how he got here. You watched his lips press into a tight line before he bent in, leaning so close you could feel his breath against your cheek, warm and sweet with whatever Liz had poured him.
“That’s not it,” he whispered, his voice uneven. “It’s not that I, um, don’t want to.”
You tilted your head. Waited. The air between you felt warm despite the chill everywhere else, thick and buzzing with the kind of nervous electricity that didn’t quite have a name yet.
“Then?” you whispered back, your heart thudding.
Peter pulled back just enough that you could see the flicker of hesitation across his face. He rubbed the back of his neck, then rested his arms over his knees.
“I’ve, uh, never… kissed anyone. Before,” he admitted finally, almost too fast. Like he needed to say it before he chickened out. “Ever.”
You blinked. “Wait, really?”
He winced. “Yeah. I mean—not for lack of trying. But I’m… me. Awkward. Busy. You know how things were with the Stark internship and school and just… life stuff.”
Your eyebrows lifted. You weren’t judging him. Just surprised. Peter Parker, with his crooked smile and warm hands and heart-on-sleeve earnestness, seemed like someone who should have been kissed by now. Multiple times. Preferably by people who didn’t take that for granted.
“Honestly?” you said softly. “I figured you had. You’re cute and smart. Girls love a ditsy little sweet dork.”
Peter chuckled, a little nervous. “Ditsy sweet dork beats ‘Penis Parker,’ so I’ll take it.”
You smiled. “Way better branding.”
He groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t remind me.”
From the other side of the door, you could hear muffled voices and see shadows moving as people lingered nearby.
Peter exhaled. “Can you, uh… not tell anyone?”
You met his eyes. “Of course, Pete. Secret’s safe with me.”
He nodded, looking visibly relieved—but then your brain kicked in again, faster than your mouth.
“Or…” you said, and winced at yourself. “Or we could pretend.”
Peter glanced at you. “Pretend?”
You shrugged. “Like we’re making out. Give ‘em a show. I mean—Flash’s face alone would be worth it.”
Peter let out a breathy laugh, rubbing his palms on his jeans. “That’s very tempting.”
“You in?”
He hesitated, then nodded once, decisive. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do it. But like… how do we even fake that? I’ve never practiced fake-making out.”
You leaned in close again, your grin blooming with mischief, nose almost brushing his cheek.
“Smack your lips. Move around a bit. Shuffle your feet like you’re shifting positions. I’ll throw in a dramatic moan for flair.”
Peter looked at you with the kind of wide-eyed panic that said he had no idea if you were kidding.
“It’s just for theatrics, Parker,” you whispered, laughing. “Just enough to sell it.”
Peter blinked slowly, like his brain was buffering, then nodded. “Right. Yeah. Acting. Got it.”
You both sat in a bubble of dark warmth and nerves, the kind that made your fingers tingle and your mouth feel too aware of itself. The closet creaked slightly when you shifted toward him—knees bumping his thigh, your arm brushing his as you leaned close enough that your breath stirred the curls falling onto his forehead.
“Okay,” you murmured near his ear, voice low and steady. “Ready?”
Peter nodded, silent, breath barely catching.
You shifted slightly on the floor, careful not to touch, but the closet was small—too small for much space between you. Your knee accidentally brushed his leg as you adjusted your seat, and he flinched just a bit. You smiled to yourself, reading the tension.
Then, leaning in just a little closer—close enough that your breath brushed the shell of his ear—you let out a soft, breathy sound. A quiet moan, more tease than anything, just enough to make him shiver.
Peter’s fingers twitched on the floor.
“Jesus,” he muttered, voice hushed.
Outside, you heard a frustrated curse, the floor creaking as someone leaned in. You shuffled again, slow and steady, brushing your knee along Peter’s leg like you were adjusting your seat in someone else’s bed. Another soft, closed-mouth sigh slipped from you—just for effect—but the flush across Peter’s cheeks was very real.
He turned his head toward you, and for a second, your faces were close. Closer than they probably needed to be. His eyes flicked down to your mouth and back up. You weren’t touching, but you might as well have been.
You shifted again, your knee briefly pressing against his leg. This time, you wrapped your arms lightly around him—not fully pressing, but enough to steady yourself—and whispered, “Hold my hips.”
Peter’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t pull away.
Before you could say more, Liz called, “Time!”
The door swung open with a sudden crash of light and stares.
You jumped up, breaking away from Peter, laughing softly as you smoothed your jeans and hair like it was nothing. Peter followed, cheeks flushed, his hair tousled, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. The room held its breath—no cheers, no whoops. Just the wide, confused eyes of everyone watching like they weren’t sure if they’d just hallucinated that whole seven minutes.
MJ blinked. “Did you guys... actually—?”
You gave her your sweetest smile.
“Use your imagination,” you said, breezing past like an angel with a criminal record.
Behind you, Peter let out a helpless snort. The second your eyes met, it was over—barely-suppressed laughter bubbling up between you, his face turned away like he was trying not to choke on it. Everyone’s expressions were as you expected—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, somewhere between horrified and impressed. Even Liz looked scandalized, which only made it better.
It was delicious. Possibly your favorite party trick of all time.
——
By the time the circle dissolved and people filtered into smaller groups—some back to the dance floor, some to the kitchen, a few to the bathroom to gossip—you were curled on the couch with a second drink in your hand, the warmth of the fire pit a ghost on your skin. Peter had claimed the floor by your feet, sipping slowly from a plastic cup as you both watched Flash try and fail to dance to house music.
Eventually, Betty let out a dramatic yawn, tugging Ned toward the door by the hand.
“G’night,” she mumbled, swaying slightly. She leaned in to squeeze your shoulder, voice syrupy and slurred. “See you at hooome… don’t dooo anythin’ I wouldn’t dooo.”
“Then I’m very limited,” you called after her. She flipped you off lovingly as she and Ned vanished into the cold.
You helped Liz gather cups from the windowsills and sink rims, the kitchen sticky with sugar and artificial lime. The playlist had been reduced to a soft thump in the background, the crowd thinned. You wiped a ring of condensation from the counter with your sleeve.
“Thanks for staying,” Liz said, nudging an empty cup into a trash bag with her foot. “You really didn’t have to.”
You shrugged, closing a half-empty pizza box with one finger. “Didn’t want to leave you to face the post-party apocalypse alone. Plus... I realized I wasn’t exactly as subtle or quiet in the closet as I thought. Figured I owed you some decorum.”
Liz snorted. “Please. That was a gift to the community. Flash is still trying to do the math.”
You laughed, quietly, the warmth of it still humming low in your chest as you reached for your coat.
Across the room, Peter was standing by the door—hoodie zipped, hands in his sleeves, that soft familiar look on his face like he hadn’t moved since you said you’d help clean. Still there. Still waiting. For you.
“You headed out?” Peter asked as you approached, his voice low and a little sleep-soft, the way people talk when the night is winding down and everything feels quieter, more honest.
You nodded. “Yeah. Betty already left with Ned, but I didn’t wanna leave Liz to clean everything up by herself. Felt wrong.”
He smiled, small and warm. “What a gentleman.”
You tugged your sleeves down with a dramatic little flourish. “Chivalry’s not dead. I expect you to take notes from me.”
Peter hesitated—just for a second—then peeled off his hoodie in one smooth, easy motion. He held it out to you like it wasn’t even a question, stepping forward as if he’d decided hours ago that he would.
“Here,” he said. “You’re shivering.”
You blinked at him. “Pete—”
“Take it,” he murmured, already helping guide your arms through the sleeves like he’d done it before. The hoodie was soft and oversized, still warm from his body. It smelled like clean cotton and something else—something distinctly him. Familiar in a way that made your chest tighten just slightly.
You exhaled slowly as you pulled it tighter around yourself. “Thanks. Are you trying to out-gentleman me right now?”
He grinned. “What can I say? I operate on a higher plane.”
“Wow. Not very humble. Pretty sure the judges would deduct points for cockiness.”
“Eh. Still walking away with gold,” he said, tapping a finger against his temple like it was strategy.
The walk back to campus stretched out like the night wanted to last just a little longer. Not because you didn’t know the way—but because neither of you hurried. The cold didn’t bite so much with the hoodie on, and the silence between you wasn’t awkward, just... comfortable. Familiar. Full of things unsaid but understood.
The city was half-asleep around you. Streetlights spilled in soft pools across the pavement. A gust of wind stirred an empty cup down the gutter like it had somewhere to be. Your breath fogged gently in the air. You felt the hoodie shift around you with each step—warm and cocooning, like carrying a secret.
Peter stayed close. Not touching, but close enough that your arms brushed whenever the sidewalk narrowed. Once, his hand lifted a few inches like he might offer it to you—but then he dropped it into his pocket instead. You noticed. Of course you did.
When you reached the steps of your dorm, you stopped, turning to face him. Your boots scuffed softly against the concrete. Campus was quiet—just vending machine glow from inside, and the faint hum of pipes, and the kind of hush that came with three a.m. honesty.
“Thanks again,” you said. And you meant the hoodie, sure. But also the walk. The company.
Peter rubbed the back of his neck, his hair a little messy from the wind. “Yeah. Of course.”
Neither of you moved.
“I had fun,” you added, glancing up at him. “Their faces? When we came out of the closet? Totally worth it.”
He laughed, that soft, shy kind of laugh that crinkled at the corners. “Me too. And… thanks for that. For saving me. You didn’t have to.”
“Of course I did,” you said, voice quiet now. “I’ve got your back, Pete.”
He looked at you for a moment like he didn’t quite know what to say. His smile softened, just slightly. “I know.”
You tugged the hoodie around you like armor. “And your secret? Safe with me.”
His eyes lit up a little, but he didn’t push anything. He just looked at you—like this moment was something he didn’t want to forget.
You stepped back, fingers curling around the door handle behind you.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” he said, the word already warm on his smile. “Tomorrow.”
And then you slipped inside, hoodie still snug around your shoulders, Peter Parker’s laugh still echoing faintly in your head, and your heart thudding steady beneath the fleece like it had finally remembered how to beat a little louder.