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The hallway is quiet in that late-evening way, the kind that makes every sound feel louder than it is. Peter’s boots scuff softly against the worn carpet as he unlocks his door, shoulders slumped, breath still a little uneven from the cold outside. The city hasn’t slowed down, not for Christmas lights or snow or anything else, but this building always feels like it exists slightly apart from it. Dim. Drafty. Easy to disappear in.
He pauses before going inside.
Across the narrow stretch of the hall, your door is open, warm light spilling out onto the floor. You’re standing on a chair that looks one wrong shift away from disaster, arms lifted as you try to loop a strand of Christmas lights along the doorframe. One side keeps slipping loose, drooping like it’s given up on the whole idea. You mutter something under your breath and reach higher, stretching just a bit too far.
Peter watches without meaning to.
It isn’t the lights, not really. It’s the fact that you’re doing it alone. No one holding the other end, no voice chiming in with suggestions or laughter. Just you, balancing carefully, determined to make something bright in a place that doesn’t offer much of it on its own. He recognizes the posture instantly. He’s worn it himself for a long time now.
The lights flicker on for a second—soft yellow, almost hopeful—before going dark again. You freeze, shoulders sagging, then let out a quiet breath like you’d expected that to happen. You don’t get angry. You don’t call out for help. You just start untangling the wire again, patient in a way that tells him this isn’t the first time you’ve had to figure things out by yourself.
Peter’s hand tightens around his keys.
For a moment, he considers going inside and closing the door. That’s the habit now. Keep your head down. Don’t intrude. Don’t let yourself be seen, because being seen is how things fall apart. But his eyes keep drifting back to the faint shadows under yours, the careful way you test the chair’s balance before shifting your weight again. There’s something familiar there, something that makes his chest ache in a dull, persistent way.
You manage to get the lights hooked at last, stepping back to inspect your work. They glow this time, steady and warm, outlining the door in a soft halo. You smile, small but genuine, like the sight of it matters more than anyone noticing. It’s such a simple thing, but it feels… brave. Choosing to decorate when no one’s coming over. Choosing to mark the season anyway.
Peter swallows.
He realizes, distantly, that this is the first Christmas decoration he’s seen up close this year. His own apartment is bare, stripped down to the essentials. No tree. No lights. No reminders of things he doesn’t have anymore. He told himself it didn’t matter, that it was easier this way. Watching you now, he’s not so sure.
Your gaze lifts, catching him standing there in the hallway.
For half a second, surprise flashes across your face, like you hadn’t realized anyone else was home. Then it softens into something neutral, almost shy. You step off the chair, steadying it with your foot, and tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The lights hum quietly between you, casting gentle reflections on the walls.
Peter stands there a beat too long, the quiet stretching between you like something fragile. The lights hum softly, filling the space where conversation should be, and for a moment he considers retreating into his apartment and pretending this never happened. That would be easier. Cleaner. Less risky.
You break the silence first. “Sorry,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the doorframe, the chair still sitting crooked beside you. “I didn’t realize anyone was out here. I wasn’t trying to… block the hall or anything.”
Your voice is gentle, a little tentative, like you’re used to apologizing even when you don’t need to. It hits him in a place he wasn’t expecting.
“No—no, you’re fine,” Peter says quickly, stepping fully out of his doorway now, instinctively lowering his voice as if the building itself might be listening. “They look… nice. The lights, I mean.”
You glance back at them, as if checking to make sure they’re still there, still working. When you look at him again, your smile is hesitant but real. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure they were going to cooperate.”
“They usually don’t,” he says before he can stop himself. “Lights. Uh. They’re stubborn.”
The corner of your mouth quirks up at that, and something in his chest loosens just a little.
You shift your weight, nudging the chair with your foot. “I think this thing is actively trying to kill me,” you add, half-joking. “One more slip and I’d be face-first on the carpet.”
Peter’s eyes flick to the chair, then back to you. He hesitates, fingers twitching at his sides. “I could—” He clears his throat. “I could hold it steady. If you want to adjust anything.”
You blink, clearly not expecting the offer. There’s a brief pause, the kind where you’re deciding whether accepting help is worth the vulnerability of it. Finally, you nod. “That would actually be really helpful. Thank you.”
He moves closer, carefully positioning himself behind the chair, hands gripping the backrest to keep it from wobbling. He’s hyperaware of how close you are now, of the warmth spilling from your apartment and the faint scent of detergent and something sweet he can’t quite place. He keeps his movements measured, controlled, reminding himself not to overdo it.
You climb back up, adjusting the strand that’s sagging near the corner. “I didn’t realize how high the frame was until I started,” you mutter. “I might’ve overestimated my reach.”
“You’re almost there,” Peter says, steady and encouraging without thinking about it. “Just—yeah, like that.”
The lights shift into place, sitting neatly along the edge now. When you step back down, you let out a soft breath of relief, brushing your hands on your jeans. Peter releases the chair and takes a step back too, suddenly unsure of what to do with himself.
“Thanks,” you say again. “I swear I’m not usually this uncoordinated.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh before he can stop it. It surprises both of you.
“I’m Peter,” he adds quickly, as if afraid the moment might pass if he doesn’t anchor it to something.
You tell him your name, and it feels oddly significant, like being handed something fragile. He repeats it once, just to make sure he gets it right, then immediately wonders if that was weird. You don’t seem to mind. If anything, you look a little relieved, like this interaction has shifted from awkward stranger territory into something safer.
“You just move in?” he asks, nodding toward your apartment.
“Yeah. A couple months ago,” you say. “Still getting used to it.”
He nods slowly. “Same. Well. Sort of. I mean, I’ve been here a bit, but…” He trails off, then shrugs. “Still figuring things out.”
You watch him for a moment, like you’re reading between the lines. You don’t press. “First Christmas here,” you say instead. “I figured I should at least try to make it feel like something.”
Peter glances past you, into your apartment. It’s modest, a little mismatched, but warm. Lived-in. There’s a box on the floor with half the lights still tangled inside, a couple of unopened decorations peeking out. It looks like a place someone’s building, piece by piece.
“Looks like you’re doing a good job,” he says quietly.
Your smile softens at that, something unguarded slipping through. “Yeah?” you ask, like his opinion actually matters.
“It does,” he says, just as quietly.
The hallway seems warmer now, the hum of the lights filling the silence in a way that feels companionable rather than empty. Neither of you moves to leave right away, and Peter realizes, with a small flicker of surprise, that he doesn’t want to be the first one to go.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway light flickers faintly overhead, and the glow from your decorations keeps spilling out like an invitation neither of you is quite brave enough to name.
You’re the one who shifts first. “It’s freezing out here,” you say, rubbing your hands together, more practical than awkward about it. “Do you want to—” You hesitate, glancing back into your apartment. “I was about to make some hot chocolate. Nothing fancy. Just the powdered kind.”
Peter’s answer rises in him immediately. No. Thanks. I’m good. It’s automatic, a reflex he’s trained into himself since the spell, since learning how dangerous closeness can be. He opens his mouth to say it, already stepping back toward his door.
Then he stops.
The apartment behind you looks warm in a way his hasn’t in weeks. Not because of decorations or furniture, but because someone is choosing to exist in it. Choosing to invite someone else in, even casually. You’re not asking for a confession or a promise. You’re offering a mug and a few minutes of not being alone. “That’s okay if not,” you add quickly, clearly trying to give him an out. “I just figured, since you helped and all.”
He swallows. “Yeah,” he says, surprising himself with how steady his voice sounds. “I mean—yeah. That’d be nice.”
Your smile comes easier this time, like you’re glad he said yes but didn’t expect him to. You step aside to let him in, and he crosses the threshold with the strange, weighty awareness that he hasn’t done this in a long time. Not like this. Not without a reason beyond survival.
Inside, your apartment is small but thoughtfully arranged. There’s a softness to it, a sense of things being placed carefully, even if they don’t match. A blanket folded over the back of the couch. A couple of framed prints leaning against the wall, not hung yet. Boxes tucked neatly out of the way, as if you’re still deciding what stays and what doesn’t.
“Make yourself comfortable,” you say, toeing off your shoes. “Or, uh. As comfortable as you can be in a place that isn’t yours.”
Peter does the same, lining his shoes up by the door without thinking. “It’s fine,” he says. “It’s… nice.”
You glance back at him, a little surprised. “Thanks.”
The kitchen is barely more than a corner, but you move through it like you know exactly where everything is. He leans against the counter, hands tucked into his sleeves, watching the steam rise as you heat the milk. There’s a quiet ease settling in, the kind that doesn’t demand conversation just to fill the space.
“You don’t decorate?” you ask gently, nodding toward the doorway, toward the bare hall beyond it.
Peter follows your gaze, then looks away. “I keep meaning to,” he says. It’s not a lie. Just incomplete. “I just… haven’t gotten around to it.”
You hum in understanding, not pushing. “I get that.”
You hand him a mug a moment later. It’s chipped near the handle, clearly well-used. He cradles it like it might vanish if he doesn’t pay attention, the warmth seeping into his fingers almost painfully.
They don’t talk much at first. Just stand there, sipping, sharing the quiet. The radiator ticks in the background, and somewhere outside a siren wails and fades away again. Normal city sounds. Life continuing.
“I didn’t really plan on decorating,” you say after a while, staring into your mug. “I almost didn’t. But it felt… too empty, I guess.”
Peter nods slowly. “Yeah.”
You glance at him, studying his face like you’re deciding whether to say something else. “This place is new for me,” you add. “It’s better than where I was before.”
Not happier. Not easier. Just better.
He hears everything you don’t say, and something in his chest tightens. “Yeah?” he says quietly.
You shrug, shoulders lifting and falling. “It wasn’t a great situation. I left when I could.”
Peter doesn’t ask for details. He knows what it’s like to leave something behind and carry the echo of it with you anyway. “I’m glad you did,” he says instead.
You look at him then, really look at him, like you weren’t expecting that answer. Your expression softens, and for a moment the guarded edge between you dulls.
“Me too,” you admit.
The mugs empty slowly. When you set his in the sink, he lingers by the counter, reluctant in a way that surprises him. He knows he should go. Knows how this ends if he lets himself want too much.
But as he steps back into the hallway a few minutes later, the lights on your doorframe glow just as warmly as before. And when he reaches his own apartment and looks back once more, the choice he made—to step inside, to stay for a little while—feels small.
It also feels like the first good one he’s made in a long time.