Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harley had never been so aware of the ceiling before.

It was low, with thin, splintering cracks tracing through the plaster. He could see the cracks from here because the ceiling was so low that he could feel his thoughts being reflected straight back at him. It had been nearly six years since he’d been able to see the grooves in the paint, but he hadn’t been hoping to go back so soon.

He liked to say he enjoyed mornings in hotels. The gentle whirring of an AC filled the room with a soft coolness. A thin strip of warm light pooled onto the carpet in a flood of morning brightness. Not this hotel. Not when he was lying on a cheap, springy mattress and staring up at off-yellow paint like it could fix the tight coil in his chest.

He imagined that if he drew back the curtains, he’d be looking out into the worst part of Madrid. A dingy lot with rusting cars and cracking pavement and a sign that reminded him of the joys of tinned fruit.

The curtains that usually held back light, and not just the most concentrated rays. He whined, pressing a hand to his eyes.

It wasn’t the soft, filtered light he was used to waking up to in hotel suites with thick blackout curtains and tinted glass. This light was aggressive. It slipped through the thin, faded curtains, spilling across the small bedroom in blunt, unflattering stripes.

He groaned louder into the pillow.

God, he missed the blackout curtains.

His penthouse had the kind that sealed tight enough to trick your brain into thinking it was still midnight at ten in the morning. This place had curtains that looked like they’d been hanging there since the early 2000s and had lost the will to function sometime around 2011.

The sunlight hit him directly in the face.

He squinted one eye open. The room was exactly as dusty and cramped as he remembered from the night before.

The ceiling looked a little too close. The walls were that generic off-white color that landlords loved because it hid stains. There was a small dresser shoved against one wall and a crooked mirror above it that reflected the entire pathetic little space back at him.

Harley lay there for another moment, listening.

The walls were thin. Too thin.

He’d noticed that immediately last night, though at the time it had been mostly background noise to everything else that had happened. Now the sounds came through clearly.

His body ached in a way he couldn’t describe, like someone had peeled the top, thinnest layer of skin from his flesh and left him scrubbed raw. The sheets stuck to him like static electricity, and there was a weird aching hollowness that settled in his chest. Like someone had scooped out the energy from his body with a cold metal spoon.

He could hear movement in the other room - footsteps and cabinet doors opening and closing.

Peter was awake. Which made sense - Peter seemed like the kind of person whose internal clock woke him up at some ungodly early hour, no matter what time he went to bed.

Harley scrubbed at his face.

His head didn’t hurt, exactly. It just felt… heavy. He shouldn’t be miserable. If Peter hadn’t come back, he’d be trapped beside some freakish grown man with the name of a teenage girl.

It was Peter's job, he reminded himself selfishly. Peter was supposed to protect him. To be his bodyguard, Peter had reminded him so nicely.

But something still clawed at his chest, nails scraping his ribs. Maybe guilt that Peter got hurt. But Peter didn’t need guilt. Peter was fine.

He rolled over again. A loose spring pressed into his back. He tried not to focus on it, on every tiny imperfection that made his skin itch. The walls were paper-thin, too. He could hear every footstep, the pacing of feet. A quiet sigh and the clatter of ceramics just on the other side of the door.

Then he heard a pop and a muffled curse.

Harley paused and turned towards the door as his hand threaded absentmindedly through his hair. He tried not to think too much about the missing chunks, the way his fingers tousled air rather than the longer locks he’d spent months growing out. His hair - his brand - was now gone.

He imagined the smooth, curling grimace on Michelle’s face. So much more than her typical, singular raised eyebrow - as if that didn’t make Harley's insides churn anyway.

He sat up and glanced toward the mirror across the room. The movement caught his own reflection in the glass, and Harley froze.

“Oh,” he muttered.

His hair was still a disaster. He knew that, logically, but seeing it as he pushed himself up on one elbow and leaned towards the mirror was… unfortunate.

The intruder had taken a solid chunk out of the side of it during the fight, and the result looked exactly like what it was: uneven, jagged, hacked off in a panic with a pair of scissors. Harley reached up carefully and touched the shorter section. His fingers sank into the uneven strands.

The texture felt wrong. Too light in one spot. Too thin in another.

For a split second, the memory of the scissors flashing near his throat flickered through his mind again.

Hot breath against the back of his neck, and sausage-thick fingers tangled in his hair. Harley’s jaw tightened. He dropped his hand quickly. Nope. Not thinking about that this morning.

Instead, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up.

The floorboards creaked under his weight, another thing he wasn’t used to. Everything in this apartment seemed to make noise.

Harley stretched slightly as he walked toward the dresser mirror.

His shirt from yesterday was wrinkled and slightly twisted from sleeping in it, but he didn’t bother fixing it yet. He leaned closer to the mirror and examined the damage again.

The missing section wasn’t small.

It had been cut unevenly, too, leaving a weird jagged edge along one side of his head. Harley sighed. “Well,” he muttered to himself. “That’s great.”

He pushed his fingers through the rest of it experimentally. Still soft. Still thick.

Just… wrong.

Behind him, the sounds in the kitchen shifted again. Something sizzled faintly, and Harley frowned.

Was Peter cooking?

He turned away from the mirror and padded toward the bedroom door, ignoring the way his feet barely lifted from the floor.

The hallway outside was short and narrow. The apartment was small enough that Harley could see the entire living room from the doorway.

Peter was in the kitchen. Harley paused for half a second.

Peter had apparently just gotten out of the shower. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends where it brushed his forehead. He was wearing a faded grey t-shirt and a towel slung loosely around his neck, the fabric dark in spots where it had soaked up water from his hair.

One hand held a phone against his ear.

Harley stepped forward, and the floor creaked as he walked. So much for a silent entrance.

Peter stood beside the counter, perching a phone between his shoulder and his ear and clenching a plastic fork with utmost fervency. His head was tilted at a sharp angle, eyes scouring the inside of an opened microwave.

The fork scraped against the walls with a dull, repeated clunk.

“…Yeah, I know,” Peter was saying, voice low and serious in a way Harley hadn’t heard very often. “No, I understand. I just - yeah. I remember him now.”

Harley leaned casually against the doorframe. Peter didn’t notice him yet. He was focused on the conversation, brow furrowed slightly as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the call.

Harley’s gaze drifted automatically.

Peter’s shirt clung slightly to his shoulders, where it had picked up moisture from his hair. The fabric stretched across his back when he reached for something on the counter.

Harley found himself watching the movement a little too closely.

He leaned his shoulder further against the doorframe.

Peter turned slightly while he was talking and caught sight of Harley standing there, and he froze for a split second. Then his eyes widened just slightly. “-Hang on,” Peter muttered into the floor. He pulled it away from his ear. “...You’re awake.”

Harley shrugged. “Sunlight woke me up.”

Peter grimaced in sympathy. “Yeah, the curtains suck.”

“No kidding.”

Peter went back to scraping whatever he’d massacred in the microwave off the walls. “Sorry,” he said into the phone. “Still here.” Harley pushed himself away from the doorframe and wandered towards the counter, snorting quietly, and folded his arms over his chest. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to put metal in a microwave?”

Peter didn’t say anything, but pulled the fork out.

“Yes, I know,” he said instead, not to Harley. Instead, to whoever was on the phone.

Harley watched Peter scrape the excess egg onto a saucer. Then, he pressed the fork into another piece and took a bite.

Harley’s stomach churned in response. He didn’t say anything else, though. Peter looked stressed.

His eyebrows were pinched, skin creasing around his forehead. Heavy eyebags hung under his eyes, and a purpling bruise sat just under his chin.

Peter seemed to sense Harley’s wandering eyes and adjusted the hem of his shirt by instinct.

Harley’s eyes lowered purely out of interest. His eyes caught on the towel, thin and ratty, hanging with sheer willpower around Peter’s hips.

Peter looked back at him. He paused, lifting the phone from his ear and pressing a finger over the speaker. “I’m wearing boxers,” he said plainly.

Harley nodded carefully, the ghost of a smile hovering across his face. He tried, but his lips remained still and his expression mildly curious. He didn’t know what to say. For once, he couldn’t form a response that didn’t feel rehearsed.

“There are eggs on the counter,” Peter added sheepishly and pointed the fork towards a slightly less disheveled plate of eggs. He pressed the phone back to his ear.

Harley moved towards the counter, brushing past Peter’s hip as he shimmied past the couch. Peter stiffened lightly, but Harley did his best not to reach. He didn’t blame Peter for being jumpy.

Without looking, he lifted the second saucer from beside Peter’s. Harley dropped down onto the stool and stared down at the plate.

The eggs were…

Something.

He stared at the plate for longer than he should’ve. The longer he watched the plate, the more his stomach roiled.

It wasn’t fair for him to sit and not eat. Even if it looked a little rubbery and more like putty than food, it was something to put in his stomach.

He cautiously poked one with his fork.

Across from him, Peter was still talking on the phone, pacing slightly as he listened. “...yeah,” he was saying quietly. “That’s what I thought, too.”

Harley glanced between the food and Peter before he poked at the food again. It didn’t move much. He tilted his head.

He picked up his fork again and cautiously broke off a small piece.

“...No, he didn’t say anything that made sense,” Peter muttered into the phone. “Just kept talking about Harley like he belonged to him.”

Harley paused, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. Peter’s voice had that weird, serious edge to it. Harley didn’t like it.

He watched Peter pace quietly across the kitchen while the conversation continued. For someone who had spent last night nearly dying, then watching Peter tase the living shit out of some absolute freak, it was weirdly domestic watching him cook breakfast in a tiny apartment while arguing quietly on the phone.

Harley rested his chin in his hand before he frowned down at the plate.

He prodded the bacon that was sitting off to the side of the plate with his fork. It made a faint, brittle tapping sound against the ceramic.

That seemed… concerning.

Peter’s hair had mostly dried now, but a few damp strands still clung stubbornly to his forehead. The faded grey t-shirt he’d thrown on after his shower hung loosely off one shoulder when he moved, shifting every time he paced another step across the small kitchen.

Harley found himself tracking the movement automatically. He cleared his throat and looked back down at the plate.

The bacon stared back at him.

Harley sighed. He stabbed another small piece and cautiously brought it to his mouth. The crunch was… aggressive. He chewed slowly. Very slowly.

Across the room, Peter ran a hand through his hair. “…so he planned it?” he asked into the phone.

A pause. Peter’s shoulders tensed.

“Jesus.”

Harley stopped chewing. Peter turned slightly toward the window while he listened again, his voice lowering further. “…yeah. Yeah, I get it.”

Another pause. Then Peter nodded faintly.

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

Harley finally swallowed the bacon. It tasted like regret. He reached for the eggs next. Peter ended the call with a quiet tap of his thumb against the screen. The apartment fell silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator.

Peter stood there for a moment, staring down at his phone like he was still processing the conversation, and then he looked up. Harley was watching him. Peter exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his hair again.

“That was one of the investigators.”

Harley raised an eyebrow slightly. “Good morning to you, too.”

Peter huffed a short laugh, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease much. “They figured out who the guy was.”

Harley’s fork paused halfway to the plate. “…that was fast.”

“Yeah.” Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Apparently, he wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Harley leaned back slightly on the stool. “Alright,” he said. “Who was he?”

Peter stepped closer to the counter, setting his phone down beside the stove. “Steven Wescott.”

Harley blinked. “…Should I know that name?”

Peter shook his head. “No. I barely remembered it.” He leaned his hip against the counter, arms folding loosely across his chest as he explained. “Apparently, he’s been showing up to fan events for a couple of years now. Meet and greets. Autograph lines. Stuff like that.”

Harley frowned faintly.

That didn’t narrow it down much. Peter noticed the look. “I remembered him after that guy said the name,” he continued. “He came to a meet-and-greet in Chicago two years ago. One of those huge convention things.”

Harley squinted slightly, trying to dig through his memory. Thousands of faces blurred together after a while. He’d seen hundreds of autograph lines. Photos. Quick handshakes. He couldn’t even begin to guess which one this guy had been.

Peter sighed. “He was… intense.”

Harley snorted softly. “That describes half my fanbase.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “But this guy was different.” Harley poked the eggs again. Peter continued. “The investigator person said he rented the room right below the penthouse.”

Harley looked up sharply. “Below?”

Peter nodded grimly.

“Yeah.”

Harley blinked once. “You’re telling me this guy rented a room in the same hotel?”

Peter nodded again. “Apparently, he checked in two days ago.”

Harley stared at him. “…that’s insane.”

Peter’s mouth twisted. “It gets better.”

Harley had a terrible feeling about this already. Peter gestured vaguely upward. “He climbed the balconies.”

Harley blinked again. “…What?”

Peter sighed. “Scaled the outside of the building. From his balcony to yours.”

Harley stared at him for several long seconds. Then he leaned back slowly on the stool.

“Okay.”

Peter watched him carefully. Harley rubbed his face with both hands. “Okay,” he repeated.

That was… a lot. He tried to picture it - a man climbing the side of the hotel like some kind of deranged raccoon. Up multiple floors. In the middle of the night. Harley dropped his hands. “That guy is out of his mind.”

Peter nodded immediately. “Yeah.”

There was a brief pause.

Then Peter added, “The cops are charging him with a bunch of stuff. Breaking and entering, stalking, assault… probably more once they go through everything.”

Harley stared down at the counter for a moment. The kitchen suddenly felt quieter than it had a second ago.

Eventually, he reached for his fork again.

“So what happens now?”

Peter shrugged. “Well… technically, you’re free to go back to the penthouse.”

Harley’s fork paused again. “Technically?”

Peter gestured vaguely.

“Security’s been increased. The hotel’s freaking out about the whole thing. I called this morning and they’re offering to move you to a different suite if you want - because of the glass.”

Harley looked down at his plate. The bacon was still sitting there. Unmoved. The idea of going back to the penthouse tugged uncomfortably at the back of his mind.

But all Harley could think about was the balcony, the broken glass. The feeling of being shoved against the wall with scissors pressed to his throat.

Harley exhaled slowly. “…Right.”

Peter studied his face carefully. “You don’t have to decide right away.”

Harley nodded absentmindedly. He picked up his fork again and nudged the eggs around the plate. They slid reluctantly.

Harley took a slow bite. The eggs sat in his mouth like slime, both overcooked and undercooked at the same time. It slid on his tongue like a slug, thick and rubbery and oozing something disgusting. It tasted like a pig had just spat into his mouth.

Peter’s gaze dropped to the food. Then back to Harley. “Are you not hungry?”

Harley froze. He glanced down at the plate, then back up at Peter. Peter looked… hopeful - like someone who had tried very hard to do something nice and was waiting for the reaction.

Harley looked back down at the bacon. The bacon that could probably shatter glass.

He poked it again. The piece snapped cleanly in half. Harley cleared his throat. “…I’m getting there.”

Peter leaned against the counter, watching him. Harley stabbed a piece of egg and forced himself to take a bite. It was… not great.

He chewed slowly, and Peter tilted his head slightly.

“Is it bad?”

Harley swallowed. The honest answer sat right on the tip of his tongue. Yes. Extremely. But Peter was still standing there in a damp t-shirt and a ratty towel around his neck, watching him expectantly like he’d just served breakfast in a five-star restaurant.

Harley looked back down at the plate. Then he shrugged.

“…it’s food.”

Peter squinted at him suspiciously.

“I know it wasn’t the usual,” Peter said quietly. Something about his tone indicated he wasn’t up for saying anything more than just a few choppy sentences. “Your dietician’s meeting us later.”

“Us?” Harley’s eyes widened a fraction. “I thought today was your day off.”

Peter gave a loose shrug. “This seemed more important.” Harley felt guilt twist in his gut, and immediately shoved another bite into his mouth before Peter could ask any more questions. Peter noticed the hair again before Harley said anything.

It was hard not to.

The jagged chunk missing from the side stood out more in the morning light, especially now that Harley had pushed the rest of it back with his fingers while eating. The uneven ends stuck out at odd angles, refusing to sit with the rest of it.

Peter leaned against the counter, watching him chew through another reluctant bite of eggs. “You know,” Peter said slowly, “we could go get that fixed.”

Harley looked up.

Peter gestured vaguely at his head. “A real haircut. Like… a professional one.”

Harley reached up automatically, fingers brushing the shorter section again. The texture still felt wrong.

He grimaced faintly. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Probably.”

Peter pushed himself upright from the counter. “There’s a place a few blocks away,” he said. “I looked it up earlier. They do walk-ins.”

Harley stared at the plate for a moment. Then he shook his head. “…I don’t really want to go anywhere right now.”

The answer came out quieter than he meant it to, but Peter didn’t push. He just nodded once, like that made sense.

“Okay.”

The word settled gently between them.

Harley exhaled through his nose and nudged the bacon again with his fork. A moment passed. Then Peter spoke again, more hesitantly this time.

“I mean… I could try.”

Harley glanced up.

Peter was rubbing the back of his neck again, a gesture Harley was starting to recognize as mild embarrassment. “I’ve cut my own hair before,” Peter said. “Because - well. Y’know. It’s… expensive. And I… try to save money where I can.”

Harley stared at him. Peter lifted a hand defensively.

“It wasn’t good,” he admitted immediately. “But it also wasn’t a disaster.”

Harley raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a strong endorsement.”

Peter shrugged. “I’m just saying it’s an option.”

Harley considered that for a moment. Then he reached up again and ran his fingers through the uneven section of hair. The ends snagged slightly. He sighed. “Honestly,” he said, “it can’t look worse than it does now.”

Peter squinted at him. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Harley shrugged lazily. “Do your worst.”

Peter looked at him for another second, weighing it. Then he pushed away from the counter.

“Alright,” he said.

Harley watched him rummage through a drawer in the kitchen. “What are you looking for?”

“Scissors.”

Harley blinked. “…That’s concerning.”

Peter pulled out a pair and examined them critically. “They’re kitchen scissors.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “You said it couldn’t get worse.”

Harley spread his hands. “I stand by that.”

Peter glanced around the small apartment. “Sit over there,” he said, pointing toward one of the stools near the counter. “Better light.”

Harley pushed himself off his seat and moved where Peter directed, dropping onto the stool with a soft creak. Peter grabbed the towel from around his neck and draped it loosely over Harley’s shoulders.

“Professional setup,” Harley commented dryly.

“Don’t move,” Peter replied.

Harley leaned back slightly, stretching his legs out as Peter stepped closer. Up close, Harley could see the concentration settle across his face. Peter ran a hand through Harley’s hair first, lifting sections experimentally.

Harley went still. Peter’s fingers were warm.

He worked carefully, combing through the strands to figure out where the uneven section started and stopped. Harley hadn’t expected the touch to feel like that, because it was so… gentle. He was so careful. Not like a rushed, underpaid makeup artist tugging the strands into place before dousing him in hairspray.

Peter frowned slightly as he studied the damage. “Okay,” he murmured to himself. “That’s… not great.”

“Encouraging.”

Peter ignored him. Instead, he lifted a section of hair between his fingers, lining the scissors up carefully. Then, absentmindedly, he did something that made Harley blink. Peter stuck the scissors between his teeth.

Both hands went back into Harley’s hair, lifting another section as he adjusted the angle. The scissors bobbed slightly where they hung from his mouth.

Harley stared. “Did you just-”

Peter grabbed the scissors again and snipped. A small lock of hair fell to the floor. “What?” Peter asked.

Harley shook his head slowly. “Nothing.”

Peter went back to work. The soft sound of scissors cutting filled the small apartment in quiet, steady bursts. Harley sat still. Peter’s hands kept moving through his hair, lifting sections, trimming them carefully, brushing loose strands away from his face.

It was… oddly calming.

Harley hadn’t expected that. He’d thought the whole thing might feel awkward. Or worse - like being reminded of the scissors from last night. But Peter’s touch was careful in a completely different way.

Every time his fingers brushed Harley’s scalp, it felt light and deliberate, like he was making sure not to tug too hard. Harley found himself relaxing slightly without meaning to. The stool creaked softly when he shifted.

“Hold still,” Peter said absently.

“I am holding still.”

“You just moved.”

Harley huffed a quiet laugh. Peter kept working.

The sunlight streaming through the window caught in Harley’s hair as Peter lifted another section, the strands glinting faintly gold where the light touched them. “Your hair’s really thick,” Peter muttered.

Harley huffed. “I’m aware.”

Peter snipped another section. Hair drifted to the floor.

For a while neither of them spoke. Peter worked slowly around the damaged area, evening out the jagged cut the intruder had made. Harley stared straight ahead, watching his reflection in the microwave door across the kitchen.

The uneven chunk was gradually disappearing.

Peter’s fingers slid through his hair again. Something about the motion made him think about how last night someone had grabbed it, yanked his head back with it. Had pressed metal to his throat while breathing against his neck.

Harley swallowed.

Peter’s fingers brushed his scalp again, gentle this time, separating another section. Harley stared down at the floor as a strange tightness crept into his chest. Peter kept talking quietly to himself while he worked. “Almost done,” he murmured. “Just fixing this side.”

Harley blinked quickly. His throat felt oddly tight.

He didn’t say anything, and Peter didn’t notice at first. He was focused on the hair, trimming the last uneven edge and stepping back slightly to examine the result. Harley sniffed.

Peter paused.

“…are you crying?”

Harley let out a short, frustrated laugh. “No.”

Another sniff betrayed him immediately. Peter stared at him.

“Harley.”

“It’s allergies. From your shitty, weird dusty little apartment, and-”

Peter looked at the completely closed windows. “…right.”

Harley wiped quickly at the corner of one eye. “This is stupid.”

Peter set the scissors down on the counter. For a moment he just looked at him. Then he tilted his head. “You know,” Peter said thoughtfully, “if racing ever stops working out, you’d be a pretty convincing actor.”

Harley huffed. “I’m not acting.”

Peter’s expression softened a little. “I know.” Harley stared at the floor again. Peter picked up the towel and shook the loose hair off it gently. “Fresh start,” he said lightly.

Harley reached up and ran his fingers through the newly trimmed strands. The length felt even again.

Peter had somehow managed to make it look intentional.

Harley blinked once more. “…thanks.”

Peter shrugged like it was nothing. But his eyes lingered on Harley for a moment longer before he turned back toward the sink.

Peter rinsed the scissors under the tap like they’d just been used for something mundane, while Harley stayed seated on the stool for a moment longer, fingers still moving absently through the shorter strands.

It felt… different.

Not wrong. Just different.

His hair had always been something people commented on. Sponsors loved it. Stylists fussed over it constantly before photo shoots. Someone was always smoothing it down, fixing the part, adjusting the volume so it looked perfectly effortless.

The version sitting on his head now was definitely not that.

It was shorter than he was used to. The sides were cleaner, the jagged section gone entirely, blended into the rest so smoothly it almost looked intentional. Harley stood up slowly and crossed toward the microwave door again, using the reflective surface like a makeshift mirror.

He leaned closer.

Peter had done better than expected.

The cut wasn’t perfect - one side was a fraction shorter than the other if Harley tilted his head and really looked - but the overall shape worked. It looked messy in a way that felt deliberate rather than accidental.

He ran both hands through it again. The strands fluffed up slightly.

“…huh.”

Behind him, Peter turned off the tap and dried his hands on a dish towel. Harley kept staring at the reflection.

“It’s… short,” he said finally.

Peter winced immediately. “Yeah, sorry. I did the best I could.”

Harley tilted his head left and right, inspecting the sides. A small laugh escaped him. “No,” he said after a moment. “It’s good.”

Peter leaned one hip against the counter, watching him carefully. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not.”

Harley pushed the front back again and stepped away from the microwave. The lightness was the first thing he noticed. His hair didn’t fall across his forehead the same way anymore.

But the uneven chunk - the reminder of the scissors flashing past his neck - was gone.

Harley exhaled quietly. “…it’s good,” he repeated.

Peter’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Okay.”

The word came out cautiously, like he was still bracing for criticism. Harley turned around and leaned back against the counter, where loose strands of hair still clung to the floor around the stool. Peter noticed them and grabbed a paper towel, starting to gather them into a small pile.

The whole scene felt oddly domestic.

Harley watched him sweep the hair together and toss it into the trash. For someone who apparently lived like a raccoon in a borrowed apartment, Peter was surprisingly neat about some things.

Though that thought didn’t last long.

Harley glanced toward the rest of the room. Clothes draped over the back of a chair. A stack of papers spilling across the coffee table. An empty takeout container sitting on the windowsill like it had been abandoned there sometime last week.

His gaze drifted slowly around the apartment.

The couch cushions didn’t match. There was a sock on the floor near the door.

Harley blinked. “…do you always live like this?”

Peter looked up. “Like what?”

Harley gestured vaguely at the chaos.

“This.”

Peter followed his hand, scanning the room. “Oh.” He shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”

That was one way to put it. Harley stepped away from the counter and wandered into the living room area, kicking the stray sock lightly with his foot. “You live like a college student.”

Peter snorted. “I am basically a college student.”

Harley dropped onto the couch, and the cushions sagged under his weight. Peter leaned against the kitchen doorway.

“You say that like it’s an insult.”

“It’s an observation.”

Harley leaned back and stretched his legs out in front of him. The apartment felt very different in daylight. Last night everything had been sharp edges and adrenaline and the lingering echo of broken glass.

Now it just looked… small.

Harley stared at the crooked picture frame hanging on the wall. It held some kind of city skyline photo, and the glass was slightly cracked in one corner.

“You know what’s weird?” Harley said slowly.

Peter looked up from where he’d started wiping down the counter. “What?”

Harley gestured around the apartment again. “This.”

Peter frowned. “Very specific.”

“I mean it,” Harley said. “Your place is very… Normal. Like, you’re all - organised. Your clothes are ironed and you always look professional and you have different colored highlighters-” Peter flushed, “and my whole life is curated. The penthouse and the interviews and the clothes and the hair.”

He touched a shorter strand again absentmindedly.

“...Everything’s designed to look a certain way. And then I come in here, where you live, and you have socks on the floor and takeout containers on the windowsill.”

Peter looked faintly offended. “I was going to throw that away.”

“When?”

“Eventually.”

Harley snorted. “You’re different.”

“I’m the same person!”

“You have three bowls in the sink and you own shirts older than most of the guys I race with!” Harley argued.

“Breakfast for dinner is cheap! And easy!”

Harley grinned. “I’m just saying - it’s interesting.”

Peter opened his mouth to say something, but then his phone buzzed and his smile dropped. “Oh.”

Harley noticed immediately. “What?”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck again. “So… about the press conference.”

Harley groaned softly and sank further into the couch. “I knew that was coming.”

Peter leaned against the doorway. “The news is already out.”

Harley closed his eyes briefly. “Of course it is.”

Peter nodded. “The break-in made the news this morning.”

Harley sat up slightly. “…that fast?”

Peter shrugged. “Hotel security footage leaked.” Harley sighed. Fantastic. Peter continued. “...And the gym photos.”

Harley raised an eyebrow. “Those again?”

Peter nodded. “They’ve kind of… mixed together.”

Harley tilted his head. “How?”

Peter hesitated. “Well,” he said slowly, “some outlets are focusing on the break-in.”

“And the others?”

Peter winced. “...The… dating rumors.”

Harley snorted.

Of course.

The mental image of his hands on Peter’s thigh pushed itself to the forefront of his mind. It absolutely wasn’t helpful. He leaned back again, amused despite himself. “That’s funny.”

Peter looked deeply unamused. “It’s not funny.”

Harley shrugged. “It kind of is.”

Peter ignored that. “They’re speculating.”

“About us?”

“Yes.”

Harley smirked slightly, and Peter immediately looked away. It was subtle. But Harley noticed.

Interesting.

“So,” Peter said firmly, “you should probably clear that up.”

Harley tilted his head. “Clear what up?”

Peter stared at him. “The dating thing.”

Harley leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Oh,” he said lightly. “Right.”

Peter nodded once. “You just say we’re coworkers.”

Harley’s mouth twitched. “Of course.” Peter watched him expectantly. Harley tapped his fingers together thoughtfully. “Yeah. Obviously.”

Peter frowned slightly.

Harley leaned back again. “Unless…”

Peter rolled his eyes immediately. “Harley.”

“I’m kidding.”

“Very funny.” Harley studied him for a second, but Peter had already mentally moved on. He was grabbing his phone again, probably opening a notes app to draft a statement. Harley suppressed a smile as Peter looked up again. “Anyway,” he said, “the break-in.”

Harley straightened slightly.

Peter continued. “I can put out a statement for you.”

Harley shrugged. “You don’t have to.”

Peter leaned against the counter again. “You also don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Harley stared at the coffee table for a moment. The memory of the scissors flashed briefly across his mind again - the cold metal near his throat, the weight of someone else’s breath against his neck. Harley exhaled slowly. “…it’s okay.”

Peter watched him carefully. “You sure?”

Harley nodded. “Yeah.”

A pause settled between them.

Then Harley looked up again. “…what should I say?”

“Just the basics.”

Harley gestured vaguely. “Define basics.”

Peter counted off on his fingers. “Someone broke in. They were subdued and arrested. Authorities are involved and have identified him.” Harley nodded slowly. Peter continued. “The team will be pressing charges. Everyone was unharmed. And you’d appreciate privacy while you deal with it.”

Harley frowned slightly. “Unharmed?”

Peter blinked. “Huh?”

Harley leaned forward. “You were harmed.”

Peter looked genuinely confused.

“With the glass,” Harley continued. “And the scissors. And you tased him.”

Peter shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”

Harley stared at him. “That was a huge deal.”

Peter shook his head gently. “But you don’t want the press to know that.”

Harley blinked. “Why not?”

Peter met his gaze calmly. “Because the more you tell them, the more they’ll want to know.” Harley didn’t respond, and Peter’s voice softened slightly. “Harley,” he said, “unless it’s something you want to be talking about and dissecting every day for the next three months, give them nothing, or give them something else to talk about.”

Harley leaned back slowly. “And they’ll just… drop it?”

Peter nodded.

“They’ll find something else to talk about.”

Harley considered that. Across the room, Peter watched him quietly as Harley tapped his fingers against the couch armrest. Eventually, he nodded once.

“…okay.”

Peter relaxed slightly.

And somewhere in the back of Harley’s mind, the words settled in place.

Give them something else to talk about.

—

Peter offered to get him another hotel three separate times that morning.

The first time was casual, tossed out while he was rinsing dishes in the sink like it was just another little detail that needed sorting, and Harley had shrugged and asked Peter where his orange juice was to change the subject. The second time came an hour later when he was typing something on his laptop and glanced up like the thought had circled back around again. The third time came while Harley was pacing the small living room, and Peter clearly noticed he hadn’t sat still for more than five minutes.

“Tony said they’ll cover it,” Peter said, looking up from the screen. “Any place you want.”

Harley stopped pacing and leaned against the wall near the window.

The sunlight had shifted since morning, warming the cramped apartment in a way that made the whole place feel smaller. The air smelled faintly like burnt bacon and whatever cheap detergent Peter used on his clothes.

“...I’m fine here,” Harley said.

Peter watched him for a second. “You don’t have to stay here out of politeness.”

“I’m not.” Another quiet pause settled between them. Harley paused. “I mean - if it’s okay? Can I stay for another night or so?”

“Sure,” Peter said, and he didn’t push after that.

That might have been the strangest part.

Harley had expected at least some level of insistence - some version of professional concern or logistical planning. Instead Peter just nodded once and went back to typing, like the decision had been accepted.

Harley wasn’t entirely sure why he stayed.

Part of it was obvious. The idea of going back to the penthouse made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely. The balcony alone was enough to make his shoulders tighten if he thought about it for more than a second.

But there was something else too.

The apartment felt… weirdly safe. Not polished or impressive or overly quiet. It was small, but homey and lived in. not just… empty spare rooms. No security teams hovering in hallways. No hotel staff knocking on the door every few hours. No cameras waiting outside the elevator for a reaction shot.

Just Peter’s cluttered little living space and the soft hum of the refrigerator.

It was strange, but Harley found himself reluctant to leave it.

The first few hours passed in an oddly domestic blur. Peter worked at the small kitchen table, occasionally muttering to himself while typing on his laptop. Harley wandered aimlessly through the apartment and pretended to be entertained by his phone.

The place wasn’t big enough to get lost in. Bedroom. Living room. Kitchen. Bathroom. That was basically the entire layout.

Harley poked around anyway.

There were stacks of notebooks on the dresser in Peter’s room. Half-finished coffee mugs scattered across various surfaces. A small pile of laundry sitting in the corner like Peter had meant to deal with it and then forgotten.

Harley stood in the doorway of the bedroom for a moment, staring at the bed.

His bed, technically. Peter had insisted.

Last night the argument had lasted exactly thirty seconds before Peter shut it down with a tone that made it clear he wasn’t negotiating. Harley had taken the bed. Peter had taken the couch.

And somehow, that arrangement still held this morning.

Harley scratched the back of his neck and wandered back into the living room. Peter looked up. “You’re doing that thing again.”

Harley blinked. “What thing?”

“The pacing.”

Harley glanced down. Sure enough, he’d been circling the room again. He flopped onto the couch beside Peter’s chair. “Sorry.”

Peter shrugged without looking up from the laptop. “It’s your nervous habit.”

“I’m not nervous.”

Peter hummed quietly, clearly unconvinced. Harley leaned his head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. Living with someone was… strange. He’d had roommates before, technically. Other drivers during training seasons, teammates during travel weeks. But those arrangements were temporary and professional.

This felt different.

Peter walked around barefoot. That alone felt like an invasion of privacy.

Harley glanced sideways at him. He was wearing the same faded grey t-shirt from earlier, sleeves pushed up slightly as he typed.

Completely unbothered.

Harley suddenly realized he had no idea what Peter was like when he wasn’t working. The thought stuck with him longer than expected. At work Peter was efficient, composed, occasionally sarcastic but always controlled. Everything he said had a purpose.

Here he looked… softer.

Less filtered, and more… human? Was that weird to say? Either way, Harley wasn’t sure which version was more real. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You always work this much?”

Peter glanced up briefly. “During race season?”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty much.”

Harley watched him type for another moment. The quiet stretched out comfortably. Eventually Harley stood up again, and Peter didn’t comment this time. Harley wandered toward the hallway. “I’m gonna shower.”

“Okay. Take whatever you think’ll fit out of the dresser.”

The bathroom door creaked slightly when he pushed it open.

The space inside was about half the size of the ones Harley was used to in hotel suites - the mirror above the sink was slightly crooked, and the shower curtain had tiny blue stripes that looked like they’d faded unevenly over time.

Harley turned on the water and waited for it to warm up. Then he glanced at the shelf in the shower, and immediately frowned.

There was exactly one bottle.

One.

Harley picked it up slowly. It was one of those massive plastic bottles with bold lettering across the front.

4-IN-1 - SHAMPOO. CONDITIONER. BODY WASH. FACE WASH. The scent name read something absurd like STEEL COURAGE.

Harley stared at it. “You have got to be kidding me.”

He turned the bottle over like maybe the label was a joke.

It wasn’t.

The ingredients list looked like something that belonged in a car engine. Harley leaned his head against the tile and closed his eyes.

He missed his shampoo; the good stuff, that fancy imported nonsense in sleek bottles with names that sounded like perfume brands. Hair masks. Conditioner treatments. Oils. He had an entire shelf dedicated to that routine at the penthouse.

And now-

He held up the bottle again.

STEEL COURAGE. MAN FLAVOR.

Harley made a face.

From the other side of the wall he could hear Peter moving around the kitchen again, probably making more terrible food.

Harley sighed dramatically.

“This is barbaric.”

There were no alternatives. No backup bottle. No tiny hotel-sized products hiding under the sink. Just Steel Courage staring back at him like it had personally offended him. Harley stepped under the spray and reluctantly squeezed some into his palm.

It smelled aggressively masculine, like a lumberjack and a extreme monstertruck driver had just had a heated, passionate, manly moment and there was testosterone smeared all over the walls. He scrubbed it through his hair with a sigh. If his stylist could see him right now, she’d probably faint. The water rinsed the foam away quickly. Harley leaned his head back under the spray and tried not to think about how much he missed his actual products.

At least the haircut still felt good. His fingers moved through the shorter strands easily, impressed that Peter had done a surprisingly decent job.

Harley shut off the water and grabbed a towel. The fabric was rougher than the hotel ones he was used to, but it did the job.

Then Peter half-heartedly pushed open the door, remembered that he did, in fact, have a houseguest, and shrieked.

Harley glared at him while he threw his hands over his eyes. “You have one bottle.”

“Put on some pants! Get back and-” “Shut up!” Harley snapped, and Peter blinked up at him before jamming his eyes shut again. “You have one bottle!”

“…yeah?”

“It does four things!”

Peter shrugged, eyes still screwed closed. “That’s efficient.”

Harley stared at him in disbelief. “It’s barbaric.”

Peter snorted. “It’s soap.”

“It’s an insult.”

Peter laughed outright at that, face still flushed as he stared at the wall, pointedly away from Harley like it might somehow preserve the last scraps of his dignity.

Harley, meanwhile, had absolutely none.

He crossed his arms, damp hair clinging to his forehead, and glared down at the pathetic little bathroom counter like it had personally offended him. “I miss my shampoo.”

“You’ll live,” Peter muttered as Harley sighed dramatically, and dropped the towel. Peter shrieked. “Hey!”

Harley blinked down at him. “What?”

“Give me some warning!”

“You’ve seen me naked before. And really, I’m not exactly hard on the eyes.”

“That is not the point!”

Harley rolled his eyes and stepped into his boxers like Peter wasn’t practically having a nervous breakdown two feet away. Harley moved around the tiny bathroom without a shred of embarrassment, pulling open drawers, stepping around Peter’s feet, shaking out one of Peter’s shirts like he owned the place.

Peter stayed exactly where he was, hands clamped over his eyes.

“You done?” he asked miserably.

Harley ignored him.

He tugged the shirt over his head. It was one of Peter’s older ones - soft cotton worn thin from too many washes, sleeves that hit slightly higher on Harley’s arms because Peter had narrower shoulders. Harley pulled it down over his torso and glanced at himself in the mirror.

It fit. Snug, though.

Interesting.

Behind him, Peter peeked between his fingers. “Can I look yet?”

“You can look whenever,” Harley said as he glanced back. “You’re being dramatic.”

Peter lowered his hands cautiously. Then he froze again. “…that’s my shirt.”

“Yes.”

“You’re stretching it.”

“No I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Harley ignored him and grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the chair, stepping into them while Peter very deliberately turned back to face the wall again. “You know,” Harley said casually, “you’re driving me back to the hotel.”

Peter perked up instantly. “You want to leave?”

“No.”

Peter paused. Still facing the wall, he lowered his hands slightly. “…no?”

“I need my stuff.”

Peter blinked slowly. “…your stuff?”

“My shampoos,” Harley said, tugging the sweatpants up over his hips and tying the drawstring. “And my conditioner. And my skincare.”

Peter turned halfway around, squinting suspiciously. “My apartment has soap.”

Harley stared at him. “Peter,” he said flatly, “you have nothing here.”

“That’s not true.”

“You wash your face with a dishrag and room-temperature water.”

“It’s not a dishrag,” Peter protested. “It’s a regular rag.”

Harley stared at him for a long moment as he pulled the sleeves of the shirt down his arms. “That’s not better, dumbass.”

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again. “…Rude.” Harley ignored him and grabbed his jacket off the chair. “What exactly do you want me to do about it?” Peter asked.

Harley looked at him very seriously. “You’re driving me back to the hotel.”

Peter blinked again. “…what?”

“I need my stuff.”

“What stuff? What could you possibly need that I can’t get from the place across the street?”

Harley gestured vaguely. “My skincare.”

Peter stared. “Your… skincare.”

“Yes.”

Peter leaned forward slightly. “You mean like… face wash?”

Harley looked offended. “It’s a fifteen-step routine. It’s all imported things that take weeks to arrive, I’m not leaving it at that hotel.”

Peter blinked slowly. “Fifteen.” Harley nodded. Peter rubbed both hands over his face. “No.”

Harley stood up. “Yes.”

“I’m not driving across the city so you can collect lotion.”

“It’s not lotion.”

Peter looked exhausted already. “What is it then?”

Harley started counting on his fingers. “Cleanser. Toner. Vitamin C serum. Hyaluronic acid. Moisturizer. Retinol. Snail mucin.”

Peter froze. “…snail what.”

“Snail mucin.”

Peter stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “You put snail slime on your face.”

“It’s very good for your skin.”

Peter leaned back slowly. “I hate everything about that sentence.”

Harley grabbed his jacket from the chair. “Get your keys.” Peter groaned loudly. “And I need my clothes,” Harley added, already heading toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

Harley walked down the hall, and Peter followed him exhaustedly. “Get in the car.”

Peter dragged himself upright like a man heading toward his own execution. “You know,” he drawled tiredly as he shuffled toward the table to grab his keys, “this was supposed to be my weekend off.”

“I’ll have Tony give you a bonus,” Harley said easily.

Peter stopped mid-step. “You can’t decide that.”

Harley shrugged. “I just did.”

Peter stared at him for a long moment. Then he sighed. “Unbelievable.”

Five minutes later they were in the car.

Peter drove with the same slumped exhaustion he’d been operating on all week, with one elbow resting against the door while the other hand loosely held the wheel. Harley, meanwhile, had his seat reclined slightly as he tapped casually at his phone.

Peter glanced sideways. “You’re making me drive thirty minutes for snail slime.”

“Snail mucin.”

“That’s worse.”

“It’s scientifically proven.”

Peter snorted. “So is soap.” Harley ignored him. Peter drove in silence for a few minutes before muttering, “Fifteen steps.”

“It’s preventative care.”

“You’re twenty-three.”

“Exactly.”

Peter glanced at him again. “You know people used to just… age.”

Harley tilted his head. “And look terrible.”

Peter huffed. “You’re unbelievable.”

Traffic thinned as they got closer to the hotel district.

The massive glass tower Harley had been staying in loomed above the street, and Peter pulled into the circular drive with a quiet hum of the engine. Valets glanced over. A few of them recognized Harley instantly.

Harley unbuckled his seatbelt and stretched. “Be quick,” Peter said.

Harley opened the door. “You’re coming up.”

Peter blinked. “…no.”

“Yes.”

“No I’m not.”

“You’re carrying things.”

“I’m not your butler.”

“You’re my assistant.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Bodyguard, too.”

Harley grinned and stepped out of the car. Peter groaned again and followed.

The lobby was exactly as ridiculous as Peter remembered, with marble floors and crystal chandeliers and staff who greeted Harley like he was royalty.

Peter stood awkwardly beside him in worn sneakers while the concierge smiled politely.

“Welcome back, Mr. Keener.”

“Thanks,” Harley said easily.

Peter leaned against the wall, looking half-asleep. “Let’s go. It’s already gonna take us an hour, I want to be back by dinner.”

The elevator dinged, and they made their way back up.

The penthouse floor was quiet as Harley unlocked the door.

The whole suite looked eerily normal when they walked back in. The broken glass had been cleaned up. The balcony door was taped off while maintenance replaced the shattered pane. Someone had vacuumed the carpet and straightened the furniture like nothing had happened.

Harley stood in the doorway for a moment.

Peter noticed. “You okay?”

Harley nodded once. “Yeah.”

Then he walked straight into the bathroom. Peter followed a second later and immediately stopped dead. “Oh.”

The bathroom counter was… impressive. The counter was covered - absolutely covered - in glass bottles. Small jars, pumps, droppers, and little labeled containers were arranged in perfect rows. Peter stared.

“…What the hell.”

Harley started collecting them carefully. “These are expensive.”

Peter picked up a bottle and squinted at the label. “You’re joking.”

“No.”

Harley began lining them up in a small travel bag. Peter picked up another. “This one has gold in it.”

“It’s good for collagen.”

Peter put it down slowly. “You’re insane.”

Harley ignored him.

Peter stared as Harley packed them all. “…how many products does one face need.”

Harley zipped the first bag. “Fifteen.”

Peter rubbed his temples. “I’m so tired.”

“I have a serum for that if you ask nicely.”

Peter turned to glare at him, but paused as he saw a strange LED mask that looked vaguely like something from a sci-fi movie. He pointed at it. “What is that.”

Harley grabbed a bag from the cabinet. “Infrared light therapy.”

Peter blinked. “For…?”

“Skin regeneration.”

Peter stared. “That looks like something a villain would use to interrogate people.”

Harley started scooping bottles into the bag. “This one is vitamin C serum.”

Peter picked up the bottle and squinted at the label. “This costs more than my rent.”

“It’s good serum.”

Peter put it down immediately like it might explode. Harley kept packing. Toner. Rose extract oil.

Snail mucin essence. Peter picked up another jar and turned it around slowly. “…this one says fermented sea kelp.”

Harley shrugged. “It’s hydrating.”

Peter looked at him. “You eat normal food right?” Harley ignored him. Then he grabbed a container of gummies from the counter and tossed them into the bag. Peter squinted. “What are those.”

“Sea moss gummies.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “You eat sea moss.”

“They’re good for your immune system.”

They carried the bags back down to the car, and Peter tossed them gently into the backseat. Glass clinked, and Harley climbed in beside them protectively.

“Careful!”

Peter slid into the driver’s seat again. “You realize my bathroom is the size of a shoebox.”

Harley buckled his seatbelt. “That’s fine.”

Peter started the engine. “You’re not going to turn my sink into a chemistry lab.”

Harley smiled faintly. “We’ll see.”

Peter drove them back through the city lights, already regretting every life decision that had led him here. Behind him, dozens of expensive glass bottles clinked quietly together.

Peter had a terrible feeling his tiny bathroom was about to become extremely crowded.

Thirty minutes later they returned to the apartment with three bags of skincare products.

Peter unlocked the door and stepped inside first. Harley followed and walked straight to the bathroom. Peter leaned against the doorway while Harley started unloading bottles onto the counter. And the sink. And the edge of the tub. And the back of the toilet.

Peter slowly turned in a circle. “…where does it end.”

Harley lined up a row of bottles like soldiers. “This is the order.”

Peter squinted. “You have an order.”

“Yes.” Harley pointed down the line. “Cleanser. Toner. Vitamin C. Snail mucin. Hyaluronic acid. Moisturizer.”

Peter stared at the glass bottles. “…you’re moisturized within an inch of your life.” Harley ignored him. Then he placed the LED mask on the counter. Peter pointed again. “That’s terrifying.”

“It’s relaxing.”

Peter crouched down to examine the bottles. One of them tipped over, and the cap popped open. A clear liquid spilled across the sink. Harley gasped like someone had been stabbed.

“Peter!”

“I didn’t - it just-”

“That’s eighty dollars!”

Peter froze.“…for water?”

“It’s not water!”

Peter grabbed a paper towel and started wiping frantically. “I’m sorry!”

Harley leaned against the counter and sighed. “This is why you can’t have nice things.”

Peter looked at the cluttered bathroom again. “You brought an entire Sephora into my apartment.”

Harley finished lining up the bottles. The glass clinked softly against the tile. Then he stepped back and admired the arrangement. “Perfect.”

Peter looked at the tiny bathroom, and the fact that there was almost no empty space left. “…where am I supposed to put my toothbrush.”

Harley pointed to a two-inch gap near the sink. “There.”

Peter walked away muttering something under his breath.

—

Sleep deprivation does interesting things to the human brain.

Neuroscientists love it because it’s basically a free experiment: remove rest, stir lightly, watch the problems begin. Reaction times slow, emotional control gets flimsy, and people start making decisions they absolutely would not make while properly rested.

Peter was currently running that experiment on himself.

It was day three with Harley crashing at his place - they hadn’t done the press conference yet, and Harley didn’t seem to want to leave. There was no point booking a bigger hotel, considering they’d be flying out soon enough, so Peter had decided that he’d just… make do.

Bad call.

The couch was not designed for long-term habitation. It was the kind of couch someone bought because it was cheap and technically existed, not because a human spine was meant to fold itself across it for eight hours a night. The cushions sloped slightly in the middle. One armrest was lower than the other. The entire structure creaked every time Peter shifted, which meant he’d wake himself up every time he tried to roll over.

A few days of that and it was already driving him more than a little insane.

Harley noticed.

Harley noticed because Peter’s patience - usually much more controlled - had begun evaporating in small, entertaining bursts.

It started with coffee.

Peter had been standing at the kitchen counter at seven in the morning, staring down into a mug. His hair was sticking up in several directions, and the shirt he’d slept in looked like it had lost a fight with a laundry basket sometime in 2008.

Harley leaned against the doorway watching him. “…You doing okay, Parker?”

Peter didn’t even turn around. “Thank you.”

Harley crossed his arms. “Have you slept at all?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“Technically.”

Harley squinted. “How many hours?”

Peter took a long sip of coffee. “…collectively?”

Harley snorted. The couch creaked behind him when Peter shifted his weight again, shoulders rolling like he was trying to pop something back into place. Harley’s eyes dropped to the sofa. Then back to Peter. Then back to the sofa again.

“You know,” Harley said casually, “there’s a bed.”

Peter stared into his mug. “I’m aware.”

“Just checking.”

Peter turned slowly. “Harley.”

“Yes?”

“You have a race next week.”

Harley shrugged. “And?”

“And if you sleep on a couch and mess up your neck, Tony will kill me.”

Harley waved a dismissive hand. “My neck is fine.”

“That couch will change that.”

Harley grinned. “Let’s swap.”

Peter stared at him. “No.”

Harley tilted his head. “Why not?”

“You just heard the reason.”

Harley pushed himself off the wall and wandered into the kitchen. “You’ve been on the couch for a week.”

“Three nights. And I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re dying.”

Peter rubbed a hand down his face. “I said I’m fine.”

Harley leaned against the counter beside him. “No look, seriously,” he said. “We swap tonight.”

Peter didn’t even hesitate. “No.”

Harley watched him for a moment. “You think I’m joking.”

Peter gave him a flat look. “You usually are.”

Harley shrugged. “Not this time.”

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then sighed heavily like the conversation had already drained him. “Harley.”

“Yes?”

“You are a professional athlete.”

“And?”

“And I’m not risking your spine.”

Harley leaned closer. “You’re barely conscious.”

“I’m conscious enough.”

“You fell asleep sitting up yesterday.”

Peter blinked slowly. “That was… a strategic rest.”

Harley laughed, and Peter scowled into his coffee again.

The funny part was that Harley meant it. The bed was comfortable. Too comfortable, honestly. Every night he sank into it while Peter folded himself onto that miserable couch like a piece of origami.

“My neck is fine.”

“You say that now.” Harley crouched down so they were eye level. “You’re grumpy.”

“I’m always grumpy.”

“You’re extra grumpy.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s because you keep bringing this up.”

Harley grinned. “You could fix it.”

Peter leaned back into the cushions and stared at the ceiling. For a long moment he didn’t speak. Then he said, very calmly: “If you keep suggesting we share the bed I’m going to throw something at you.”

Harley burst out laughing. “I didn’t even say that!”

“You implied it.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“You implied it with your tone.”

Harley wiped his eyes. “You’re paranoid.”

Peter pointed at him without looking away from the ceiling. “You made the exact same joke three times yesterday.”

Harley shrugged. “It was funny.”

“It was not funny.”

“It was a little funny.”

Peter closed his eyes. “Harley.”

“Yes.”

“Please stop talking.”

Harley grinned wider. He leaned back against the wall. “Fine,” Harley said.

Peter relaxed slightly. Two seconds passed.

Then Harley added: “Unless…”

Peter grabbed the couch cushion and threw it at him. Harley barely dodged it, laughing as the pillow bounced off the wall. Peter sank deeper into the couch. “Go away.”

—

The conference room smelled faintly like coffee and expensive leather, because Mr. Stark liked rooms that looked expensive, even when they were technically temporary. This one had a long polished table, floor-to-ceiling windows, and the low background hum of the city traffic several stories below.

Peter noticed the hum because it was easier than noticing Tony.

Tony wasn’t yelling, and that was almost worse.

Tony had a particular style of anger that involved volume, hand gestures, and long dramatic speeches about competence. Peter understood that version. It was loud, predictable, and burned itself out relatively quickly.

This version was quieter.

Peter sucked in a harsh breath as he met Tony’s eyes. Tony didn’t smile. Well, he tried, but it appeared more as a tight-lipped sort of grimace with too much of a frown line and not enough teeth. Tony stared for a second longer before his eyes shifted and he peered behind Harley. Harley turned his head so Tony could get a better look.

“Your hair looks different,” he noted.

Harley nodded. “Peter cut it.”

Tony inhaled sharply.

“The guy - the intruder - he had scissors,” Peter added reluctantly, feeling a cordial smile creep across his face.

“I saw,” Tony pressed his lips together. He didn't reciprocate the look. “The other night.” Something in his tone felt heavy, like it dragged a pile of bricks with each word.

“He did a good job,” Harley said lightly, looking between the two.

Michelle’s eyes flashed.

Peter felt his chest tighten. “Hey, MJ,” he exclaimed weakly.

Michelle didn’t say anything, instead shoving past. Peter let out a wordless yelp as he staggered to the side. “What did you do,” she demanded, eyes quickly moving across the choppy cut. “Betty’s nearly done with makeup and you bring him here like this?”

Tony turned to him again, watching expectantly.

“It’s not my fault the intruder’s weapon of choice was scissors,” Peter insisted frantically, trying to fight the building flame in his chest. No matter how flat his limbs felt, a persistent fire flickered within his ribs.

“You’re not a hairdresser,” Michelle said pointedly.

Peter sighed. “I did what I could.”

“You could’ve waited a day, Peter, a day!” She let out an irritated sigh.

“It was this or letting him look like a preschooler had been let loose on it with a pair of safety scissors,” Peter protested.

Tony stared at him. “That’s exactly what it looks like now.”

“I can’t imagine it was any worse than this,” Michelle grimaced.

Harley made a hysterical sound. “It was.”

“Enough of the melodrama,” the woman pinched the bridge of her nose.

“It’s a sensitive topic for me,” Harley confessed, melodramatically. “There were chunks missing. I looked like Harry Osborn.”

“There’s more than just chunks gone now,” Tony muttered.

Peter swallowed. “The scissors were all I could find. It wasn't my fault Harley wanted to stay inside.”

“You used kitchen scissors?” Michelle asked, exasperated.

Peter blinked. “Yeah - isn’t that normal?”

Harley nodded in tandem, feigning misery.

“You two are relentless,” she hissed.

“It doesn’t even look that bad,” Harley protested. “i would’ve bitten him or something if it was terrible.”

“Peter gave you a mullet,” Michelle snapped, pressing at her temples. She began to massage them, manicured fingernails tracing her forehead as she looked between the two. “Do I need to get Cindy to remind you about using kitchen scissors on hair? I’m sure she’d love to-”

“Please, no,” Tony groaned from aside and pressed his hands onto Harley's shoulders, beginning to steer him towards hair and makeup.

“it’s not a mullet,” Harley protested, halting on his heels.

"It is a mullet,” Michelle wrinkled her nose. “You look like a fifteen-year-old boy who discovered Brad Pitt for the first time.”

Harley scoffed and shook his head.

“You’ve single-handedly ruined his brand,” Michelle snapped as she turned to Peter. “Are you aware how many people follow him just for his hair?”

“I’d say his eyes are more popular,” Peter murmured quietly. “It's blue. It looks like fresh-cut steel.”

Harley looked up at him suddenly, just barely catching the words. A short flicker of a smile appeared on his face, pleasantly amused. “You're not wrong. There's an entire subreddit dedicated to my eyes. however - my hair is a statement. Vogue wrote articles on it.”

“It's just hair.” Peter blinked.

Harley stared at him like Peter had just kicked a puppy. “Mine’s insured.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Nope, ten thousand dollars.”

Peter made a choking noise. “You're insane. Respectfully.”

“My pay isn't enough to deal with bullshit like this,” Michelle tapped the watch around her wrist. “If you don’t get in that makeup chair, I'm telling Cindy to buzz your hair off and then the press will really have something to talk about.”

Harley made a hysterical noise, eyes flashing. “Don’t even joke about that.”

Michelle gave him a tight-lipped smile and wrapped her fingers around Harley’s wrist like a handcuff. “i’m not. Let’s go.”

And with that, she dragged the driver to the other side of the room, until he was sat in front of the mirror with Cindy fussing over him. He even had one of those dumb light-up mirrors and a whole makeup array in front of him, and some of those fancy little cleansers that Peter recognised from the hotel.

Tony didn’t look up immediately. Peter took a breath.

“…So,” Tony said finally.

Peter waited.

Tony looked up.

There it was - the look. Not rage, but not exactly disappointment either. Something in between. Peter turned to Tony with a hesitant look. The man sighed and pushed a hand through greasy hair. He looked tired.

“Peter, let’s sit down,” Tony said suddenly. He turned, and searched through the hustle and bustle of public relations workers for somewhere to sit. Eventually, he settled on two foldout chairs near the back.

Peter followed Tony wordlessly. His chest constricted like a viper had coiled around his windpipe. He swallowed, rubbing at his neck.

“Last night was… something,” Tony began, an edge to his voice. "Harley's absolutely okay, correct?”

Peter nodded uneasily. “Yep. Medics checked him over.”

“No, what I mean is, really okay?” Tony clarified carefully, placing each word with visible caution. “He tends to bottle it up. We can't have it weighing on his conscience during the circuit in Baku.”

“I haven’t asked him,” Peter confessed reluctantly. “Cutting his hair was enough for him.”

Tony nodded sharply. “Yeah, okay - don’t do that again.”

Peter swallowed. “He wanted it done. I was just respecting his wishes.”

“The morning after he was nearly killed?”

“He wasn't nearly killed, I was there,” Peter said in a small voice. Something tight wound up in his chest like a stretched rubber band.

“Yeah, speaking of that, you want to walk me through how that happened?” The phrasing was polite, but the tone was not.

Peter caught Harley’s eye in the mirror from where he looked up from his chair, and he swallowed.

Harley shifted slightly in his chair but didn’t interrupt.

Peter spoke carefully. “...He rented the room below Harley’s suite, and climbed the balcony sometime after midnight.”

Tony’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Climbed.”

“Yes.”

“With what, suction cups?”

Peter shrugged faintly. “Determination?”

Tony didn’t laugh. MJ glanced up from her laptop. “He had climbing gear,” she said. “Police report confirmed it this morning.”

Tony nodded once, and then his eyes returned to Peter. “And security?”

“They’re reviewing footage.”

“Which means they missed it.”

Peter didn’t answer. Tony’s jaw tightened slightly. The room stayed quiet for a few seconds. Harley cleared his throat. “Tony, the guy was nuts. It wasn’t-”

Tony held up a hand without looking at him.

“I’m not talking to you.” Harley shut his mouth, and Tony turned back to Peter again. “And you didn’t see him coming.”

The statement sat there, and Peter resisted the instinct to defend himself immediately. “…I heard him once he was inside.”

Tony tilted his head slightly. “Once he was inside.”

The repetition wasn’t kind, and Peter felt the familiar tight knot forming between his shoulders. “I handled it.”

Tony stared at him for a moment, and then he exhaled slowly through his nose. “You did.”

Still not yelling, but still worse, somehow, because Peter could practically hear the rest of the sentence Tony wasn’t saying out loud.

You should’ve handled it sooner.

Tony set the tablet down on the table. “I don’t like surprises,” he said.

Peter nodded. “I know.”

Tony leaned back slightly. “And this week has been full of them.”

There it was.

Peter knew exactly which “surprises” Tony meant.

The gym photos, the stupid rumor cycle. Now the break-in. Tony rubbed his temple briefly. “You’re usually sharper than this.”

Peter felt MJ glance at him from across the table, and the implication hung there in the air, unspoken but obvious - even if no one else knew just what Tony meant. He wasn’t saying the word alcoholism, but the thought hovered anyway.

Peter kept his voice neutral. “I’m on top of it.”

Tony frowned. “Someone got into the penthouse. It's your priority to keep Harley safe, and it’s my priority if you aren’t doing your job.”

Peter swallowed. “Harley didn’t get hurt.”

“His hair was cut, meaning scissors were near his neck, and that’s enough for the Mercedes board to be on edge,” Tony said. He visibly hesitated. “Peter, I like you. You're a good kid.”

Peter shifted uncomfortably.

Tony's face softened a little. “You trying to get better?”

Peter hesitated, eyebrows knitted tight. The look on Tony's face brought back a memory he’d hoped to suppress. He pressed his lips together. “Yeah - um, I am, I guess.”

“Are you feeling overwhelmed?”

Peter frowned. “You're asking me a lot of questions.”

Tony gave him a thin-lipped smile, something less than genuine but attempting nonetheless. “I was thinking, is this job too much? I know Harley can be a handful.”

Peter's face fell. “What? I'm handling things fine.”

“I’m only concerned after last night. ”

“Harley's safe,” Peter affirmed out loud and tried to ignore the waver in his voice. “I had it under control.”

“The board-”

“I don’t care what the board says.”

Tony frowned. “I told you to stop cutting me off.”

Peter looked down. “Sorry.”

“After last night, and don’t think I forgot about those leaked pictures of Harley's fitness program - do you think, perhaps, you have too much on your plate?”

“No, I-”

“I think,” Tony said, cutting Peter off, “it’s actually not up to you. You have a say, of course, but we’re both here to prioritise Harley's wellbeing. You would make sacrifices for him, wouldn’t you?”

Of course he would, Peter thought. He was sitting here making a sacrifice for Harley, and Tony wasn't even aware.

“Yeah, I would.”

“Good. So you understand when I say, maybe we should hire a separate bodyguard for Harley? You can keep your assistant role - you’re good at that.”

“No,” Peter tried to argue. “I can - please let me keep both roles.”

He didn’t even know why he was arguing to keep the extra workload. Maybe a little bit of him wanted the money, but also - if Harley had another person around him constantly, that meant another background check. That meant another hotel to book. That meant another person to manage and roster to cover him for something that wasn’t even his fault.

Tony sat back. Peter couldn’t breathe.

“...Okay,” Tony said. “But only because I like you, and this hasn’t been an issue before.”

Peter let out a breath. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Harley.

“But Peter,” Tony started, “If this happens again, we’re cutting your contract early. We’ll pay you out as per the terms of your contract, but that will be the end of your work with Mercedes. This is your last chance. For both of our sakes, don’t screw it up.”

Peter swallowed thickly. “I won’t.”

Tony didn’t look entirely convinced.

MJ snapped her laptop shut. “Okay,” she said briskly, dragging the conversation back to safer ground. “Let’s talk about the actual disaster we have to manage in two hours.”

She turned the screen toward them, and Harley leaned forward slightly to get a better glance from where he was angled away. “What disaster?”

MJ pointed at the image on the display - a news article.

Harley Keener Break-In Shocker: Inside Sources Say Tensions High in Mercedes.

Another headline sat beside it.

Mercede’s Sweetheart Sparks Questions After Gym Photos.

Tony groaned. “Oh, come on.”

MJ scrolled down. “And my personal favorite.” She tapped another link.

Dating Rumors Swirl Around Harley Keener and His Assistant, Peter Parker.

Harley leaned back in his chair. “Well that escalated.”

Peter closed his eyes briefly.

Tony looked between them. “…what.”

MJ gestured vaguely at the screen. “Internet detectives decided Peter showing up in Harley’s gym photos means they’re secretly dating.”

Tony blinked once. Then twice. “…they what.”

Harley was trying not to smile, while Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s nothing,” he muttered.

Tony leaned forward to read the article more closely.

MJ sighed. “Normally I’d ignore it,” she said. “But the break-in story dropped this morning and now everything’s mixing together.”

She pointed at another image, a close-up of Harley from a paparazzi shot. His hair - specifically the uneven chunk missing from the side. MJ grimaced. “And that is not helping.”

Harley reached up and touched his hair reflexively, and Peter felt a flicker of guilt. The haircut had looked good in his kitchen. Professional cameras were apparently less forgiving. Tony squinted at the photo, and Harley scowled. “It’s called character.”

“It’s called asymmetrical.”

MJ rubbed her temples. “The stylists will fix it before the conference.” She turned the laptop around again. “Which brings us to the real problem.”

Her eyes moved to Peter. “Your job is not supposed to be newsworthy.”

Peter nodded slowly. “...Yes.”

“Right now,” MJ continued, “you are trending.”

Peter felt something inside him die quietly as Tony leaned back in his chair. “That’s bad.”

“Correct.”

Harley glanced between them. “Is it though?”

Three pairs of eyes turned to him. “Yes,” MJ and Peter said simultaneously.

Tony pointed at Peter. “That guy’s entire job is staying invisible.”

Harley looked mildly amused. “Seems like he’s doing a bad job then.”

Peter shot him a look asTony dragged a hand down his face. “Focus,” he said. “What’s the plan.”

MJ turned back to the laptop. “Control the narrative.” She tapped the screen again. “The press conference is about the race. That stays the focus.”

She pointed at Harley.

“You answer questions about the break-in briefly.” Then she pointed at Peter. “You do not become part of the story.”

Peter nodded. “Understood.”

Tony leaned forward again. “And the dating rumor?”

MJ shrugged. “Deny it casually. Everyone knows Harley’s kind of a…” She paused as Harley raised his eyebrows. Then she shrugged. “Just don’t make a big deal.”

Harley hummed thoughtfully as Peter opened the folder he’d been holding. “I wrote talking points.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Already?”

Peter slid the paper across the table toward MJ to look over. “Just the basics.”

MJ skimmed the first few lines. “‘Break-in occurred early morning. Intruder subdued and arrested.’”

Tony nodded slightly. “Good.”

“‘Authorities identified suspect. Charges pending.’” MJ added, “And emphasize that everyone is safe.” Harley’s eyes flicked back to Peter again. “‘Appreciate privacy while dealing with the situation.’”

Peter leaned back slightly. “Short answers,” he said. “Keep it simple.”

Harley looked up at him. “And if they push?”

Peter shrugged. “Don’t give them anything extra.”

Harley tapped the paper lightly. “And the injury thing?”

Peter frowned slightly. “What injury.”

Harley looked at him like he was insane. “You got cut up fighting the guy.”

Peter shrugged. “It’s not relevant.”

Harley straightened in his chair. “You got hurt.”

Tony looked up sharply. “…what.”

Peter sighed. “It was minor.”

Tony’s expression darkened. “You didn’t mention that.”

“It wasn’t-”

“Peter.”

Peter stopped talking and Tony leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “You got injured during a break-in and didn’t think that was worth mentioning.”

Peter kept his voice calm. “It’s handled.”

Tony stared at him for a few seconds, and then he leaned back again.

MJ cleared her throat softly. “For the press,” she said carefully, “we stick with unharmed.”

Harley frowned. Peter nodded immediately. “Yes.”

Harley looked between them. “That’s not true.”

Peter met his eyes. “It’s the better story.”

Harley didn’t like that answer. “You got hurt.”

Peter’s voice softened slightly. “And you didn’t.” Harley hesitated as Peter gestured toward the paper again. “The less they know, the faster they move on.”

He held Harley’s gaze.

“Unless it’s something you want to be talking about every day for the next three months.” The room went quiet. Harley glanced down at the page again, and Peter leaned forward slightly. “Give them nothing,” he said gently, “and they’ll find something else to talk about.”

Harley stared at the paper for a long moment. Then he nodded once.

“…Okay.”

—

The car ride back was very quiet.

Harley lounged in the passenger seat, scrolling lazily through his phone while Peter drove, white-knucling the steering wheel the entire time. Tony was still at the conference, and so was MJ - because someone had to stay behind to start crisis-managing the whole shit mess.

Which meant that now, the car only contained two people. One of whom, was a huge problem.

Harley glanced over eventually. “...you’re quiet.”

Peter didn’t answer. He kept his eyes fixed on the road.

Harley frowned slightly. “Peter?” Nothing. Harley shifted in his seat. “You’re mad?”

The steering wheel creaked faintly under his grip. Finally, he spoke very, very calmly. “Why.”

Harley blinked. “Why what?”

Peter turned onto another street a little too sharply. “Why,” he repeated, voice still frighteningly level, “did you just tell the entire press we’re dating.”

“...You told me to?”

“I did not tell you to,” Peter hissed. “I gave you a list of what to talk about. I printed a sheet. All you had to do was read it! You cannot possibly be this stupid!”

“Hey!” Harley tried, and Peter genuinely thought he might explode. “You wanted them off the break-in!” “Yes?!”

“Well now they’re off the break-in!”

“That is not the point, Harley!”

Harley watched him for a moment. “You’re really mad.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “MJ is going to murder me.”

Harley snorted. “Oh please.”

“She manages your public image!”

“And?”

“And now she has to explain why you randomly announced you’re dating your assistant!”

Harley looked back down at his phone. “Assistant slash boyfriend.”

Peter nearly swerved into the next lane. “We are not-”

He stopped himself.

The car went quiet again as Harley glanced sideways at him. Peter’s ears were red. His knuckles were still white against the steering wheel.

Peter turned into the hotel driveway and killed the engine with more force than necessary. Harley finally glanced at him, and Peter looked at him slowly.

“You,” Peter said carefully, “Cannot be serious.” Harley opened the door and stepped out of the car like he hadn’t just-

Just what? Just detonated a PR bomb? Hadn’t thrown Peter’s private and professional life under the bus? Hadn’t created a million little problems and gone completely off-script?

Peter slammed his door shut a little harder than intended and followed him inside. They rode up the elevator in tense silence.

The moment the hotel room door closed behind them, Peter snapped. “What the hell was that?” Peter demanded as he tossed his keys onto the small table near the door.

Harley blinked. “You told me to give them something else to talk about.”

Peter stared at him. “You - you weren’t supposed to take that literally!”

Harley frowned at him, like he was confused about why that was a problem. “You said ​​if I didn’t want them dissecting something for the next three months, give them nothing, and they’d find something else.”

“Yes,” Peter said through gritted teeth.

“So I did.”

Peter laughed, sharp and incredulous and furious. “You can’t just announce we’re - we’re dating without even consulting me!”

Harley leaned against the table, arms crossing loosely. “Why not?”

Peter paused, incredulous. “Because - because that affects your entire PR team!” He started pacing, furious as his heart jackrabbitted in his chest. “MJ is going to murder me.”

Harley watched him quietly while Peter pointed at him accusingly.

“You just - you just blindsided every single person who manages your public image!”

Harley tilted his head slightly, “they already thought we were dating.”

“That is not the same thing as confirming it on camera!” Peter exploded, dragging a panicked hand through his hair, pacing faster now. “This is a nightmare,” he moaned. “We’re gonna have to coordinate statements, damage control and media strategy and-”

“Why?” Peter stopped pacing and spun back to him. “Because that’s how this works, Harley!”

Harley studied him. “You’re upset.” “Yes!”

“Why?”

Peter stared at him. “Because you can’t just-” The words stalled in his throat, and he turned away, face hot and burning with humiliation and anger and something hot and light bubbling in his stomach. “You can’t just dump things like this on people, especially if it’s just - just for fun, and-”

​​Harley pushed off the table, and in three strides he crossed the room.

Peter didn’t even have time to register the movement before Harley grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him forward.

And kissed him.

Peter’s brain shut off.

The world shrank down to the sudden warmth of Harley’s mouth against his and the sharp jolt of surprise that ran through his entire body. For half a second, he just stood there, frozen, before something in his chest cracked open.

Peter grabbed Harley’s shirt and kissed him back. Harley made a soft noise against his mouth, clearly startled by the retaliation. Peter shoved him backward a step, and Harley stumbled into the wall with a quiet thud.

Neither of them broke the kiss.

Peter kissed him harder when Harley’s fingers slid into the back of Peter’s hair, pulling him closer.

Peter felt his pulse roaring in his ears as some distant rational part of his brain tried to protest. You’re supposed to be mad.

He was mad.

He kissed Harley harder. Harley laughed softly into the kiss, breath warm against Peter’s mouth. “Still mad?” he murmured.

Peter kissed him again instead of answering. Harley’s hands slid down to Peter’s waist, and Peter shoved him again, this time deliberately pushing him back. Harley turned and shoved him until Peter’s back bumped into the doorframe of the bedroom, and Peter stared at him, face hot and lips pink.

Then he grabbed Harley and shoved him onto the mattress, before stopping in front of him, breathing hard. They stared at each other.

Harley’s hair was still a little uneven. It had been fixed up, but there was a wispy strand that the hairdresser had missed. The faint cut near his temple had healed but hadn’t disappeared completely. Peter suddenly felt dizzy.

“You’re an idiot,” he said hoarsely.

Harley grinned. “You kissed me back,” he said, before he reached out and caught his wrist. The grin softened into something quieter. “Hey.”

Peter looked down at him.

“You told me to give them something else to talk about,” Harley said.

Peter exhaled slowly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

Peter blinked.

Harley tugged gently on his wrist, and Peter stepped closer without thinking. Harley’s thumb brushed against the inside of his wrist absently.

“You didn’t look like you hated the idea,” Harley added quietly.

Peter’s face heated instantly. “That’s not the point.”

Harley’s smile returned. “Isn’t it?”

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it. Harley tugged on his wrist again, and Peter let himself be pulled forward. Their knees bumped.

By the time Harley pulled him forward again, the anger that had been burning under Peter’s skin since the interview had twisted into something hotter, heavier. It still had teeth, but it had changed shape.

Harley’s hands were steady on him, warm and firm and easy in a way that made Peter’s pulse spike - because Harley was used to this. Harley had practice, Harley had partners all the time; and that made Peter jealous, but it also made him nervous.

Which was deeply unfair.

Because Harley had no right to look that calm after detonating Peter’s entire professional life on live television.

And yet there he was, sitting on the edge of the bed with Peter half between his knees, one hand loosely curled in the front of Peter’s shirt like he already knew how this was going to end. Peter kissed him again just to shut him up.

Harley let out a quiet, surprised laugh against Peter’s mouth. “Still mad?” he murmured.

“Yes,” Peter said immediately.

He kissed him again, and Harley’s grin widened. “Good.”

Peter groaned, dragging a hand through Harley’s uneven hair. “You’re such an asshole,” Peter breathed, furious.

“Yeah,” Harley said easily.

Peter’s ears burned. “You do realize you just caused a PR disaster.”

Harley shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “MJ will fix it.”

Peter let out a strangled laugh. “MJ is going to murder me.”

Harley’s hand slid up Peter’s arm slowly, thumb brushing against the inside of his elbow. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about Michelle right now.”

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn’t believe he was here. With Harley. Like this.

Harley seemed to notice the exact second that realization landed, and the grin softened into something quieter. He tugged gently on Peter’s sleeve, and Peter stepped closer automatically. Their knees bumped again.

Harley’s voice dropped slightly. “So,” he said. “Are you going to keep thinking about tomorrow, or do you want to do something more fun?”

Peter’s brain short-circuited. “I-”

Harley kissed him again before he could finish the sentence, and Peter made a quiet, helpless noise against his mouth as Harley’s hands slid up his back. This was a problem. A massive problem, because Harley was good at this.

Peter grabbed the front of Harley’s shirt again and kissed him harder out of sheer stubbornness. Harley made a pleased sound and leaned back onto the mattress, pulling Peter down with him. The bed springs groaned, and Peter laughed breathlessly into the kiss.

“This mattress is terrible,” he breathed.

Harley didn’t seem remotely concerned. He pushed himself up onto one elbow, pulling Peter further onto the bed.

Peter ended up half sprawled beneath him, one knee wedged awkwardly between Harley’s legs. Harley’s fingers slid up his shirt, and his warm fingers brushed along Peter’s side. He tensed automatically, and

Harley paused. “Are you okay?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

Harley’s hand slid carefully along the edge of Peter’s shirt.

“The cut,” Harley realised, and frowned.

Peter had almost forgotten about it. He shifted slightly. “It’s fine.”

Harley frowned. “Let me see.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “It’s really not-”

Harley lifted the hem of Peter’s shirt anyway, and Peter’s breath hitched. The small line of butterfly stitches stretched across his side, the skin around them still faintly red. Harley’s hands were more gentle as they slid down Peter’s waist.

He suddenly felt very aware of how close they were.

“Technically, I got it running into a mirror,” he muttered.

Harley ignored that. His fingers hovered near the stitches like he was afraid to touch them.

Harley’s thumb finally brushed lightly against the edge of the scar. The touch was careful, and Peter sucked in a sharp breath. Harley leaned forward slightly and pressed a soft kiss just below the edge of the bandage.

Peter’s brain promptly shorted out. “Oh,” he said.

Harley looked very pleased with himself.

Peter felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.

For someone who had been the one to start the fight, to start kissing back, to shove Harley down onto the bed like he had something to prove, Peter suddenly felt very aware that he had no idea what happened next.

Harley, apparently, did.

He reached up slowly and slid his hand to the back of Peter’s neck again, fingers threading through his hair with an easy familiarity that made Peter’s pulse jump. There was no hesitation in the movement, and that confidence was almost unfair.

Peter had known Harley slept around. The tabloids made sure everyone knew that. Models, influencers, other athletes - his name showed up in enough gossip headlines that Peter had long since stopped paying attention.

But knowing that intellectually and feeling the calm certainty in Harley’s hands right now were two very different experiences. Being the person in bed with Harley was-

Harley tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking over Peter’s face like he was studying something interesting.

Peter’s throat felt dry. He suddenly became aware that his heart was beating far too fast for someone who had just spent the last ten minutes aggressively kissing the person in front of him. Harley didn’t seem to notice.

Or if he did, he interpreted it differently. The corner of his mouth lifted faintly.

“You’re thinking too much,” he murmured.

Peter opened his mouth to argue. Harley pulled him down into another kiss before he could. This one was slower than the earlier ones. The anger that had fueled the first round of kisses had burned off into something warmer, something steadier. Harley’s hand stayed at the back of Peter’s neck, not pulling hard but guiding him closer, keeping him there. Harley’s other hand slid along Peter’s side carefully, fingers brushing against the fabric of his shirt before stopping just short of the stitched cut.

The pause was brief but deliberate. Harley adjusted automatically, shifting his hand higher instead.

Peter noticed. It did not help his concentration.

Peter shifted his weight forward again, trying to deepen the kiss the way he had before, Harley adjusted with him, guiding him sideways instead. The movement was smooth enough that Peter didn’t immediately notice what was happening.

Then his back hit the mattress. The cheap bed squeaked loudly beneath them.

Peter blinked up at the ceiling for half a second, startled by the sudden change in position, before Harley leaned over him again and the rest of the world narrowed right back down to the person in front of him.

Harley braced one hand beside Peter’s head, the other settling lightly at his waist. Peter inhaled sharply when Harley shifted his weight a little closer. The mattress dipped under the change. He kissed Peter again, deeper this time, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter realized he had lost the upper hand in this situation completely. Harley broke the kiss after a moment, but he didn’t move away.

Instead, his mouth drifted sideways along Peter’s jaw. Peter froze. Harley’s lips brushed lightly against the corner of his mouth, then along the line of his jawbone. It was a slow, deliberate trail, and Peter felt heat crawl up his neck instantly.

“Harley-” he started. Harley ignored him. His mouth moved lower.

Peter’s breath caught when Harley pressed a kiss just beneath his jaw, then another slightly lower along his throat. The reaction was immediate and embarrassing, and Peter jerked slightly under him. Harley huffed a quiet laugh against his skin.

Peter’s hands automatically grabbed for Harley’s shoulders, half pushing, half bracing.

“You’re awful,” Peter muttered, voice a little tighter than he intended. Harley lifted his head just enough to look at him. The expression on his face was amused. Peter flushed harder. “I’m not-”

Harley leaned down again before the protest finished, pressing another slow kiss along the side of his throat. Peter’s back arched involuntarily. His brain felt like it had suddenly stopped working properly.

He tried to shift sideways, instinctively retreating from the attention, but Harley adjusted immediately. One hand slid down and caught Peter’s wrist against the mattress, just firm enough that Peter stopped moving. Harley’s head tilted slightly as he watched Peter’s reaction, and Peter felt the warmth of it all the way down his spine.

His fingers tightened instinctively against Harley’s shoulder. Harley seemed to take that as encouragement. His hand slid up from Peter’s wrist to rest loosely against his forearm instead, keeping him in place while he moved lower along the line of Peter’s throat again.

Peter squirmed under him, and Harley kissed him like he had already decided exactly how this was going to go. One hand slid up into Peter’s hair again, tilting his head back slightly to deepen the angle. When Harley pulled back, Peter stared back up at him, chest rising and falling faster than it probably should have been. His brain was still trying to catch up.

Harley didn’t seem to be in any hurry to slow down, and-

Peter was rapidly realizing he might not actually want him to.

Fuck.