Archive of Our Own

You have learned, over the course of this lunch break, that there are apparently two appropriate reactions to finding out your friend was cornered by three strange men on her way home at night.

The first is horror.

The second, which seems to have won out among your friends sometime around the moment you made the mistake of mentioning how the situation had ended, is fangirling.

“You were held by Spider-Man?”

“No.”

“But you just said-”

“I said he caught me.”

Jenny stares at you across the cafeteria table like you've just tried to explain some complicated mathematical theorem instead of a fairly straightforward sequence of events, her fork suspended halfway between her tray and her mouth.

“That is literally the same thing.”

“It really isn't.”

“He had his arms around you.”

“For like three seconds,” you clarify, already regretting having told them that particular detail at all. “Because I almost fell over.”

“So he caught you.”

“Yes.”

“With his arms.”

You narrow your eyes. “Jenny.”

“I’m just establishing the facts.”

Across from you, Claire snorts into her water bottle, while Mia has abandoned all pretense of eating in favor of leaning forward on both elbows, watching you with the kind of fascination usually reserved for particularly dramatic episodes of reality television.

You should have known this would happen.

Actually, you had known this would happen, which was why you hadn't planned on telling any of your friends in the first place. You'd managed to make it through the entire train ride to school without mentioning a word of last night to Ned, despite the fact that keeping anything remotely interesting from Ned Leeds when you were trapped beside him on a train for twenty minutes should probably qualify you for some kind of government intelligence position. You'd even made it through the first half of the school day without telling Jenny.

Then she'd asked why you looked tired. Apparently, I had kind of a weird night had been the wrong answer and they needed every little detail instead.

“So what was he like?” Mia asks eagerly. “Like, actually?”

“I don't know.”

“You talked to him.”

“For maybe two minutes.”

“That is two minutes longer than any of us have talked to Spider-Man.”

“I wish he saved me,” Jenny says airily. “He could've swung past my window last night and I wouldn't even know.”

“Jenny, you live on the twelfth floor.”

“Exactly. Prime Spider-Man territory.”

You can't help the laugh that escapes you, even though you duck your head immediately afterward and occupy yourself with moving a fry through the rapidly cooling puddle of ketchup on your tray.

It is easier to laugh about it here. It had not been particularly funny last night.

The problem with telling the story in a brightly lit cafeteria surrounded by several hundred other students is that it starts to sound less frightening than it had actually been. You had been stupid enough to stay out later than you meant to, stupid enough to convince yourself the walk from the station wasn't far enough to bother calling your grandmother, and stupid enough not to realize the men behind you were following until one of them called after you.

You don't particularly want to tell Jenny about the way your hands had started shaking before you'd even turned around.

Or how quickly you'd realized there wasn't anybody else on that stretch of sidewalk.

Or the awful, crawling feeling you'd gotten when one of them stepped between you and the direction of your apartment building while another caught your wrist when you tried to walk away.

Spider-Man swooping down from somewhere above you makes for a much better story. Apparently, it also makes for a more romantic one.

“Was he cute?” Claire asks.

“He was wearing a mask.”

“You can still tell.”

“Can you?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Mia says at the same time.

Claire looks offended. “I absolutely could.”

“You thought Mr. Harrington was cute for three months.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three months.”

“Can we please stop discussing whether the masked vigilante who stopped me from potentially getting murdered was hot?” you interrupt before this can become a debate about the attractiveness of your teachers, something you have unfortunately witnessed before and have no desire to witness again.

Jenny grins. “So you did think he was hot.”

“Oh my God.” You drop your forehead into one hand.

This had been a mistake. A huge one. You should have told Ned instead of them.

Ned would have freaked out, obviously. There would have been six hundred questions and at least one lecture about walking home alone, despite the fact that Ned has absolutely no authority to lecture anyone about personal safety after nearly getting hit by a city bus because he was trying to catch a Pokémon two summers ago.

But eventually, he would have let it go.

Peter would have-

You stop that thought before it can get very far. You haven't told Peter, either. You aren't entirely sure why that makes you feel guilty.

“Wait, wait.” Mia catches your wrist when you reach for your drink, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.

Her fingers disappear immediately. “Sorry.”

“No, you're fine.” You force a smile, rubbing your thumb unconsciously over the same patch of skin one of the men had grabbed last night. There isn't even a bruise there, only the faintest tenderness if you press hard enough. “What?”

Her expression remains concerned for another second before curiosity wins again. “What did Spider-Man actually say?”

“Nothing interesting.”

“Come on.”

“He asked if I was okay.”

Jenny presses a hand dramatically to her chest. “Chivalry isn't dead.”

You roll your eyes. “He asked if I wanted him to call the police, and then he asked if I lived nearby.”

“Did you tell him where you live?”

“No. I'm not an idiot.”

“Debatable,” Jenny says, and when Claire laughs, she reaches across the table to pat your hand with an affectionate smile. “I'm kidding. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” you echo.

It doesn't really bother you. Or, at least, it shouldn't.

Jenny says things like that all the time, and most of the time you know she doesn't mean anything by them. That's just how she is. She teases everyone. You especially, maybe, but that's because you're closest.

“So did he walk you home?” Claire asks.

“Sort of.”

Three expectant faces stare back at you.

You sigh. “He swung me. And only to my street, I didn’t want him to know what building I live in.”

There is a beat of complete silence. Then Jenny shrieks.

Not loudly enough to silence the cafeteria, but certainly loudly enough that several people at the nearest table turn around.

You immediately sink lower in your chair. “Could you not?”

“You let Spider-Man swing you home and you waited until now to mention that?”

“Oh my God.” Mia looks delighted. “Were you terrified?”

“Yes!”

“Was it amazing?”

“Also yes,” you admit reluctantly.

That had been the irritating part.

You'd spent the first few seconds with your face smashed against Spider-Man's shoulder, both arms locked around his neck and your eyes squeezed shut so tightly you'd seen spots. Then he'd laughed - not at you, exactly, although you still maintain he'd been enjoying your terror far too much - and told you that you could open your eyes.

So you had.

Queens had spread out beneath you in a blur of glowing windows, traffic lights and headlights, the city stretching toward Manhattan in the distance, and for one impossible moment you'd forgotten entirely about what had happened ten minutes earlier.

Then Spider-Man had landed on the roof of a building close to yours with a soft thump, set you carefully on your feet, and waited until you'd climbed down the fire escape before leaving.

You had barely slept afterward.

Apparently, neither had your grandmother, considering she'd been sitting in the kitchen waiting for you and had nearly crushed your ribs once you'd made the additional mistake of telling her what happened.

“Okay, but if this ever happens again,” Jenny says, pointing her fork at you, “you have to call me while Spider-Man is still there.”

You stare at her. “If I'm ever cornered by a group of strange men again, your primary concern is getting to talk to Spider-Man?”

“Obviously I care about you.” Jenny reaches over and squeezes your arm, her expression softening immediately. “You know that. I would've come gotten you if you'd called me.”

“I know.”

And you do. That's the difficult thing about Jenny.

Sometimes she can say something that leaves a strange little ache behind your ribs, and then, almost before you've had time to decide whether it hurt, she looks at you like you're the only person sitting at the table.

Her thumb rubs affectionately over your sleeve. “Seriously, though. You're okay?”

“I'm okay.”

“Promise?”

You smile, smaller and more genuine this time. “Promise.”

“Good.” Jenny releases you and immediately steals one of your fries. “Because if you die, I'll have nobody to copy Chemistry homework from.”

“There it is.”

“Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

You reach to steal the fry back from her plate, only for a familiar voice to interrupt from somewhere just behind you.

“Hey.”

Your heart does something incredibly stupid. It has been doing a lot of incredibly stupid things around Peter Parker lately.

You twist in your seat and find Peter standing a few feet away with Ned beside him, both of them still carrying their lunch trays. Ned looks worried. Peter looks really worried.

“Hey,” you answer, and despite everything you've spent the last twenty minutes talking about, you find yourself smiling automatically.

Peter doesn't return it. His eyes travel quickly over your face before dropping toward your arms like he's checking for injuries, his mouth set in an unusually tight line.

“Are you okay?”

Your eyebrows rise. “Yeah?”

Ned exhales loudly beside him. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Oh.

Oh, no.

“Your Lola talked to my grandma, didn’t she?.”

“My Lola called me during fourth period,” Ned says accusingly. “She never calls me during school unless somebody is dead or she needs me to explain something on her phone.”

“She couldn't have waited until we got home?”

“No! Apparently not!”

Despite yourself, you laugh. 

Ned does not. “Some guys cornered you?”

“I'm fine.”

“You got attacked!”

“I didn't get attacked.”

Peter makes a strange sound and your gaze shifts toward him. He has gone very still.

“Okay,” you amend. “I mean, technically, I guess I did. A little.”

“A little?” Peter repeats.

Something about the way he says it makes you blink.

Peter has always been protective in his own way. Both boys are. You'd known Ned literally longer than you could remember, and Peter had been around for so much of your childhood that sometimes you forget there were years before him. There had been scraped knees and playground fights and sleepovers that technically weren't sleepovers because Peter's aunt and uncle came to pick him up at eleven, and later science fairs and movie marathons and endless weekends crammed into Ned's apartment while your grandmothers talked loudly enough in the kitchen to be heard from three rooms away.

Peter worrying about you isn't strange. Peter looking like he might be sick because you're telling him someone grabbed you is.

“Peter.” You soften your voice. “I'm okay.”

“I know. I just-” His fingers tighten around the edge of his tray. “Ned told me what his grandma said, and it sounded really bad.”

“It was scary,” you admit, because something in his expression makes lying feel cruel. “But Spider-Man showed up before anything really happened.”

Peter's shoulders loosen by the smallest amount.

Beside him, Ned glances at him. It's quick enough that you almost miss it.

“Yeah,” Ned says. “Thank God Spider-Man was there.”

Peter shoots him an odd look.

You squint between them. “Why did you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like-” You imitate his voice badly. “‘Thank God Spider-Man was there.’”

“I didn't say it like that.”

“You did.”

“Yeah, you kinda did,” Peter says.

Ned looks betrayed. “Dude.”

The laugh comes out before you can help it, and Peter finally smiles.

That stupid little crooked smile you've been trying very hard not to think too much about for the past few months.

It would be significantly easier to get over this ridiculous crush if Peter would have the decency to become less attractive.

You have known him since you were six. You have seen him with two missing front teeth. You have seen him throw up blue raspberry slushie all over Ned's shoes. You have seen him cry during Up on no fewer than four separate occasions, despite his insistence that the first ten minutes are an objectively devastating piece of cinematic storytelling and therefore don't count.

There is absolutely no reason your stomach should flutter because Peter Parker smiles at you. And yet.

Traitorous organ.

“Wait.” Jenny's voice pulls you abruptly back to the table.

You turn around. She's looking between you and the boys with a faint crease between her eyebrows.

“Why did Ned's grandma call him about you?”

You look blankly at Jenny. “What?”

“His grandma.” Jenny gestures vaguely toward Ned. “Why does she know what happened to you?”

For several seconds, you're genuinely unsure how to answer. “Because...my grandma told her?”

Jenny's confusion only deepens. “Why?”

“Because they're friends.”

“Your grandmas know each other?”

“They're basically best friends.”

“Oh.” Jenny glances at Ned again, and something in her expression makes discomfort crawl up your spine before you can identify why. “So you guys know each other?”

This time, Ned looks actively offended. “We took the train here together this morning.”

Jenny blinks. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.

“We take the train together almost every morning,” you explain.

“You do?”

“Yes?”

Since Jenny continues staring at you, you gesture helplessly toward Ned.

“We live in the same building. We've known each other since we were babies.”

“Literally babies,” Ned supplies. “There are pictures.”

“There’s one where you're both naked in a kiddie pool,” Peter adds.

Your head snaps toward him. “Why do you know about that?”

“Ned showed me.”

“Ned!”

“That was years ago!”

“That doesn't make it better!”

Peter is laughing now, and Ned has started protesting that there was nothing weird about the picture because you were both two years old, while you make a mental note to murder him sometime after school.

For a few seconds, you almost forget Jenny and the others are there. That's easy to do with Peter and Ned.

“You know Peter too?” Jenny interrupts.

The question catches you off guard enough that you stop threatening Ned mid-sentence. “Yeah.”

“How?”

Peter's eyebrows lift. “How?” he repeats under his breath.

You kick lightly at his shoe before he can say anything else.

“Ned met him in elementary school,” you explain. “And they basically became a package deal.”

“Wow,” Peter says. “That's a really touching description of our friendship.”

“You know it's true.”

“I'd say we're more of a dynamic duo.”

“You spent twenty minutes arguing yesterday because Ned ate the last Pop-Tart.”

“It was my Pop-Tart.”

“It was in my apartment!” Ned protests.

“It had my name on the box!”

“Because you wrote it there!”

You grin. This is normal. This is them.

It doesn't occur to you until you glance back at Jenny that she's watching you strangely.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” Her eyes flick between the three of you again. “I just didn't know you guys were, like...friends.”

“We hang out all the time,” you say.

“All the time?” Claire echoes.

You shrug. “Yeah. After school. Weekends.”

“We've gone on vacation together,” Ned adds.

“Once,” you correct.

“Three times.”

“The Poconos barely counts as a vacation.”

“It counts!”

“And you came to Florida with us,” Peter reminds you.

“That was only because May got that ridiculously cheap hotel deal.”

“And Washington,” Ned says.

“That was the school trip.”

“We still all went.”

You stare at him. “You're really committed to proving this, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

Peter nudges the toe of his sneaker against yours. “Don't forget Coney Island.”

“That is not a vacation. We were gone for like eight hours.”

“A day trip, then.”

“You threw up.”

“I had food poisoning.”

“You ate three hot dogs and went on the Cyclone.”

“Food poisoning,” Peter repeats firmly.

You smile, nudging his foot back. When you look at Jenny again, she's still watching.

“I can't believe I didn't know this,” she says.

“You've seen me talk to them before.”

“Have I? When?”

“I don't know. Yesterday?” You think about it. Actually, yesterday you'd only waved at Ned across the hallway. “Monday, then.”

“You disappeared with us after school on Monday,” Peter points out.

“Right.”

Jenny's eyebrows climb. “You did?”

“We had plans.”

“You said you were busy.”

“I was busy.”

“With them?”

There is something about the way she says them that makes your smile fade. Only slightly. “Yeah.”

Jenny looks toward Peter and Ned again, and you recognize the beginnings of that particular expression on her face.

You know it because you've seen it directed toward other people plenty of times.

Flash uses Penis Parker and Loony Leeds like they're insults all on their own, and Jenny has picked up enough of his habits over the years that sometimes she does the same thing. Not often around you anymore, because you've told her repeatedly that you don't like it, but enough.

You feel yourself straighten before she even opens her mouth.

“Huh,” she says instead.

That's all. Just huh.

Then she smiles. “You really do have this whole secret life outside of us.”

It's teasing. You know it's teasing. Still, something about it makes you feel as though you've done something wrong.

“It's not secret.”

“I know.” Jenny laughs and reaches across the table to squeeze your hand again. “I'm kidding.”

You relax somewhat. Peter hasn't.

You can feel his attention on you, and when you glance up, you find him watching your face with an odd little furrow between his eyebrows.

You give him a tiny smile, trying to convey that you truly are fine. His expression says fairly clearly that he doesn't believe you.

Before either of you can say anything else, Jenny turns her attention toward him. Really turns it toward him, and your stomach drops.

“So, Peter.”

He looks startled. “Uh. Yeah?”

“How long have you two been friends?”

Peter glances at you. “Me and her?”

“No, you and Michelle Obama.”

You choke on your drink. Peter's face goes pink.

Jenny laughs brightly. “I'm kidding.”

“Right.” Peter rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, since first grade? Around then.”

“Second,” you correct automatically.

“No, first.”

“You met Ned in first. I didn't like you until second.”

Peter's mouth falls open. “You liked me!”

“You were annoying. You corrected my dinosaur facts.”

“Because you said a pterodactyl was a dinosaur!”

“It basically is!”

“It literally isn't!”

Ned groans. “Not this again.”

“It is a pterosaur,” Peter insists, looking genuinely affronted.

“It’s like the same thing.”

Peter stares at you for a second before a helpless laugh breaks through his outrage, and you feel that same awful warmth unfurl somewhere beneath your ribs.

You smile back. Then you remember Jenny is watching. When your gaze snaps toward her she's smiling too.

Not at you, but at Peter.

It's probably nothing. Of course it's nothing.

Jenny smiles at people all the time. She's friendly when she wants to be, and she likes meeting new people, and Peter is being funny without trying to be. Anybody would smile.

You look down at your tray anyway.

“Anyway,” Peter says once his laughter dies down, turning his attention back toward you, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I am.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

His eyes linger on you. You know that look.

Peter has been giving you that look since you were kids, usually after you fell off something, walked into something, got sick, or insisted you were fine when you very clearly weren't. It is irritatingly difficult to lie to somebody who has known you for most of your life.

So you add, more quietly, “I was pretty freaked out last night. But I'm okay now. Promise.”

Something in his face softens. “Okay.”

You smile. “Okay.”

Ned looks between the two of you, his eyebrows pulled together.

You catch him staring. “What?”

“Nothing.”

You stare at Ned for another suspicious second, but the bell rings before you can interrogate him, sending the cafeteria into immediate chaos as chairs scrape against the floor and everyone begins gathering their things.

Jenny hooks her arm through yours almost as soon as you stand. “You're coming with us, right?”

“Yeah.”

You reach for your bag, only for Peter to grab it first and hold it out toward you.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll see you later?” he asks.

You give him a nod and a smile, taking your bag from him, your fingers brushing his. There goes your stomach again.

Jenny tugs you away before you can embarrass yourself any further, Claire and Mia falling into step beside you.

Jenny is unusually quiet for the first few steps. Then, once you've put enough distance between yourselves and the boys, she glances casually over her shoulder.

“So.” You already don't like that tone. “Peter.”

Your heart immediately tries to escape through your throat. You force yourself to look bored.

“What about him?”

“Nothing.” Jenny shrugs, still looking back through the crowd. Then she smiles. “He's actually kind of cute.”

Your stomach drops. You laugh because that is what you're supposed to do. “Peter?”

It comes out convincingly enough that nobody seems to notice anything wrong.

Jenny looks back at you. “Yeah. I never really looked at him before.”

You manage another little laugh, hoping desperately that the heat you can feel creeping into your face isn't visible.

“Trust me. Give him five minutes to start talking about Star Wars and it'll pass.”

Jenny laughs, tightening her arm around yours. You smile along with her.

And somewhere beneath the noise of the hallway, beneath Claire changing the subject and Mia complaining about the homework she forgot to finish, a small, selfish part of you wishes Jenny had gone on never looking at Peter Parker at all.

𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌

You make it about half a block from school before you hear someone calling your name behind you. For one fleeting, ridiculous second, your mind supplies Peter before you've even turned around.

Then, annoyingly, it turns out to be right.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You slow, shifting your bag higher onto your shoulder as Peter weaves through the scattered groups of students heading toward the subway, nearly clipping some poor freshman with his backpack in the process.

“Sorry,” he tosses hurriedly over his shoulder before jogging the last few steps toward you.

You raise your eyebrows. “Lose Ned?”

“No. He, uh, doctor's appointment.”

“I know.”

Peter blinks. “You know?”

“Yes, Pete. Ned and I occasionally communicate when you're not around.”

“I know that.”

“You looked surprised.”

“Okay, whatever.” He falls into step beside you, bumping his shoulder lightly against yours in retaliation. “Where is he, then?”

“His mom picked him up out front.”

“Right.”

You walk another few steps. Peter keeps walking with you.

It shouldn't be strange. You've walked home together plenty of times before, although usually Ned is somewhere between the two of you, talking loudly enough that neither you nor Peter needs to contribute much to keep the conversation going. But Peter doesn't take the same train as you. There are a couple of different routes he can take to get back to his apartment, and the one you're heading toward isn't particularly convenient for him and you know he’s not going to Ned’s today.

You glance sideways. Peter is staring very determinedly ahead.

“So,” you say.

“So.”

“Where are you going?”

His head turns toward you. “What?”

“You're walking this way.”

“Yeah.” Peter hesitates just long enough to make you suspicious. “I have to pick something up.”

You wait. He doesn't elaborate.

“For?”

“May.”

“What does May need?”

“Uh.” Another pause.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Peter.”

“Lightbulbs.”

You stare at him. “Lightbulbs. For May.”

“Yes.”

“And the only place in Queens selling lightbulbs is apparently near my apartment building.”

“No.” Peter immediately looks defensive. “Obviously not. There's just this place May likes.”

“A lightbulb place.”

“They sell other stuff.”

“Like?”

“Other...house stuff.” You press your lips together. Peter glances at you and catches it. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I'm not looking at you like anything.”

“You're trying not to laugh.” A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and Peter groans. “Okay, fine. Forget it.”

“No, no.” You catch his sleeve when he starts drifting dramatically toward the other side of the sidewalk. “I'm sorry. Please tell me more about May's preferred lightbulb establishment.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don't.”

“No,” Peter concedes grudgingly, returning to your side. “I don't.”

The answer is so immediate that something warm and horribly embarrassing curls through your stomach.

You release his sleeve and Peter shoves his hands into his pockets.

You know he's lying.

Peter has never been particularly good at it, not with you, anyway. He gets this little crease between his eyebrows when he's trying to come up with something on the spot, and the more questions you ask, the worse his answers become. When you were ten, he'd accidentally broken one of Ben's model cars and tried to convince you that it had spontaneously fallen off the shelf despite the fact that he'd been holding the detached wheel in his hand at the time.

The lightbulbs aren't much better.

You could call him out on it. Normally, you would. Except there is really only one other reason you can think of for Peter deliberately taking the long way home with you today.

You look down at the pavement.

Last night comes back in pieces whenever you let yourself think about it for too long. The empty sidewalk, footsteps behind you, fingers closing around your wrist.

Then Peter's face in the cafeteria earlier, pale and worried as he asked whether you were okay.

Your cheeks start warming. He's worried about you.

Not in some grand, romantic way, obviously. Peter worries about everyone. Once, he'd spent an entire afternoon helping an old woman search for a cat that ultimately turned out to have been asleep inside her own closet.

Still. He noticed Ned wasn't going home with you today. And apparently decided you shouldn't have to go alone.

You sneak another glance at him. Peter catches you immediately. “What?”

You shove him lightly.  “Nothing.”

Peter grins, stumbling sideways with an exaggerated lack of balance that you know perfectly well is fake.

“Wow. Violent.”

“Keep talking and I'll do it again.”

“See, this is exactly why you need supervision on the way home.”

You stop and Peter does too. His expression changes almost immediately as he realizes what he said.

Then his eyes widen slightly. “I didn't mean-”

“You're walking me home.”

“What? No.”

The answer comes much too quickly. Your heart gives a stupid little flutter.

“Peter.”

“I told you, May needs-”

“Lightbulbs. From her favorite lightbulb store.”

“It's not a lightbulb store.”

“Right. Sorry. Her favorite miscellaneous house-stuff store.”

Peter stares at you. His ears are beginning to turn pink. And because you suddenly realize yours probably aren't doing much better, you decide to rescue both of you.

“Well,” you say lightly, starting toward the station again, “good thing it's in my direction.”

There's a tiny pause before Peter catches up. “Yeah.”

By the time you reach the subway, you've moved on to arguing about whether Ned will milk his doctor's appointment for sympathy tomorrow, and somewhere between Peter insisting that Ned is absolutely going to claim he almost died and you pointing out that he hasn't even had the appointment yet, Peter reaches out automatically to catch the strap of your backpack before the closing train doors can snag it.

You barely think about it. You barely think about how he stays beside you for the entire ride, either, despite the fact that every stop carries him further out of his way.

And when you finally emerge onto the street a few blocks from your building, Peter keeps walking with you.

You don't ask about the lightbulbs again.

𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌

By the time you reach school that morning, you've already listened to Ned complain about his upcoming history test for most of the train ride and Peter complain about Ned complaining for the several blocks since meeting up with him.

It is a remarkably ordinary start to the day.

The three of you get swept through the front doors with everyone else and gradually make your way toward the lockers, where Ned immediately starts searching through his bag for something he apparently forgot existed until this exact moment. You stop at your own locker a few doors down while Peter lingers between you both, continuing a conversation that has long since moved away from Ned's history test and onto something you aren't paying enough attention to follow.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket while you're exchanging one book for another.

Jenny: where are youuu

Me: lockers. coming soon

Jenny: hurry claire has news

You tuck your phone away and close your locker. “Apparently Claire has news important enough that I'm being summoned.”

Ned, still elbow-deep in his backpack, barely acknowledges you. Peter gives you a sympathetic look instead.

“Sounds serious.”

“Could be life or death.”

“Good luck.”

“Thank you. Tell my grandma I loved her if I don't make it.”

Peter smiles as you adjust your bag, and you're just about to leave when someone calls your name from further down the hallway. You recognize Jenny's voice immediately.

For a moment, you assume she simply got tired of waiting for you. That's exactly the kind of thing she'd do, especially when she has gossip she's impatient to talk about, and you turn toward her without thinking much of it.

Then Jenny's eyes move past you to where Peter is standing beside your locker.

Her gaze rests on him for only a moment before returning to you, but something in your stomach sinks anyway.

“There you are,” Jenny says as she reaches you, slipping an arm comfortably through yours. “You were taking forever.”

“I literally just texted you.”

“I know, but Claire refuses to tell me the rest until you're there.”

Jenny smiles, squeezing your arm, and you almost manage to convince yourself that is genuinely why she came looking for you.

Then she glances at Peter again.

You know that look. You wish you didn't.

It isn't anything another person would notice. Jenny isn't staring at him or batting her eyelashes or doing anything obvious enough that you could reasonably be annoyed about it. She merely seems suddenly aware of him in a way she never was before.

Two days ago, she'd called him cute. Apparently, she hadn't forgotten.

“Oh, hey,” she says, as though only now remembering that the boys standing around you are actual people. “Peter. Ned.”

Ned gives her a distracted greeting without looking up from his bag. Peter, naturally, smiles.

“Hey.”

Jenny smiles back. You feel ridiculous for how quickly it bothers you.

Peter isn't yours. Jenny doesn't know you like him, and even if she did, you're not entirely sure you'd have any right to be upset with her for thinking he's attractive too. You've done absolutely nothing about your crush except keep it carefully buried and occasionally stare at Peter for a little too long when he isn't paying attention.

Still, you've seen this before.

You remember lying beside Jenny at a sleepover in eighth grade and admitting that you thought Daniel Cho was cute, only for her to spend the next week finding increasingly flimsy excuses to talk to him. There had been another boy freshman year, and then someone at a party last semester. Nothing had ever come from any of it, mostly because your own interest tended to disappear eventually, but the pattern had happened often enough that you'd stopped telling Jenny about your crushes altogether.

You had been particularly careful about Peter. Apparently, it hadn't mattered.

“So, Peter,” Jenny begins casually, “you guys do academic decathlon, right?”

Your attention snaps back toward her.

Peter seems mildly surprised by the question. “Yeah. Me and Ned.”

“I thought so. You went to Washington last year, didn't you?”

“Yeah.”

“I remember seeing pictures or something.” Jenny leans a little closer against your side as she looks at him. “You guys won, right?”

You stare at her. Last year, you'd told Jenny you were spending a Saturday watching some friends compete, and she'd asked why anyone would voluntarily sit around watching people answer questions for hours.

She catches your expression. “What?”

“Nothing.” Your answer comes a little too quickly. 

Jenny's eyebrows rise, but Peter starts explaining before she can question you, telling her that Washington had been nationals and that Midtown's team had won. He brushes off her compliment almost immediately, giving most of the credit to the rest of the team in that painfully Peter way of his. You think he should give himself more credit, especially because that was the one he actually managed to show up to, not like the one in Sophomore year.

“He's being modest,” you say before you can help yourself. Peter glances toward you. “You answered the final question.”

“It was a team competition.”

“And your answer broke the tie.”

“Because everyone else got us to the tie in the first place.”

You roll your eyes, although a reluctant smile tugs at your mouth. “Fine. You're all very impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

It isn't until Jenny gives a quiet laugh beside you that you remember why the conversation started in the first place.

“You're really protective of them,” she says.

You turn toward her. “I'm not protective.”

“You are a little.” There isn't anything malicious in the way she says it. If anything, Jenny sounds fondly amused as she gives your arm another squeeze. “It's cute.”

You feel warmth beginning to creep into your face and immediately look away, hoping she interprets it as annoyance rather than anything else.

You don't dare check Peter's reaction.

Fortunately, the warning bell rings before Jenny can continue teasing you.

Ned finally emerges from his bag with whatever he'd been searching for, and Peter reaches for the strap of his backpack as students begin moving more urgently around you.

“I'll see you guys later,” you say.

Ned nods, already starting toward his first class, while Peter hangs back just long enough to give you a small smile.

“See you.”

“Bye.”

Jenny echoes the goodbye beside you before tugging you in the opposite direction.

For several steps, she talks about Claire and whatever apparently earth-shattering development you've been summoned to hear, but you notice almost immediately that her attention isn't entirely on the conversation.

Jenny glances over her shoulder. You don't need to follow her gaze to know who she's looking at, but you do anyway.

Peter is still near the lockers, apparently having been stopped by Ned again, his head bent as he listens to whatever Ned is showing him on his phone.

Jenny turns forward. Your stomach twists.

“So,” she continues brightly, as though nothing happened, “Claire apparently found out why Josh broke up with Amanda, but she won't tell me until you're there because she says she's only explaining it once.”

You manage a distracted laugh. “Sounds fair.”

“I told her she's being dramatic.”

“She is a little.”

“Thank you!”

Jenny gasps and squeezes your arm against her side, launching immediately into an offended argument that normally would have made you laugh.

You do laugh, eventually. It isn't as though Jenny has done anything wrong.

She came looking for you because you were taking too long. She said hello to your friends. She asked Peter a few questions. That's all.

If you said anything now, she'd probably look at you like you'd lost your mind. Maybe you have.

Except you know Jenny well enough to recognize the little things most people wouldn't. You know the difference between her being friendly and her deciding she wants someone to notice her. You've watched her do this too many times not to recognize the beginning of it.

Usually, you let it happen.

It has always been easier than admitting you care, and eventually whatever stupid little crush you'd developed disappeared anyway.

But Peter isn't some boy from English class whose last name you barely know. He's someone who has been woven into your life for years, someone you see almost every day and miss when you don't. You know what cereal he picks around when Ned's grandma buys the variety packs, which movies make him cry no matter how many times he denies it, and exactly what expression he'll make when you've said something he thinks is completely ridiculous.

You don't just think Peter Parker is cute. Unfortunately, you really, genuinely like him.

And as Jenny keeps talking beside you, you find yourself wishing she had gone on thinking he was nothing more than one of those nerdy boys she never bothered to notice.

𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌

By Friday afternoon the following week, you've almost managed to convince yourself that whatever interest Jenny had developed in Peter was fleeting.

She hasn't mentioned him since that morning by the lockers, nor has she found another reason to wander over while you're talking to him and Ned at school. You're relieved by that in a way you don't particularly want to examine, because spending this much time worrying about whether your best friend thinks Peter Parker is cute makes you feel embarrassingly territorial over a boy who is very much not yours.

So when Jenny brings up the party at lunch, at first, you don't think Peter has anything to do with it.

“You're coming tonight, right?” she asks, stealing one of the fries from your tray.

You look up from your phone. “Coming where?”

Jenny pauses long enough to stare at you incredulously. “Brandon's party? Please tell me you remember me talking about this.”

You don't, although considering how many people Jenny talks about on a daily basis, there's a decent chance Brandon and his party disappeared somewhere between your ears before you ever committed either to memory.

“Sorry.” You offer her an apologetic smile. “I can't tonight anyway. I've already got plans.”

“With who?”

“Peter and Ned. We're doing movie night.”

Jenny's expression changes.

It isn't dramatic. If you hadn't spent the last few days paying considerably more attention to her reactions to Peter than you should, you probably wouldn't notice the sudden little spark of interest at all.

“Oh.” She takes another fry, apparently without noticing that she's doing it. “Well, can't you guys do that tomorrow?”

“Maybe, but we've had this planned all week.”

More importantly, you don't particularly want to change it. You've been looking forward to spending the evening at Ned's apartment, where his Lola will inevitably make far too much food and complain that none of you eat enough while continuing to put more on your plates. You've already bought snacks, Peter finally won the argument over who gets to pick the movie, and after a week of school, the idea of spending Friday night in comfortable clothes with two of your favourite people sounds considerably better than squeezing yourself into somebody's crowded house.

Jenny's face falls anyway. “Come on. I want you there.”

The guilt is embarrassingly immediate.

You know Jenny isn't trying to make you feel bad. At least, you don't think she is. She simply has a way of saying things that makes refusing her feel like a much bigger deal than it should, especially when she reaches across the table and catches your hand the way she does now.

“You've barely gone anywhere with us lately,” she complains, rubbing her thumb over your knuckles. “And before you say anything, getting food last weekend doesn't count because you went home early.”

“I didn't even leave that early.”

“You left before ten.”

“My grandma wanted me home.”

“Exactly. So make it up to me tonight.”

You laugh softly, although you're already beginning to feel your resolve slipping. “I can't just cancel on them.”

Jenny considers that for barely a second before brightening. “Then don't. Bring them.”

You look at her. “Peter and Ned?”

“Obviously.”

The answer comes much too readily.

You lower your eyes toward your lunch, nudging one of your remaining fries through the ketchup while you try not to let the realization irritate you. Jenny could simply be offering a reasonable solution. She knows now that the boys are your friends, and if she's inviting you somewhere, inviting them as well isn't exactly suspicious behavior.

Except Jenny has never cared whether Peter or Ned came anywhere before. A week ago, you aren't sure she would have recognized either of them outside school.

“I don't know if they'd want to,” you say eventually. “Parties aren't really Peter's thing.”

“Ned's?”

You snort. “Ned would go to the opening of an envelope if he thought there were pretty girls there.”

Jenny laughs, but she doesn't abandon the idea. Instead, she squeezes your hand again and gives you that hopeful look you've never been particularly good at resisting.

“Just ask them. If they say no, they say no. But if they come, you still get to hang out with them and I get to have my best friend at the party. Everybody wins.”

You know perfectly well that you could still refuse. You also know you probably won't.

“Fine,” you relent with a sigh. “I'll ask. But I'm not promising anything.”

Jenny beams at you and immediately leans across the table to press a quick kiss against your cheek. “You're the best.”

You laugh and push her away, complaining about the grease she's probably just smeared across your face, and Jenny moves on to telling you what she's planning to wear tonight as though the matter has already been settled.

You try to listen. Mostly, though, you find yourself thinking about how much easier it would have been if you'd simply said no.

You wait until school is over to ask.

Ned's reaction is predictable enough that you barely finish explaining before his attention perks up at the word party. The three of you have only just left the building, joining the crowd heading away from Midtown, and he turns toward you with an enthusiasm that makes you immediately regret mentioning it.

“So instead of sitting in my apartment watching Peter's terrible movie choice, we could go to an actual party?”

“My movie choice isn't terrible,” Peter protests from your other side, though he doesn't sound particularly invested in defending it.

You glance at Ned. “Jenny invited me. I told her we already had plans, and she said I should ask if you guys wanted to come too. We don't have to.”

Ned, apparently, has already decided that you very much do.

He reaches up to adjust the brim of the baseball cap he's been wearing since this morning, one he made sure both you and Peter noticed before first period. According to Ned, the hat makes him look cool and approachable. According to Peter, it makes him look like Ned wearing a hat. You had wisely declined to become involved.

Now Ned looks positively delighted by the opportunity to test his theory on a wider audience.

“I've got the new hat, too. This is perfect.”

You and Peter share a look. Neither of you needs to say anything about the hat.

Ned notices anyway. “You two can keep laughing, but when this thing impresses all the ladies tonight, I don't want to hear anything.”

“I'm not laughing,” you assure him, which would be considerably more convincing if you weren't struggling to keep your mouth straight.

Ned gives you an offended look before announcing that he's happy with either plan, although the amount of enthusiasm he's currently displaying makes his preference obvious. Movie night can happen tomorrow as far as he's concerned. Apparently, Peter's carefully selected film has been thoroughly defeated by the possibility of girls appreciating his new hat.

Peter is a different matter. You knew he would be.

He has gone noticeably quiet beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket as the three of you walk toward the station. Peter doesn't exactly hate parties, but you've known him long enough to recognize the difference between things he genuinely enjoys and things he endures because everyone else is enjoying them. Crowded houses filled with people he barely knows tend to fall firmly into the second category.

You almost tell them to forget the whole thing.

Then Peter looks at you. “Do you want to go?”

The question catches you off guard. “What?”

“To the party.” His expression is thoughtful rather than reluctant now, like your answer is genuinely the deciding factor. “Do you want to?”

You should say no.

You'd much rather spend tonight sprawled across Ned's living-room floor, eating whatever his Lola puts in front of you and complaining about Peter's movie until he threatens to make you leave. You don't know Brandon particularly well, and the prospect of spending several hours following Jenny around a crowded house while pretending you're having more fun than you are doesn't hold much appeal.

But Jenny had looked so disappointed. And she really wanted you there.

You shrug, hoping the movement looks more casual than you feel. “I don't mind going. It could be fun. I just didn't want to ditch you guys when we already had plans.”

Peter watches you for a moment longer than necessary. You have the uncomfortable feeling that he doesn't believe you.

He's known you too long for that.

You can still remember being eleven and insisting you absolutely wanted to go on some enormous roller coaster with Ned, only for Peter to quietly point out that you'd been staring at it like you were awaiting execution. He'd stayed behind with you when you backed out, despite the fact that he'd wanted to ride it himself, and neither of you had ever told Ned that Peter only claimed to feel sick so you wouldn't have to admit you were scared.

His expression now reminds you uncomfortably of that day. Still, he doesn't call you on it.

“Okay,” Peter says finally, a small smile appearing. “Then let's go.”

You blink. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“You know you don't have to, right? Ned and I can go. We can still do the movie tomorrow.”

“I know.” Peter nudges his shoulder lightly against yours as you walk. “It'll be fine.”

You study his face, searching for some sign that he's secretly enthusiastic about spending his Friday night surrounded by loud classmates and finding none whatsoever.

That makes something warm settle inside your chest. You don't let yourself give it a name.

“Okay,” you agree. “Party it is.”

Several steps ahead, Ned turns around and begins walking backward, one hand resting proudly on the brim of his new hat.

“This is going to be the best night of our lives.”

Neither you nor Peter look remotely convinced.

You smile anyway. You hadn't really wanted to go tonight, and you're fairly certain Peter hadn't either. Somehow, knowing he's coming makes you dread it considerably less.

𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌

You know the party was a mistake about seven minutes after walking through the door.

It isn't even a particularly bad party.

Brandon's house is nice, if currently packed with far more teenagers than any reasonable parent would willingly allow inside it, and somebody has pushed most of the furniture against the walls to make room. Music thumps loudly enough from somewhere in the living room that you can feel the bass through the soles of your shoes, the kitchen counters are covered in bottles and red plastic cups, and every few minutes somebody you vaguely recognize from school squeezes past you on their way somewhere else.

Ned disappears almost immediately.

You don't worry about him. The last glimpse you catch is of his new hat bobbing determinedly through the crowd toward a group of girls from another grade, and if nothing else, you admire his confidence.

Peter, on the other hand, remains close enough that his shoulder brushes yours whenever somebody forces the two of you out of their way.

Jenny seems delighted by this arrangement.

For the first twenty minutes, she makes a concerted effort to include Peter in practically every conversation she starts. She asks him about his classes, laughs a little too brightly when he says something funny, and somehow manages to bring up the decathlon competition again even though you can't imagine what else she could possibly want to know about it.

Peter answers because Peter is polite. Then, almost inevitably, his attention wanders back toward you.

He catches your eye when Jenny introduces you both to someone whose name you forget immediately, making a face when the guy launches into a story that has apparently been going on since before you arrived. When someone hands Peter a drink, he smells it suspiciously before passing it to you to inspect, and the two of you decide neither of you trusts whatever is floating near the bottom. When Ned eventually reappears looking considerably less triumphant than when he left, Peter immediately shifts over to make room for him.

Jenny keeps pulling you away. At first, you don't really notice.

She wants to introduce you to someone in the kitchen, then she needs you to come upstairs because Claire is apparently having some sort of crisis involving her eyeliner, then somebody starts taking pictures and Jenny catches your wrist before you can escape the frame. Every time you settle somewhere, it seems like only a few minutes pass before she's saying your name again and tugging you toward something else.

You go because you always go. Peter notices because, apparently, Peter notices everything.

The third time you make it back to him, he's leaning against the kitchen counter beside Ned, who has finally stopped adjusting his hat every thirty seconds.

“You okay?” Peter asks quietly.

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

He glances toward Jenny, currently several feet away talking to Claire, before looking back at you. “Nothing. You just keep getting dragged everywhere.”

A laugh slips out of you. “That’s just how it goes.”

Peter's eyebrows draw together slightly, as though that doesn't explain nearly as much as you think it does.

Before he can say anything else, Jenny appears at your side and slips an arm around your waist.

“There you are. Come on, Claire wants-”

“Actually,” you interrupt, “I think I'm gonna stay here for a little bit.”

The words feel strangely bold considering how completely unremarkable they are.

Jenny pauses. Then she puts on a sweet smile. “Fine. Don't disappear.”

“I'll try.”

She squeezes your waist before leaving again, and when you look back at Peter, he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

Eventually Ned spots somebody he knows and wanders off again, leaving you and Peter alone near the kitchen until the sheer volume of everyone around you becomes too much. Neither of you really has to suggest leaving. You exchange one look when a group of people begins shouting over the music beside you, and a few minutes later you've migrated toward the back of the house.

The hallway near the laundry room is dimmer and, more importantly, almost empty.

You lean back against the wall with a relieved sigh. “Oh, thank God.”

Peter laughs quietly as he settles beside you. “Having fun?”

“So much.”

“I can tell.”

“You're one to talk. You've been holding the same cup for forty minutes.”

Peter looks down at it as though he'd forgotten it was there. “I don't know where to put it.”

That makes you laugh harder than it probably deserves. For the first time since arriving, you actually relax.

The music is muffled back here, reduced to a dull pulse through the walls, and without Jenny constantly pulling you toward somebody or something, the party begins to feel almost tolerable. Peter stands close beside you, his arm occasionally brushing yours, and the two of you fall into the easy sort of conversation that requires very little effort.

This is what you'd wanted tonight to be in the first place.

Not the party, obviously.

Just Peter and Ned. Somewhere comfortable. No strangers yelling over music, no pressure to circulate around a room full of people you barely know, no wondering whether you're standing awkwardly or talking enough or being boring.

You glance sideways at Peter and he catches you looking.

Before he can say anything, Jenny appears at the end of the hallway and points accusingly at you. “I've been looking everywhere.”

“Oh, yeah. You told me not to disappear. I failed, sorry.”

“Clearly.” She reaches you and catches both of your hands before you can ask what she wants. “Come on.”

You immediately plant your feet. “Where?”

“We're playing spin the bottle.”

You stare at her. “Jenny, how old are we?”

She just laughs and pulls harder. For nearly three seconds, you consider simply refusing. Then Jenny gives you an exaggeratedly pleading look, and the familiar guilt creeps in before you can stop it.

“Please? Everyone's playing.”

“I really don't want to.”

“You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. Just come sit with us, at least.”

You look toward Peter as though he might somehow rescue you. He looks about as enthusiastic as you feel.

“Fine,” you sigh. “But if somebody suggests seven minutes in heaven, I'm calling the police.”

Jenny laughs triumphantly and starts pulling you away. You glance back at Peter and he hesitates.

“You don't have to come,” you tell him.

His gaze moves from Jenny's hand around yours to your face. Then he pushes away from the wall.

“It's okay. I'll come.”

The game is somehow even worse than you expected.

You're crowded into a loose circle on the living-room floor with more than a dozen other people, some you know and several you don't. Peter sits a few places away beside Ned, who appears perfectly happy to participate despite the increasingly apparent failure of his hat to attract the female attention he'd been promised by his own imagination.

You spend most of the first few rounds hoping nobody spins you. Eventually, somebody does.

The bottle slows with agonizing deliberateness before pointing toward you, and a boy you recognize vaguely from one of your classes looks from it to you with a grin.

“Oh, come on,” you mutter.

Everyone laughs.

The boy gets up and crosses the circle while you remain stubbornly seated. You don't dislike him. You barely know him, which somehow makes this worse.

He crouches in front of you, looking almost as awkward as you feel, and you decide immediately that neither of you deserves whatever performance everyone around you seems to be expecting.

You lean forward and kiss his cheek. A chorus of complaints erupts around the circle.

You sit back. “There. Done.”

“That doesn't count,” Jenny protests from beside you. “You're supposed to kiss him.”

“I did.”

“On the mouth.”

The boy laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It's fine.”

“See?” You gesture toward him. 

Jenny groans your name. “Oh my God, you're such a baby sometimes.”

Normally, that would probably be enough. Normally, you'd laugh because everyone else is laughing, lean forward again, and do whatever was expected just so nobody could accuse you of being difficult.

Tonight, you don't. Maybe it's because Peter is sitting across the circle.

Maybe it's because you've spent the entire evening being moved from one place to another whenever Jenny decided you should be somewhere else.

Maybe you simply don't want to kiss some random boy.

Whatever the reason, you shrug. “Then I'm a baby, I guess.”

Jenny blinks as you smile sweetly at her.

“I'm not kissing him.”

For a moment, something almost like annoyance flashes across her face. Then she laughs and throws her hands up. “Fine. Whatever.”

The bottle gets passed on.

You don't look at Peter immediately. When you finally do, he's already looking at you.

There is something quietly approving in his expression that makes your stomach flutter, and you look away before you can embarrass yourself.

Several turns later, Jenny gets the bottle and you know before she even spins it that something is going to happen.

That's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

There is no possible way she could control where an empty glass bottle lands, and you feel stupid for the unease crawling beneath your skin as she gives it an enthusiastic spin.

It circles once. Twice. Slows. And finally stops, pointing towards Peter.

Your stomach drops so quickly it almost hurts.

Everyone reacts at once, somebody whistling while another person laughs, and Jenny covers her mouth with one hand in exaggerated surprise.

Peter looks like he would rather be anywhere else.

You stare at the bottle. It's random. Jenny couldn't have done that deliberately. You're being insane for even considering it.

“Well?” someone prompts.

Jenny grins and moves across the circle. Peter glances toward you. It's so quick you might have imagined it.

Then he looks back at Jenny and shifts awkwardly where he's sitting. You know exactly what he's going to do before he does it. You'd established the rule, unintentionally or otherwise.

Cheek counts.

Peter leans forward with his head already turned slightly to one side, making his intentions obvious enough that even through the uncomfortable knot twisting in your stomach, you feel a tiny flicker of relief.

Then Jenny moves.

You're not entirely sure how it happens. One second Peter is clearly aiming for her cheek, following the precedent you'd set only a few turns earlier, and the next Jenny turns her head just enough that his mouth lands directly against hers instead.

The room erupts around them. Someone whistles from somewhere behind you, a couple of people cheer, and you think you hear Ned make a startled noise over the music, but it all seems strangely distant beneath the sudden rushing in your ears.

Peter pulls back almost immediately.

The surprise on his face is obvious enough that, under any other circumstances, you might have laughed. His eyes are wide, his shoulders stiff, and for a second he simply stares at Jenny as though he isn't entirely sure what just happened. Jenny only laughs as she settles back into her place, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with a smile that could just as easily be embarrassment as satisfaction.

You stare at her and she catches your eye.

“What?” she asks, still smiling.

“Nothing.”

Your answer comes quickly enough that Jenny gives you a curious look, but somebody has already reached for the bottle again and the attention of the circle moves on before she can ask anything else.

You lower your gaze to your hands. It was an accident, it had to be.

You know what you saw, though. Peter hadn't changed direction, Jenny had. You'd watched her turn her face toward him at the last possible second, and the fact that she'd done it immediately after teasing you for refusing to properly kiss somebody leaves an unpleasant feeling lodged beneath your ribs.

Except even thinking that makes you feel ridiculous.

What exactly are you accusing her of? Sabotaging a game of spin the bottle? Somehow manipulating a piece of glass into landing on the one boy you happen to have feelings for, despite the fact you haven’t even told her you have them?

The bottle landing on Peter had been random. It couldn't possibly have been anything else.

The kiss, you don't know.

Maybe Jenny thought Peter was going for her mouth and moved to meet him. Maybe you'd only interpreted his movement differently because you'd desperately wanted him to follow your example. Maybe you're so determined to see a pattern that you're turning an awkward half-second into something deliberate.

Whatever happened, Peter isn't yours.

You make it through another turn before the pressure behind your ribs becomes too uncomfortable to ignore.

“I'm gonna go to the bathroom,” you murmur to Jenny as you push yourself to your feet.

She looks up at you. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just drank too much.”

You gesture vaguely toward the cup you've barely touched all evening, hoping she doesn't notice, and apparently she doesn't because somebody calls her name and grabs her attention before she can question you further.

You step carefully over the legs of everyone crowded around the circle and make your way toward the hallway without looking at Peter.

You can feel him watching you anyway. Or maybe you only imagine that too.

The bathroom door locks behind you with a click that feels far more relieving than it should. For a while, you don't do anything except stand there.

The music downstairs is muffled by the floor and walls, leaving you with nothing but the low buzz of the bathroom fan and your own reflection staring back at you from above the sink. You look perfectly normal, which seems vaguely offensive considering the miserable little knot sitting in your stomach.

“This is so stupid,” you whisper to yourself.

Because it is. You're hiding in somebody's bathroom because your friend kissed a boy during spin the bottle.

Not your boyfriend. Not someone you've ever kissed yourself. Not even someone you've admitted you want to kiss.

Your friend kissed your friend. That's all.

You turn on the tap and run cold water over your hands before pressing damp fingers against your cheeks. They're warmer than you realized, and you leave them there for a few seconds while staring down into the sink.

You wish you hadn't come tonight.

You wish you'd stayed at Ned's apartment like you were supposed to, where right now Peter would probably be halfway through whatever movie he'd picked while you complained about it purely because irritating him makes the experience more entertaining. Ned's Lola would have brought food in at least twice by now, and Ned would inevitably have fallen asleep despite insisting he wasn't tired.

Instead, you're standing alone in a stranger's bathroom trying not to be upset about something you have absolutely no right to be upset about.

You stay until somebody knocks.

“Just a second!”

You dry your hands, check your face one more time, and force yourself to leave.

The game has mostly broken apart by the time you make it downstairs again, which is at least one small mercy. A few people are still sitting on the floor, but others have wandered away, and the music has been turned up enough that conversations are becoming increasingly difficult to maintain.

You spot Peter near the living room almost immediately. You turn toward the kitchen before he can spot you.

It isn't exactly a conscious decision. At least, that's what you tell yourself.

You find Claire near the counter and spend several minutes listening to her complain about someone spilling something on her sleeve. When Peter eventually appears near the kitchen doorway, you excuse yourself to get some air. You stay outside until the cold begins working its way through your jacket, then come back in through the side door and end up talking to two girls from biology whose names you know but have never voluntarily spoken to for longer than three minutes.

You know you're avoiding him and you know it's childish. But you can't seem to stop.

Jenny is for once easier to avoid because she keeps disappearing into the crowd on her own, although the one time you glimpse her across the room, laughing beside Claire, you immediately look somewhere else.

It isn't that you're angry with her. You don't think you are, anyway.

Mostly, you just don't trust yourself not to act strange, and the last thing you want is for Jenny to look at you for half a second too long and realize why.

You'd managed to keep your feelings for Peter to yourself this long. You aren't about to confess them because of a stupid bottle.

Eventually, you find Ned.

He's standing alone near the stairs with his phone in one hand and a distinctly unimpressed expression on his face, the baseball cap that had inspired so much confidence earlier still perched stubbornly on his head.

The sight of him makes some of the tension in your shoulders loosen for the first time since leaving the bathroom.

“Hey.”

Ned looks up and immediately pockets his phone. “Hey. Where've you been?”

“Everywhere, apparently.”

You settle against the wall beside him, grateful that he doesn't ask for a better answer. For a few seconds you both watch the party happening around you before you glance sideways at him.

He looks dejected.

Your mouth twitches. “How's the hat working out?”

Ned closes his eyes. “Don't.”

“Oh, no.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

You can't help laughing, although you immediately feel bad when he gives you a wounded look.

“Sorry. Sorry.” You reach up and straighten the brim, which has shifted slightly to one side. “For what it's worth, I actually think it looks good on you.”

“That's pity.”

“It's not pity. I would've told you if it looked bad.”

Ned eyes you suspiciously enough that you know he doesn't entirely believe you, so you study him with exaggerated seriousness before giving the brim another tiny adjustment.

“It makes you look older.”

That catches his attention. “Really?”

“A little. And kind of broody, actually.”

“Broody?”

“Yeah.” You nod as though you've reached a professional conclusion. “Like you've got a dark and mysterious past you're not ready to talk about.”

Ned's shoulders straighten almost imperceptibly.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Don't overdo it.”

“I'm not doing anything.”

“You're making a face now.”

“I'm being broody.”

“That's not something you actively do.”

Ned tries to relax his expression, which somehow makes it worse, and a laugh escapes you before you can stop it. He smiles too eventually, shaking his head, and you're surprised by how much better you feel for those few seconds.

Ned is easy.

There is nothing complicated hiding underneath your friendship with him, nothing you have to conceal or pretend doesn't hurt. You can stand beside him and tease him about his stupid hat without wondering whether your face is giving away something you aren't ready for anyone else to know.

The thought makes the exhaustion settle over you again. You glance toward the front door. “I think I'm gonna head home.”

Ned's smile fades. “Already?”

“Yeah. I'm not feeling that great.”

His concern appears immediately, making you feel slightly guilty. You don't feel particularly well, though, so maybe it isn't really a lie.

“Are you sick?”

“I don't think so. I just feel kind of off, and I'm tired.”

Ned studies your face for a second before nodding. “Okay. I'll go find Peter and we can-”

“No, don't.” He pauses. You realize how quickly you've said it and try to soften your voice. “You guys don't have to leave just because I am. It's still pretty early, and you were looking forward to this.”

“It's fine. Peter won't care.”

You know that. Peter would probably be relieved to leave.

That somehow makes you want him to stay even more, because if Ned goes looking for him, Peter will come over and ask if you're okay. He'll look at you with that worried little crease between his eyebrows, and you'll have to stand there pretending you haven't spent the last half hour avoiding him because seeing Jenny kiss him made you feel like someone reached inside your chest and squeezed.

You don't want to do that. More importantly, you don't want Peter wondering why.

“Seriously, Ned.” You manage a smile and nudge his arm with yours. “Stay. Have fun. You haven't even given the hat enough time to work its magic.”

Ned glances upward as though he can somehow see the hat from underneath it. “I think the hat has conclusively failed.”

“It hasn't failed. Maybe you're just targeting the wrong demographic.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don't know.” You reach up and straighten it one final time. “But it really does look good. You look a little older and broody and mysterious, remember? Someone other than me is bound to appreciate that.”

He looks slightly mollified, but his eyes remain on you. “You'll text me when you get home?”

“Of course.”

“And you're not walking from the station by yourself.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What do you suggest I do? Live there?”

“Call your grandma. Or get a cab.” Ned pauses, and something in his expression changes. “Actually, Peter could-”

“Ned.”

“Right. Sorry.”

You give him a suspicious look, but he only adjusts his hat again.

“I'll be fine. It's not even that late, and I'm not going to do anything stupid. I promise.”

He still doesn't seem entirely happy about it, but after a moment he relents. “Okay. But text me.”

“I will.”

“Immediately.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“And if you don't, I'm telling Lola.”

Your eyes narrow. “That's low.”

“But it works.”

Unfortunately, he's right.

You pull him into a quick hug before he can continue threatening you with the terrifying efficiency of your grandmothers' communication network. Ned hugs you back automatically, and for a moment you allow yourself to stay there, your cheek resting briefly against his shoulder while the party continues noisily around you.

“Have fun,” you tell him as you pull away.

“I'll try.”

You smile at him one last time before turning toward the door. Part of you expects Peter to appear before you can reach it. You don't know whether you're relieved or disappointed when he doesn't.

The cold air hits your face the moment you step outside, sharp enough to make you inhale, and you pull your jacket more tightly around yourself before starting down the sidewalk.

You don't look back at the house. If you did, you might change your mind.

And right now, going home feels like the first decision you've made all night that is entirely your own.

𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌

Avoiding Peter and Jenny for an entire weekend turns out to be surprisingly easy when you're willing to behave like a complete coward.

You don't feel particularly proud of yourself.

Peter texts you Saturday morning asking if you're feeling better, and you stare at the message long enough for your phone screen to go dark in your hand. When you finally answer several hours later, it's with a vague assurance that you're fine and had mostly been tired, followed immediately by an excuse about having homework to finish before he can suggest doing anything.

Jenny is harder.

She sends you pictures from the rest of the party, complains about the headache she wakes up with Saturday morning, and asks twice if you want to come over. You answer the harmless messages and carefully avoid the invitations until eventually even those stop coming.

Ned, thankfully, doesn't seem to suspect anything. You talk to him normally enough over text, which only makes you feel worse when Monday morning arrives and you deliberately take an earlier train without him.

‘Gotta talk to a teacher before class about that project’, you message while already sitting on the train.

The project excuse apparently satisfies him, or at least he doesn't question you further, and you spend the rest of the ride trying not to think about the fact that you have officially begun rearranging your commute to avoid one of your oldest friends because another girl kissed him.

You know it's childish, but knowing doesn't seem to make you any more eager to see Peter.

By the time you actually reach school, you've almost convinced yourself that getting there early might have been your best idea yet. You finish part of the homework you'd neglected over the weekend, spend some time in the library, and manage to avoid the entrance area until well after you know Peter and Ned will have arrived.

You make it until the break between second and third period before your luck runs out.

“There she is.”

You look up from your locker to find Claire, Mia, and Jenny making their way toward you through the hallway. Jenny brightens when she sees you and immediately slips an arm through yours once she's close enough, giving you an affectionate squeeze.

“Hi, stranger. You disappeared on Friday and then barely talked to me all weekend.”

“I talked to you.”

“You answered about every fifth message.”

“I had homework.”

Jenny gives you a deeply skeptical look, but Claire interrupts before she can interrogate you, apparently much more interested in discussing everything you'd missed after leaving Brandon's party. You close your locker and let them pull you along toward your next class while Claire launches into a complicated story involving Amanda crying upstairs, Brandon nearly catching someone throwing up in his parents' bathroom, and a lamp that may or may not have survived the night.

For several minutes, you're almost able to forget why you've been avoiding them.

Then Jenny glances at you. “You did leave pretty suddenly, though.”

You shrug. “I wasn't feeling well.”

“Right after spin the bottle.”

There is something in her voice that makes you look over. Jenny is smiling in a way much too familiar to you.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Her smile only grows, and before you can steer the conversation elsewhere, she leans a little closer. “You could've just told me you like Peter.”

You nearly stop walking. Claire turns toward you with such immediate interest that you wish you actually had. “What?”

Jenny laughs at your expression. “Come on. You weren't exactly subtle on Friday.”

“I don't like Peter.” Even to your own ears, the denial isn't particularly convincing.

“Sure.”

“I've known him since I was a kid.”

“That doesn't mean you can't have a crush on him.”

You open your mouth and then close it again, painfully aware that anything you say is only going to make this worse.

Apparently your silence is enough.

“Oh my God,” Claire says. “You actually do.”

“Can we please not do this in the middle of the hallway?”

Jenny laughs and squeezes your arm closer against her side. “Why are you embarrassed? Peter's cute.”

That is precisely the problem. You glance around instinctively, checking that nobody close enough to overhear happens to include Peter or Ned, before lowering your voice.

“I'm not embarrassed. I just don't want to talk about it.”

Jenny studies you for a moment, and you get the uncomfortable impression that your reaction is more interesting to her than the answer itself.

Then she gives you an innocent shrug. “Fine. I won't tease you.”

You know her well enough not to trust that promise for a second.

The four of you continue toward class, and Claire mercifully gets distracted when Mia asks something about the homework. You think you've escaped until Jenny speaks again, her tone so casual that it takes you a second to realize where she's going.

“You know Peter walked me home after the party, right?”

You look at her. “No.”

“Oh.” She sounds almost surprised. “I thought he would've told you.”

You aren't sure why Peter would have told you, and you don't give Jenny the satisfaction of asking. Instead, you manage a small, noncommittal, “Okay.”

“He offered after you left. I was going to get an Uber, but he said he didn't mind.” Jenny brushes her hair back over one shoulder as she talks, seemingly oblivious to the way your attention has fixed on her despite your best efforts. “We ended up talking the whole way. I didn't realize he was actually so easy to talk to once you get him going.”

“I've been saying he's nice for years.” The answer slips out more sharply than you intend and Jenny's eyebrows rise. You immediately look away. “Sorry. I just mean, yeah. He talks a lot once he's comfortable.”

“I noticed.” The little smile accompanying those two words makes your jaw tighten.

Jenny had figured you out.

That changes everything about the conversation, because now you can't pretend she doesn't know exactly what she's doing when she tells you Peter offered to walk her home, or when she emphasizes how much they talked afterward. Maybe she's simply teasing you because your reaction amuses her. 

Jenny has always liked getting a rise out of people. It doesn't make you enjoy being the target any more.

“So,” she continues after a moment, “I don't know. I think he’s into me.”

Claire immediately perks up. “Seriously?”

“Maybe.” Jenny gives a coy little shrug. “He was being really sweet.”

You stare straight ahead.

There are plenty of perfectly reasonable explanations for Peter walking her home, the most obvious being that he'd spent the entire week worrying about you after what happened near your apartment. If Jenny was leaving alone, of course Peter would offer. That's exactly the kind of thing he'd do.

But Jenny doesn't know that. She thinks he chose to walk her home because he wanted to spend more time with her, and judging by the pleased little smile on her face, she wants you to think so too.

“Well,” you say, because everyone seems to be waiting for you to contribute something, “maybe he does.”

Jenny looks at you. For just a second, she seems almost disappointed that you haven't given her more. Then her expression softens into something sweeter as she rests her head briefly against your shoulder.

“Aw. Don't look so sad.”

“I'm not sad.”

“You're a little sad.”

“I'm mostly regretting telling you anything.”

“You didn't tell me anything. I figured it out.”

You reach the classroom just as students begin filing inside, but before you can follow Claire and Mia through the door, Jenny catches your hand.

“Hey, I'm only teasing you. You know that, right?”

For a moment, she seems completely sincere. This is the Jenny who can make you feel stupid for ever being upset with her in the first place, warm and affectionate and looking at you as though your feelings genuinely matter to her.

“I know.”

“Good.” She smiles.  Then, almost as an afterthought, she adds, “Besides, it's not like Peter's your boyfriend.”

You have to force your gaze up to meet hers. “I know.”

“I know you know.” Jenny gives your hand a squeeze, and for a second you think she's going to leave it there. Instead, her expression shifts into something almost sympathetic. “I just don't want you getting all weird about this and then ending up hurt.”

Your eyebrows pull together. “Getting weird about what?”

“Peter.”

“I’m not getting weird about Peter.”

“Okay, but you obviously like him, and now you're upset because we kissed, even though it was literally a game.” Her tone is gentle enough that arguing with her somehow makes you feel childish before you've even tried. “I just think maybe you should be realistic about it.”

Something uncomfortable settles in your chest. “Realistic?”

Jenny hesitates, as though she's reluctant to say whatever comes next, which only makes you dread it more. “You and Peter have known each other forever, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And nothing's ever happened.” You don't answer. Jenny watches you for a moment before continuing. “I mean, if he liked you like that, don't you think he would've done something by now?”

The thought isn't exactly new.

You've wondered the same thing more times than you'd ever admit. Every time Peter throws an arm around your shoulders without thinking, every time you end up alone together and nothing happens, every time he mentions another girl in passing and you have to pretend it doesn't bother you, some version of that question eventually finds you.

Hearing Jenny say it is different.

“I don't know,” you mutter. “Maybe.”

“That's all I'm saying.”

She smiles like the matter is settled, but you can already tell she isn't finished.

“And you're not really...” Jenny trails off, searching for the right words. “I don't know. You're not usually the kind of girl guys go after.”

You stare at her and she is quick to squeeze your hand comfortingly.

“Not in a bad way.”

“I'm struggling to think of the good way.”

“Oh my God, that's not what I meant.” She laughs and catches your arm again when you instinctively shift away. “You know you're pretty. I'm not saying you're not pretty.”

That wasn't actually what you'd been thinking until she said it. Now, unfortunately, it is.

Jenny lowers her voice as more students move past you into the classroom. “You're just really quiet around people you don't know. You don't flirt, you don't really put yourself out there, and half the time when someone tries talking to you, you look like you want to escape.”

Mia, who has lingered nearby rather than following Claire inside, looks faintly uncomfortable. “Jen-”

“What? I'm not being mean.” Jenny glances at her before looking back at you. “She knows what I mean.”

You do. That's probably why it works.

Jenny isn't inventing anything. You are quieter around other people than you are with Peter and Ned. You've watched Jenny walk into rooms and somehow make herself the person everyone wants to talk to within minutes, while you usually need somebody you know beside you before you feel comfortable enough to say much at all. Jenny flirts effortlessly while you wouldn't know where to begin.

She doesn't have to call you unattractive. She only has to arrange things you already know about yourself in the right order.

“Peter's not exactly some huge flirt either,” Mia points out carefully.

“That's not what I'm saying.” Jenny's attention remains on you. “I'm just saying they've been friends for years. He looks at her the same way he looks at Ned. Like more in a brotherly way, you know?”

You flinch before you can stop yourself.

Her face immediately softens. “Babe.”

“It's fine.”

“No, now you think I'm being horrible.”

“I don't.” You aren't sure that's true.

Jenny reaches for your hand again, threading her fingers through yours. “I think you're gorgeous. You know that. And you're funny and sweet and all of that stuff. I'm just saying boys don't always notice those things when you're...” She pauses again. “You.”

A small, humorless laugh escapes you. “Wow. Thanks.”

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, you think you do.

Jenny is the girl boys notice when she enters a room. She's pretty and confident and knows exactly how to look at someone to make them feel like they've suddenly become the most interesting person there. You have spent years watching it happen from beside her.

You're the friend boys ask about homework.

The friend they talk to once they're comfortable because you listen and don't interrupt. The one who gets called cute occasionally and then gets to watch the same boy turn around when Jenny walks past, only to come back and ask you for her number.

Jenny squeezes your hand again. “I'm only saying this because I love you. I'd rather tell you than let you convince yourself something's going to happen with Peter and then feel awful if it doesn't.”

You swallow. “And you think something's going to happen with you?”

For the first time, Jenny looks slightly caught off guard. Then that little smile returns. 

“I don't know. Maybe.” She draws the words out, trying and failing to look indifferent. “He did walk me home.”

You say nothing.

“And after the kiss...” She gives a small shrug. “I just feel like there might be something there.”

Peter's startled face immediately flashes through your mind. You know he'd been aiming for her cheek. You're almost certain of it. But telling Jenny that would mean admitting how closely you'd been watching.

“And if there is,” she continues, “I don't want it to become some huge thing between us because you have a crush you never even told me about.”

You pull your hand gently from hers. “It won't.”

Jenny studies you. “Promise?”

“Yeah.” You adjust your bag higher onto your shoulder, grateful for something to do with your hands. “Peter can do whatever he wants.”

“So can I?”

You meet her eyes. There's a playfulness to the question, but something underneath it feels almost like a challenge.

You could tell her no.

For once, you could say that you like him, that this isn't Daniel Cho or some boy from a party whose name you'll forget in a week or two. You could tell her that Peter matters to you and that watching her deliberately flirt with him after figuring that out feels different.

Instead, you hear yourself say, “Obviously.”

“Good.” She leans in and hugs you, quick and tight, before pulling away as though the conversation hasn't left anything behind. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” The answer comes automatically.

Jenny finally follows Mia into the classroom, pausing at the door to tell you to hurry before the bell rings.

You remain where you are for another moment. You wish she hadn't said any of it.

Not because you believe everything Jenny says, but because she'd managed to find thoughts you'd already had and give them a voice that sounds considerably more convincing than your own.

Peter has known you since you were children. If he were going to like you, wouldn't he have by now?

And maybe Jenny is right about the rest of it too. Maybe you're simply easy to be friends with and difficult to see as anything else. The comfortable girl. The familiar one. The girl Peter can walk home and sit beside during movies and spend half his weekends with without ever once considering that she might be something more.

Jenny, meanwhile, had needed one party to get both his attention and a kiss.

“Hey!”

You recognize Peter's voice immediately.

You turn to find him coming toward you through the thinning hallway, moving quickly enough that he's forced to dodge around a couple of students. The relief that crosses his face when he finally reaches you would normally make something warm bloom inside your chest.

Today, Jenny's words get there first.

“There you are,” Peter says, slightly breathless. “I've been looking for you all morning.”

You manage a smile. “Hey, Pete.”

“Ned said you had to come in early.” His eyes move over your face, and almost immediately his expression changes. “Are you okay?”

Of course he notices something is wrong. Peter always notices.

For half a second, that threatens to undo every ugly little thing Jenny just planted in your head. Then you remember her words.

“I'm fine.”

Peter's eyebrows draw together. “You sure? Because you left Friday without saying anything, and then you barely answered me all weekend. I thought maybe-”

The warning bell rings and you have never been more grateful for it.

“I really am okay,” you interrupt, stepping backward toward the classroom. “I've just had a weird weekend. I'll see you later?”

Peter clearly wants to say more, but after a moment he nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

You give him another small smile and turn toward the classroom.

Jenny is already sitting inside. She glances up as you enter, her gaze moving briefly past you toward Peter in the hallway before returning to your face.

You sit down without looking back at her or Peter.

𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌

By Wednesday, avoiding Peter has become less of a decision and more of a habit.

Not completely, obviously. You still answer when he talks to you at school, still smile when he says something funny, still send him the occasional reply when ignoring a message altogether would be too obvious. You just keep everything a little shorter than usual.

On Monday, when he and Ned asked if you wanted to stop somewhere after school, you'd claimed you had homework.

On Tuesday, you'd blamed your grandmother for needing help with something at home.

Neither excuse had been particularly convincing, but neither of them had pushed.

Your current plan - if something this pathetic can reasonably be called a plan - is to give yourself enough distance that eventually the thought of Peter kissing Jenny stops feeling like somebody is driving something sharp between your ribs. Once that happens, you can go back to normal. You can listen to Peter talk about whatever he wants without wondering what he and Jenny talked about on the walk home, and you can sit beside him without remembering Jenny telling you that boys don't really look at you that way.

It'll pass eventually.

For now, Wednesday is easy because Wednesdays usually mean Peter disappears for his Stark internship after school anyway, which leaves you with Ned.

So by late afternoon, you and Ned are sprawled across your bedroom floor with homework abandoned between you and some movie playing quietly on your laptop, neither of you paying quite enough attention to follow the plot.

Ned has been staring at the same worksheet for long enough that you're fairly sure he's hoping the answers might eventually appear through sheer force of will.

“You know that's due tomorrow, right?” you ask without looking up from your notes.

“I know,” he mutters, sounding deeply offended by the concept of deadlines. “I'm thinking.”

You glance over and catch him watching the movie instead.

“Very academically, I can tell.”

That earns you a halfhearted glare, and you smile as you reach into the nearly empty bowl of popcorn between you.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rings somewhere beyond your room.

You barely register it. Your grandmother is home, and Lola drops by often enough that you automatically assume that's who it is, probably arriving with some flimsy excuse involving borrowed containers before settling in for an hour of gossip.

You hear your grandmother answering the door, followed by another voice. Your hand stills over the popcorn bowl.

A moment later, footsteps move down the hallway, and Peter appears in your doorway with his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Hey.”

For a second, you only stare at him. Peter's greeting falters under the weight of your expression, and your eyes move immediately toward Ned, who looks completely unconcerned.

“You invited him?”

“Yeah,” he says, as though there's absolutely nothing strange about this because, until very recently, there wouldn't have been. “He got done early.”

Peter shifts slightly in the doorway. “Mr. Stark didn't really need me today.”

“Oh.”

You hate how quickly disappointment flickers through you. Not because you don't want Peter there, that's the whole problem. If you genuinely wanted him gone, this would all be significantly easier.

Instead, you force a smile and move your notebooks aside to make room. “Okay. Come in.”

Peter hesitates for half a second before dropping his backpack beside Ned's and settling onto the floor. Within minutes, everything falls back into the shape it has taken hundreds of times before. Ned complains about his homework until Peter reluctantly helps, Peter reaches into the popcorn bowl without asking, and you move it farther away out of habit before realizing what you're doing.

For brief stretches of time, it almost feels normal.

Then Peter says something directly to you, and you find yourself answering too quickly before looking back at your notes.

Or he shifts closer to see something on your page and you move away under the excuse of needing a pen.

Or you catch him watching you with that quiet, slightly worried expression he's been wearing all week.

He doesn't bring it up immediately, though, and you're grateful enough that you almost convince yourself he won't.

Eventually the popcorn runs out, which causes Ned to declare that he's starving despite having eaten your grandma’s lasagna less than two hours ago.

“You’re one floor away from your own fully stocked kitchen,” you remind him as you stand and collect the empty bowl.

“Your grandma has better snacks.”

“Your Lola buys the exact same ones.”

“Not the good chips.”

You roll your eyes, but the routine is familiar enough that you don't actually mind. “Fine. I'll see what we have.”

You leave the boys behind and head toward the kitchen. Halfway there, you hear someone following. You already know who it is.

Peter waits until you're standing in front of the pantry before he says anything. “Did I do something?”

The question is so quiet it stops you completely. You keep your attention on the shelf in front of you. “What? No.”

“You've been acting weird with me.”

There is no accusation in his voice, only concern, which somehow makes the urge to deflect stronger. “I've just been busy.”

Peter doesn't answer right away. When you finally glance over, he's leaning against the counter with his arms loosely folded, watching you with an expression that makes it clear he doesn't believe you.

“You left the party without saying anything,” he says eventually. “Then you barely answered me all weekend, and you've had something going on every time me and Ned asked if you wanted to hang out.”

You pull down a bag of chips and place it on the counter, pretending to inspect the seal. “I told you, I've been busy.”

“And you took an earlier train Monday.” Peter waits another moment before adding, more carefully, “Was it because of Friday?”

Your stomach tightens immediately. You focus on opening the bag. “What about Friday?”

“The game.”

There is something tentative in the way he says it that makes you look at him despite trying not to. Peter suddenly looks nervous.

Not embarrassed in the way he gets when he's caught doing something stupid. Nervous in a way that feels strangely expectant, like he is waiting for your answer to mean something.

You don't know what to do with that. So, naturally, you panic.

“No.” Something in his face falls away so quickly that you almost think you imagined it. You keep talking before you can examine that too closely. “I mean, obviously not. Why would I care about what happened with Jenny?”

Peter blinks. “I didn't kiss her.”

Your eyes snap back towards him.

He rubs the back of his neck, already pink around the ears. “I mean, I wasn't trying to. I was going for her cheek.”

The confirmation lands somewhere warm and immediate inside you, which is exactly why you refuse to let yourself sit with it. “Okay.”

Peter's eyebrows draw together.

You turn back toward the pantry. “But even if you had, it's fine. You can do whatever you want.”

For a moment, the kitchen goes quiet. When Peter speaks again, he sounds completely confused. “What does that mean?”

“It means you don't have to explain anything to me.”

“I know.”

“And if you want to talk to Jenny or hang out with her or whatever, that's fine too.”

Peter stares at you. You can feel it without looking. “Why would I want to hang out with Jenny?”

Now it's your turn to look confused. “She said you walked her home.”

“I did.”

“And you guys talked the whole way.”

“Yeah?”

You shrug, trying desperately to make it look as though this conversation means nothing to you. “So maybe you like her.”

Peter's expression becomes almost comically baffled. “I don't.”

The answer comes so quickly that your heart gives an annoying little jolt.

Peter shifts against the counter, glancing away before adding, “I mean, she's nice, I guess, and I know she’s your friend. But I don't really know her.”

You study him for a second before looking down again. “Okay.”

He seems to be waiting for something more. You don't give him anything. Instead, you reach for another bag from the shelf and add it to the counter.

Peter exhales softly. “So that's not why you've been avoiding me?”

You hate how direct he is being. “I haven't been avoiding you.”

He gives you a look and you sigh.

“Fine. Maybe a little. But it's not because I care what you do with Jenny.” Peter's face changes again, though this time you can't quite read it. “I don't care what you do with other girls either,” you add, trying to make the whole thing sound smaller than it feels. “That's all I'm saying.”

Peter goes very still. There is a beat of silence long enough for you to realize how strange that sentence sounds.

“Other girls?” he repeats.

You immediately regret everything. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I really don't.”

You let out a frustrated breath, lowering your voice even though Ned is too far away to hear over the movie.

“I mean you're allowed to like people, Peter. You don't have to worry about whether I'm weird about it.”

His expression shifts into something quieter. “Right.”

You don't know why that one word bothers you.

Before either of you can say anything else, your phone buzzes against the counter. The sound is so perfectly timed that you grab it immediately.

A name flashes across the screen and Peter glances down at it without really meaning to.

“Who's Liam?”

You hesitate. “The guy from the party.”

Peter's eyes lift to yours.

You add, “The one from spin the bottle.”

Recognition comes quickly. “Oh.”

You look back at the message. Liam had come up to you at school the day before, awkward but friendly, and asked if you'd want to exchange numbers. You'd said yes mostly because you hadn't seen a reason not to and maybe a little because you felt like it would prove Jenny wrong, and since then he'd sent a few harmless messages.

Peter is still looking at your phone.

“Why?” Peter realizes how it sounded and quickly adds, “I mean, what does he want?”

You almost smile. “I don't know. He wants to hang out sometime.”

Peter's posture changes almost imperceptibly. “Oh.”

You glance at him. “What?”

“Nothing.” Something has closed off in his expression. “He asked for your number?”

“Yeah. Yesterday.”

Peter nods slowly, eyes dropping toward the bags on the counter. “Cool.”

The word sounds anything but. You watch him for a moment, confused by the sudden shift in mood, but Ned chooses that exact second to call from your room.

“Are you guys growing and harvesting the snacks yourself? Because there is no other reason it should be taking that long.”

Peter looks toward the hallway immediately. “We should probably go back.”

He grabs one of the bags before you can answer and leaves the kitchen first. You stand there for another second, staring after him, before following.

Peter doesn't stay much longer after that.

For the next half hour, he is quieter than he had been before following you into the kitchen. He still answers when Ned talks to him and occasionally comments on the movie, but whatever ease had started creeping back into the afternoon seems to have disappeared. You catch his eyes flicking toward your phone once when it buzzes again, only for him to look away before you can see whether he'd actually been trying to read the screen.

Eventually, he checks the time and reaches for his backpack. “I should probably get going.”

Ned looks away from the movie, clearly surprised. “Already? The movie’s almost finished.”

Peter glances toward the laptop, then gives a small shrug as he pulls the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “I've seen it before. And May's probably expecting me home soon anyway.”

You aren't sure you believe him. Then again, considering how many excuses you've invented over the past few days, you aren't exactly in a position to judge.

Peter says goodbye to your grandmother on his way out, and you follow him as far as the front door. There is a strange moment after he pulls on his jacket where neither of you seems quite sure how to leave things. Usually, Peter would make some comment about seeing you tomorrow, or you'd remind him about something he'd inevitably forget. Tonight he simply looks at you, still wearing that subdued expression he'd had since Liam's name appeared on your phone.

“See you tomorrow,” you offer eventually.

Peter nods, managing a small smile. “Yeah. See you.”

You watch him disappear down the hallway before closing the door. When you return to your room, Ned is exactly where you left him, except the movie has been paused.

You cross the room and drop heavily onto your bed, falling backward until you're staring at the ceiling. The mattress bounces beneath you, and you throw one arm over your face before Ned has the opportunity to see exactly how tired you suddenly feel.

For a few seconds, he's mercifully quiet. Then you hear him shift on the floor.

“So are we going to pretend whatever that was was normal?”

A groan escapes you. “I would really, really like to.”

Ned doesn't laugh the way you expect him to. He knows you too well for that, apparently, because when you lower your arm enough to look at him, he's watching you with considerably more concern than amusement.

“You've been weird with Peter all week,” he says, his voice gentler now. “He just spent the last half hour acting like somebody killed his dog, and you both keep looking at each other like you're trying to solve a hostage negotiation. You can't really blame me for noticing.”

When he puts it like that, the whole situation sounds even more pathetic.

You roll onto your side and pull one of your pillows against your chest. “It's complicated.”

“Okay.”

You wait for him to ask what that means. He doesn't.

Ned simply reaches forward to close one of his abandoned notebooks and settles back against the side of your desk, apparently prepared to wait until you decide whether you want to say anything else.

The silence stretches.

Normally, you appreciate that Ned doesn't need every quiet moment filled. Tonight, it gives your thoughts far too much room to wander, and before long you're hearing Jenny's voice again in the hallway on Monday.

You pick absently at a loose thread along the edge of your pillow. “Ned?”

He looks up immediately. “Yeah?”

The question feels considerably worse now that you actually have to say it aloud. For a moment, you consider changing your mind and asking him something completely unrelated, but you've spent the better part of two days trying to convince yourself that Jenny's words didn't get to you.

Apparently they did.

“Do you think...” You pause, hating how small your voice sounds. “Do you think I'm the kind of girl a guy could actually want? Or that I could at least be that, in the future?”

Whatever Ned had expected you to say, it clearly wasn't that. His entire expression changes. The lingering curiosity about you and Peter disappears immediately, replaced by something so serious that you almost wish you'd kept your mouth shut.

“What do you mean?”

You shrug against the pillow, already retreating. “Nothing. Forget it. It was stupid.”

“No, it wasn't.” Ned sits up properly now, turning toward you with an intensity that makes it impossible to pretend the question hadn't mattered. “And yes, obviously you can be. You already are.”

The certainty in his voice catches you off guard. You look down at the pillow instead of at him. “You kind of have to say that.”

“Why?”

“Because you're my friend.”

“That doesn't mean I'm legally required to lie to you.”

A tiny smile threatens despite everything, but Ned doesn't take the opportunity to turn it into a joke. His attention remains fixed on you, and when he speaks again, there's an edge of protectiveness beneath the concern.

“Who told you you're not?”

“No one.”

Ned narrows his eyes.  “Someone did.”

“No one literally said that.”

You know that expression. You've known it since you were small enough that lying to him involved hiding broken toys behind your back and insisting you had absolutely no idea what happened.

“Was it Jenny?”

You look away. Apparently, that's answer enough.

Ned lets out a disbelieving breath. “Seriously?”

“She didn't say I was ugly or anything.”

“I didn't ask if she called you ugly.”

“I know, but you're doing that thing where you get mad before you know what happened.”

“Because you're asking me whether a boy could ever want you after hanging out with her. I'm putting some things together.”

You hug the pillow a little tighter. There isn't much point pretending he hasn't.

“She was mostly teasing me. She just said I'm not really the type boys go for because I'm quiet and I don't flirt and I don't put myself out there. Which isn't exactly wrong.”

Ned's face scrunches as though you've just said something personally offensive. “That doesn't mean nobody wants you. It just means you're quiet.”

You give him a weak smile. “Very insightful.”

“I'm serious.” He shifts closer, resting his arms across his knees. “You're funny, you're smart, you're nice to people even when they're being annoying, and you actually listen when someone talks to you. You remember weird little things people told you six months ago that they don't even remember telling you. And you're really pretty, obviously, but I feel like that's not even what you're actually asking.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly, and you immediately blink toward the ceiling. Ned notices, and thankfully, he doesn't mention it.

Instead, he continues with the same simple certainty. “You don't have to act like Jenny for anybody to like you. And if some guy only notices girls who act like Jenny, then he's probably not a guy you'd want anyway.”

Something loosens inside your chest. “Thanks.”

“I'm still mad at her.”

“You don't need to be.”

“I can decide who I'm mad at.”

You almost tell him again that Jenny hadn't meant it like that, but the defense feels automatic now, and you're suddenly too tired to make it.

Ned watches you for another moment before something seems to occur to him. “This is about Peter, isn't it?”

You bury your face halfway into the pillow. “Can we not?”

“Oh.” There is far too much realization packed into that one sound.

“Ned.”

He doesn't tease you. That, more than anything, makes you peek at him again.

Ned is staring somewhere past you, his eyebrows slightly drawn together as though several previously unrelated pieces have just arranged themselves into something obvious.

Then his gaze snaps back to you. “You like Peter.”

You press your face completely into the pillow. When you finally speak again, your voice comes out muffled. “Unfortunately.”

Ned makes a strangled noise that might have become a laugh under different circumstances, but he manages to contain it.

You lift your head enough to glare at him. “Don't.”

“I'm not. I am being incredibly supportive right now.”

You stare at him until whatever amusement had threatened disappears again. When you sit up, you keep the pillow tucked against your stomach, suddenly finding the seam fascinating.

“I don't know when it happened,” you admit. “I didn't wake up one morning and decide to have a crush on Peter. He was just Peter, and then at some point...” You trail off, because there isn't really a better explanation. “He wasn't just Peter anymore.”

Ned's expression softens.

“I didn't tell anybody because I knew Jenny would do exactly what she's doing now. Every time I've ever told her I liked someone, she suddenly decides they're interesting too, and normally I don't care that much because it's just some guy I barely know.” Your fingers tighten slightly around the pillow. “But Peter isn't some random guy.”

You don't need to explain that part to Ned. Of all people, he understands.

“So when she kissed him and then told me he walked her home afterward, I just...” You exhale slowly. “I don't know. Maybe she likes him. Maybe he likes her. It's not like either of them needs my permission.”

Ned is watching you with an increasingly peculiar expression. You notice it halfway through your next sentence and stop.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You're doing a very obvious something.” His lips press together and you sit up straighter. “What?”

Ned looks like he's fighting an internal battle. For one alarming second, you wonder whether Peter has told him something. The possibility makes your pulse jump, but before you can ask, Ned shakes his head.

“No. I'm not getting involved.”

“Involved in what?”

“Nothing.”

“Ned.”

He rubs both hands over his face and groans into them before looking back at you. “You two are complete idiots.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You and Peter. Complete idiots.”

“That's very helpful.”

“I'm serious.”

“You literally just told me I'm smart.”

“Academically, sure. In this particular area? Hopeless.”

You grab the pillow and throw it at him. Ned catches it against his chest, finally laughing, and despite the knot still sitting in your stomach, you feel the corner of your mouth twitch.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” you ask.

“Nothing.” He tosses the pillow back onto the bed. “I'm not saying anything else.”

“Why not?”

“Because I've seen enough movies to know that I don’t want to get in the middle of this.”

You narrow your eyes. “Getting in the middle of what?”

Ned only shakes his head.

“Ned. You know something.”

“I know both of my best friends are idiots. That's all I'm saying.”

You stare at him suspiciously. He stares back with an expression of determined innocence that would be considerably more effective if you hadn't known him since infancy.

Eventually, though, you let it go. Not because you believe that’s all he knows, but because something about his reaction has managed to quiet the ugliest part of what Jenny said.

You still don't know what Peter thinks about you. You don't know what the strange look in the kitchen meant, or why Liam asking for your number seemed to put him in such a bad mood. You certainly aren't brave enough to turn any of those things into hope yet.

But Ned had looked genuinely offended by the idea that nobody could want you. For tonight, that's enough.

You slide off the bed and settle back onto the floor beside him, reaching for the laptop to unpause the movie.

Ned glances over. “You okay?”

You consider it before answering. “A little better.”

He nods, accepting that without asking for anything more, and reaches for the chips Peter had left behind.

You let your shoulder rest against his. The movie resumes where you paused it, and this time, neither of you talks for a while.

𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌

By Friday, you've discovered there is one significant downside to admitting your Peter problem to Ned.

He knows now.

You hadn't realized quite how much you relied on his obliviousness until it disappeared. He hasn't teased you about it - not really, anyway - but every time Peter talks to you, you're suddenly aware of Ned somewhere nearby, possessing information he absolutely did not possess a week ago. Occasionally you'll catch him looking between the two of you with an expression that makes you want to throw something at him, especially because you still don't know what he'd meant when he called both you and Peter complete idiots.

You haven't asked again. You're not sure you want to know.

Things with Peter have gotten marginally better since Wednesday, although that's mostly because neither of you has mentioned the conversation in your kitchen again. You aren't actively inventing excuses to escape him anymore, and he seems to have stopped asking whether something is wrong, but an awkwardness remains that hadn't been there before the party. It doesn't help that Peter has been quieter with you since Liam texted, because now you're stuck wondering whether you'd imagined the strange look on his face entirely.

By lunch on Friday, you're tired of thinking about all of them.

So when you walk into the cafeteria and spot Liam sitting with a few people you vaguely know, an empty seat beside him, you make your decision before you can overthink it.

He smiles when he notices you hovering nearby and immediately moves his backpack from the chair. “Hey. Sit.”

You do.

Liam is easy to talk to. Not in the way Peter and Ned are, where years of knowing each other have made silence just as comfortable as conversation, but because there isn't anything complicated underneath it. He doesn't know you've spent the last week avoiding one of your best friends because you're in love with him - or have a crush on him, because love is a word you are absolutely not prepared to examine - and he doesn't know that your other best friend apparently knows something you don't.

Liam just knows you from school and the party. It's nice.

For the first ten minutes, lunch is almost peaceful. He tells you about something that happened in his history class and does a surprisingly good impression of his teacher, while you complain about an assignment you've been putting off. Somewhere along the way, he discovers you like chocolate-chip cookies and he doesn't, which is a personality flaw you're willing to overlook when it results in his cookie being pushed across the table toward you.

You are halfway through eating it when his attention moves over your shoulder.

“Do your friends always travel in a group?”

You don't even have to turn around. “Please tell me they're not coming over here.”

Liam's mouth twitches. “They're definitely coming over here.”

You sigh and look.

Jenny is leading the group toward you, with Claire and Mia following several steps behind and Ned bringing up the rear. Peter is there too, though judging by the way Jenny has both hands wrapped around one of his arms and is practically steering him across the cafeteria, you're not entirely convinced he'd chosen the destination himself.

His eyes find you before they reach the table. Then they move to Liam.

Peter's expression doesn't change dramatically, but his steps slow enough that Jenny has to tug on his arm to keep him moving.

“There you are,” she announces when they finally reach you. “We were looking everywhere.”

“I've been here the whole time.”

Jenny glances at Liam. “Apparently.”

You know that tone well enough to recognize the question hidden inside it, but you don't bother answering.

The others begin finding places around the table. Claire and Mia claim two empty seats opposite you, Ned steals a chair from the table behind him, and Peter reaches for another just as Jenny drops into the final available one.

Peter pauses. You watch his eyes move from the occupied chair to Jenny and then around the table, apparently searching for another option.

Jenny notices too. “You can sit here.”

She shifts slightly to one side. There is nowhere near enough room.

Peter looks at the three inches of chair she's offering him before giving an awkward little laugh. “I think I'll just grab another one.”

“Oh, come on. There's room.”

“There really isn't.”

Jenny catches his wrist when he starts to turn away and tries to pull him back toward her, shifting again as though she's decided that if Peter can't sit beside her, perhaps partially on her is an acceptable compromise.

The discomfort on Peter's face is immediate.

You aren't the only one who notices. Liam glances at you with raised eyebrows, and you have to press your lips together to stop yourself from laughing when Peter carefully extracts his wrist from Jenny's hand.

“I'll get a chair.” This time, he escapes before she can stop him.

A few seconds later he's wedged himself between Ned and the end of the table, safely out of Jenny's immediate reach. His eyes meet yours briefly, and there is something almost pleading in them that threatens to make you smile.

You look down at your lunch instead.

Jenny doesn't stay discouraged for long. Conversation picks up around the table, with Claire talking about weekend plans while Jenny keeps finding reasons to draw Peter into whatever is being discussed. Peter answers when spoken to, but his attention repeatedly drifts elsewhere. Toward Ned, occasionally toward Mia or Claire, and often enough toward you that you become increasingly aware of it.

You try not to return the favor and keep your eyes on the food in front of you. It works until Mia suddenly looks across the table at Ned.

“Where's your hat?” 

Ned stops eating and you turn slowly toward him. He looks genuinely confused. “My hat?”

“The one you wore to the party.” Mia gestures vaguely toward his head as though reminding him where hats generally go. “I liked it.”

Ned goes very still. You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Oh.” He sets his food down, attempting an impressive level of casualness for someone whose entire week has just been made. “That one.”

Mia smiles. “Yeah. It looked really good on you.”

Ned's eyes immediately find yours. There is no need for either of you to say anything. His eyebrows lift just slightly, and you widen your eyes in response before giving him the smallest nod.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Mia, thankfully, is looking down at her lunch and misses the entire exchange.

“I'll probably wear it again,” Ned says, sounding much too deliberate about it.

“You should.”

You look down before either of them can see your smile. At least somebody's romantic life around here appears to have potential.

You're still thinking about it when Liam nudges your arm gently, drawing your attention away from Ned. “Hey, I actually wanted to ask you something.”

The change in his tone makes you look at him properly.

For the first time since you've started talking to him, Liam looks nervous. He's turning his bottled water slowly between his hands and seems to be paying far too much attention to the label.

“You know how I asked if you were doing anything tonight?” he begins. When you nod, he glances up and gives you a slightly uncertain smile. “I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go somewhere. Get food or see a movie or something. Just the two of us.”

Oh. You hadn't expected that.

You probably should have, considering he'd asked for your number and had been messaging you all week, but somehow you'd managed not to think beyond the fact that Liam seemed to enjoy talking to you.

Your first instinct is to turn him down.

Not because there's anything wrong with him. That's almost what makes it difficult. Liam is nice, and funny, and attractive enough that you can understand why somebody would want to go out with him. 

You've enjoyed talking to him. You just don't feel anything.

Not the nervous excitement that comes from Peter sitting a little too close during a movie, or the embarrassing warmth that settles in your stomach when he remembers something you mentioned weeks ago. Nothing that makes you want Liam to be asking this question instead of anyone else.

Then you become aware of Jenny watching you from across the table. Monday's conversation returns before you can stop it.

Maybe this is what she meant about putting yourself out there. A boy is sitting beside you, clearly nervous because he wants to take you on a date, and your immediate reaction is to retreat because he isn't the one person you actually want.

The one person who might never want you back.

Liam is still waiting. You offer him a hesitant smile. “I think-”

Ned's chair scrapes sharply against the floor, the sound loud enough that the entire table looks over. Ned is already standing, staring at Peter with an urgency that seems to have materialized from nowhere.

“Peter, I need to talk to you.”

Peter looks up, understandably confused. “Right now?”

“Yes. Definitely right now.”

You narrow your eyes at Ned. He does not look at you, but  for some reason, Peter does.

His gaze moves from your face to Liam sitting beside you, and for a moment you see the same tightness around his mouth that had appeared in your kitchen on Wednesday.

Then Ned grabs his shoulder. “Come on.”

Peter looks back at him, clearly wondering what emergency could possibly require abandoning lunch without explanation, but Ned is already collecting his bag.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Well, maybe. I don't know yet. Just come with me.”

That does absolutely nothing to clear up Peter's confusion. Still, he stands. Before turning away, his eyes flick toward you one more time, then briefly toward Liam.

You stare back at him. Something in Peter's expression makes you want to call him back, although you have no idea what you'd say if you did.

Ned ushers him away and Claire watches them disappear into the cafeteria crowd. “That was weird.”

“Ned tends to do weird things sometimes,” you mutter.

You have a very strong suspicion that whatever urgent crisis has just occurred involves the conversation in your bedroom on Wednesday.

You are going to kill him. Not today, perhaps. Your grandmothers would ask too many questions. But eventually you will be the reason he meets his end.

Liam gives an uncertain laugh beside you. “Should we be worried?”

“No. Ned's just...” You search for an explanation and fail. “Ned.”

Apparently that's enough, because Liam smiles and turns back toward you. “So, anyway, before that happened-”

He doesn't get to finish because Jenny stands from across the table. At first you assume she's going after Peter, but instead she circles around and drops into the chair he abandoned, nudging it closer to the boy next to you.

“So, Liam,” she says brightly, resting one arm along the table as she turns toward him. “You're in Harrington's class, aren't you?”

Liam looks slightly surprised by the sudden attention. “Yeah.”

“I thought so. I've seen you around.”

Jenny smiles at something he says next, tilting her head in that particular way you've seen countless times before. Within a minute she's asking about his classes, then his plans for the weekend, laughing easily while Liam gradually relaxes into the attention.

Nothing she is doing is outrageous.

Jenny has always been good at this. She knows how to make someone feel interesting, how to hold their attention without seeming as though she's trying, how to shift a perfectly ordinary conversation into something that feels a little more personal.

You have watched her do it with boys for years.

Across the table, Mia catches your eye. Her gaze shifts pointedly toward Jenny before returning to you, and something about the look tells you that this time, you aren't the only one noticing.

You glance back toward Jenny. She hadn't shown the slightest interest in Liam when she arrived. She'd barely spoken to him throughout lunch, too preoccupied with trying to keep Peter's attention on her.

Then Liam asked you out. Now Peter is gone, and suddenly Liam is interesting. For once, there isn't enough uncertainty left for you to explain it away.

You aren't jealous over Liam. You don't secretly wish Jenny would stop talking to him because you want him for yourself. If he decided tomorrow that he liked Jenny instead, it might sting your pride, but it wouldn't break your heart.

Which means there is nothing clouding what you're seeing.

Jenny laughs and reaches across Liam to steal one of his fries, giving him a playful smile when he protests.

You watch her for another moment, then you look at Mia. Her eyebrows rise slightly.

Neither of you needs to say anything.

For the first time, you allow yourself to consider the possibility that maybe the problem was never that every boy you happened to like eventually preferred Jenny. Maybe Jenny simply couldn't stand the possibility that one of them might prefer you.

𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌𓂃𓋪◌

By seven o'clock that evening, you have reached the unfortunate conclusion that self-discovery is significantly less exciting when it leaves you sitting alone in your bedroom with nothing to do.

You aren't entirely miserable. That would be dramatic.

You are, however, wearing the oldest but at the same time comfiest pair of pajama pants you own, lying sideways across your bed with your feet propped against the wall, and scrolling through your phone without actually absorbing anything on the screen. Some movie plays quietly from your laptop, abandoned twenty minutes ago in favor of switching between staring at the ceiling and your phone, and the half-finished bowl of cereal on your nightstand has gone soggy enough that you don't particularly want it anymore.

So maybe you're a little miserable. At least Ned isn't.

He'd appeared at your door about an hour ago dressed considerably nicer than he usually does on a Friday evening and wearing, most importantly, the hat.

Apparently Mia had found him sometime after lunch and asked if he wanted to see a movie with her tonight. Just the two of them.

Ned had delivered this information while standing in the middle of your bedroom with the carefully controlled expression of someone desperately attempting to pretend this wasn't the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.

You had ruined the effect by screaming. Not loudly enough for your grandmother to come running, but loudly enough that Ned immediately started shushing you while grinning so hard his face betrayed him completely.

You'd made him turn around twice so you could inspect his outfit, straightened the collar of his shirt, and informed him that under no circumstances was he allowed to take off the hat unless Mia specifically requested it.

Then you hugged him twice. The second time mostly because he'd complained about the first one.

You really are happy for him. More than happy, actually. Ned deserves someone who looks at him the way Mia had looked at him in the cafeteria, and the thought of him sitting in a movie theater right now trying desperately to figure out whether sharing popcorn counts as flirting makes you smile whenever you think about it.

Unfortunately, it also leaves you alone.

You could have made plans.

Claire had mentioned doing something tonight, although judging by the fact that Jenny would almost certainly be involved, you hadn't exactly rushed to ask for details. Liam had sent you a message after school too, but the unfinished conversation from lunch had apparently become even more unfinished once Jenny started monopolizing his attention. He hadn't asked again, and you hadn't encouraged him to.

You feel a little bad about that. Mostly, though, you feel relieved.

The realization you'd had at lunch has been sitting with you all afternoon.

It doesn't magically erase every insecurity Jenny managed to dig into over the past week. Knowing that she deliberately goes after boys once she realizes you're interested in them doesn't change the fact that she usually succeeds. It doesn't make you more confident or suddenly convince you Peter has been secretly in love with you for years.

But it does make you feel less crazy. You'd been seeing a pattern because there was one. What exactly you're supposed to do about Jenny is a problem for another day.

Tonight, your biggest concern is deciding whether getting another bowl of cereal is worth getting up.

The doorbell rings before you can reach a conclusion and you glance toward your bedroom door.

Your grandmother is watching television in the living room, and a few seconds later you hear the volume lower, followed by her footsteps and the distant sound of the front door opening.

You don't pay much attention. It could be Lola. It frequently is.

Maybe Ned has somehow already ruined his date and returned for emergency assistance. That possibility gets you sitting up.

Then you hear your grandmother greet whoever is standing outside and a boy who clearly isn’t Ned answers.

You straighten immediately.

Footsteps move through the apartment a few seconds later, and then Peter appears in your doorway.

His eyes travel slowly from your face to your oversized T-shirt, down toward the pajama pants covered in tiny faded strawberries, then all the way to the fuzzy socks on your feet.

The expression on his face becomes one of complete confusion. “Hey.”

You glance down at yourself, then back at him. “Hi?”

Peter seems to be frozen solid in the doorway.

Something about him looks strange tonight. His hair is messier than usual, like he's been running his hands through it repeatedly, and there is a flush high on his cheeks. One arm is held suspiciously behind his back.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you standing like that?”

Peter's eyes widen. “Like what?”

“Like you're hiding something.”

“I'm not.” His arm shifts farther behind him. You keep your narrowed eyes on him and he doesn’t even manage to last a full 20 seconds. “Okay, I am.”

He brings his hand forward and flowers appear. You almost stop breathing.

They're not an enormous bouquet. Nothing elaborate or expensive, just a small bunch wrapped in brown paper, slightly battered around the edges as though Peter has spent some time gripping them too tightly.

Peter looks like he might pass out.

“What are those for?”

He looks down at them as though he'd forgotten what he was holding. “They're flowers.”

“I can see that.”

Peter's mouth presses into a thin line, and for several seconds he seems to be reconsidering every decision that led him to your bedroom doorway with a bouquet hidden behind his back.

“They're for you,” he finally says, holding them out a little farther.

You can’t help but simply stare at him.

Somewhere between the confusion and the sudden pounding of your heart, you realize you've made absolutely no move to take them from him. Peter notices too, because his already uncertain expression starts slipping toward something closer to panic.

“Unless you don't want them. I can-”

“No.” You sit up properly and reach for them before he can do whatever he's planning, because knowing Peter, there's a very real chance he'll decide the appropriate response is to throw himself and the flowers out of the nearest window. “No, I want them. They're really pretty.”

The relief on his face would be funny if you weren't still trying to understand why Peter Parker has just appeared at your apartment carrying flowers.

You turn the small bouquet over carefully in your hands. The brown paper crinkles beneath your fingers, and when you look up again, Peter is watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

You look at the flowers again, while Peter looks at your pajamas again, his eyebrows pulled together.

“Wait, are you not going out?”

You glance down at yourself for the second time since he arrived, taking in the faded strawberries and one fuzzy sock that has somehow twisted halfway around your foot.

“Do I look like I'm going out?”

“No.” Peter answers too quickly, then grimaces. “I didn't mean it like that. You look fine. Good. You look good. I just thought you'd be dressed.”

You stare at him until the flush in his cheeks deepens. “I'm going to give you another chance at that sentence.”

“I thought you had a date.”

That shuts you up.

Peter looks relieved to have managed to communicate a complete thought without insulting you, while you're left staring at him as the pieces slowly start falling into place.

“Liam.”

His expression tightens at the name. “Yeah.”

“You think I'm going out with Liam tonight.”

“I thought you were.” Peter shifts his weight, glancing briefly toward the flowers now in your hands before adding, “He asked you at lunch.”

“He started to ask me at lunch.”

“You were saying yes.”

You tilt your head. “I hadn't actually said it yet.”

Peter's eyebrows pull more tightly together. There is something almost accusing in the way he looks at you now, as though you've somehow withheld critical information he was entitled to despite the fact that Ned physically removed him from the cafeteria before you could finish the conversation.

“You were about to.”

“I was about to say something. I hadn't entirely decided what.”

That clearly hadn't occurred to him. Peter goes quiet, his eyes searching your face before drifting down to your decidedly date-inappropriate clothes again. You can practically see the realization working its way through him.

“So you're not going out with him.”

“No.”

The change in Peter is immediate enough that you notice even though he tries to hide it. His shoulders loosen, the tension around his mouth disappearing with them, and he releases a breath that sounds suspiciously like one he'd been holding since before he arrived.

When he doesn’t make a move to say anything, your eyes drop deliberately to the flowers. His follow.

“Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Right.”

“Peter, why did you bring me flowers when you thought I was about to go on a date with somebody else?”

He looks genuinely alarmed by the question, which is impressive considering it is surely the exact question he came here expecting you to ask.

“I was getting to that.”

“Were you?”

“Yes.”

You wait and Peter does not get to it.

Instead, he remains in your doorway looking increasingly like someone who has arrived for an exam after studying the wrong chapter. You take pity on him eventually and move farther onto your bed, making enough space beside you to turn the gesture into an invitation.

“Do you want to come in?”

He nods, seemingly grateful for the temporary reprieve, and finally leaves the doorway, pushing the door shut behind him. He sets his backpack beside your desk before sitting on the edge of your bed, though he leaves enough space between you that another person could comfortably fit there.

The flowers remain in your lap. You run your thumb over the folded edge of the paper while Peter leans forward, elbows resting against his knees. For someone who apparently came here specifically to talk to you, he seems remarkably reluctant to begin.

Eventually, he draws in a breath. “Ned talked to me today.”

Your eyes narrow immediately. “What did he tell you?”

“Not what you're thinking.” Peter turns toward you quickly. “He didn't tell me anything private. Or, I mean, he told me some stuff, but not details. He mostly told me I was being an idiot.”

You can't help it. A laugh escapes you.

Peter gives you an offended look. “He was pretty aggressive about it.”

“He called me an idiot too, if that makes you feel better.”

“It does, actually.”

Your smile lingers for another second before you remember that Ned apparently decided to spend lunch staging an intervention.

“What else did he say?”

Peter's expression becomes more hesitant. “He explained why you might've been acting weird this week.”

You look down at the bouquet. There goes the smile.

Peter notices the change immediately and shifts slightly toward you, though he doesn't quite close the space between you.

“He didn't tell me you said anything about it,” he clarifies. “He just pointed out that, from your side, the party probably looked pretty bad. With Jenny kissing me and then me walking her home afterward, especially when you didn't know why I did it.”

The instinct to deny that any of it bothered you rises automatically, but after the week you've had, you don't have the energy for it. Instead, you pick at a corner of the paper and mutter, “It wasn't exactly my favorite night.”

“Yeah. I figured that out a little late.”

You glance at him. Peter is watching his hands now, rubbing one thumb over his opposite palm.

“I really wasn't trying to kiss her,” he says. “I know I told you that already, but I want to make sure you know that. I saw what you did when Liam spun you and figured cheek kisses counted, which was great because I really didn't want to kiss Jenny, and then she moved at the last second.”

Your fingers still against the paper. Some part of you had known from the second it happened, even when you'd spent the rest of that night convincing yourself you were only seeing what you wanted to see.

Peter exhales softly. “And walking her home wasn't...that.”

“That?”

“Whatever she made it sound like.” You glance toward him, and he grimaces slightly. “Ned said she talked to you about it.”

“Among other things.”

“Right.” His mouth tightens. “Well, after you left, I wanted to go find you, but Ned said you'd told him you weren't feeling good and wanted to be alone. Then Jenny was leaving later, and she said she was getting an Uber, except she couldn't get one, and it was late.” Peter gives a small shrug, as though what comes next should be obvious. “After what happened to you the other week, I wasn't going to let her walk home alone.”

Of course he wasn't. The explanation is so completely, predictably Peter that you feel something between fondness and embarrassment settle over you.

“So you offered.”

“Yeah.”

“And you talked the whole way.”

Peter blinks. “I mean...we weren't going to walk in silence.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. His eyebrows lift, but you shake your head and look back down at the flowers, feeling lighter than you have since the party.

“Sorry. It's just a little different from the version I got.”

“I don't know what version you got.”

“Apparently one where you were very interested in getting Jenny alone.”

Peter's nose wrinkles. The reaction makes you laugh again.

“Okay,” you say. “Message received.”

“Good.”

For the first time since he arrived, some of the tension between you eases. Peter shifts slightly on the bed, and when his knee brushes yours, neither of you moves away.

Then his expression grows serious again. “Ned said something else.”

You immediately become suspicious. Peter notices and lifts one hand before you can object.

“Again, he didn't tell me your whole conversation. He just said somebody had been getting in your head about...” Peter trails off, visibly uncomfortable with whatever he's trying to say. “About you thinking nobody would want you.”

Your stomach drops as you groan. “I’m going to murder him in his sleep.”

“He was trying to help.”

“I am going to kill him.”

“I think he's at the movies with Mia.”

Your irritation falters and Peter's mouth twitches. “Okay,” you concede. “I'll kill him tomorrow.”

“He seemed really excited.”

“He was.”

The thought of Ned on his date almost distracts you. Almost. Then you remember what Peter just said, and embarrassment creeps steadily up your neck.

“I was having a bad night when I said that.”

Peter turns toward you more fully. “It doesn't matter.”

“It kind of does.”

“No, I mean it doesn't matter if you were having a bad night.” His voice has lost most of its earlier nervousness, and the certainty replacing it makes you look at him. “You shouldn't think that anyway.”

You give a small shrug, suddenly fascinated by the flowers again. “I don't, really.”

Peter is quiet for a moment, his voice much more quiet when he continues speaking. “You asked Ned.”

You look at him sharply. “He told you that?”

“No. But he was really mad, and Ned only gets that mad when somebody says something that actually upset you.” Peter pauses. “And he might've accidentally said enough for me to figure out that you weren't just annoyed.”

You groan softly. “This is humiliating.”

“Why?”

“Because you're sitting here knowing I had some pathetic crisis about whether anyone could ever like me.”

Peter's expression hardens a bit. “It's not pathetic.”

“It feels pretty pathetic.”

“Well, it's also wrong.”

You glance at him and Peter looks away almost immediately, the flush returning to his cheeks.

And suddenly the flowers in your lap feel significantly heavier.

Peter catches you glancing between the flowers and the side of his face and seems to realize, at exactly the same moment, that he has somehow wandered directly toward the thing he's been avoiding saying since he arrived.

You decide not to rescue him this time. 

“Peter,” you say quietly, “why are you here?”

For several seconds, he says nothing at all. His hands clasp loosely between his knees, and he stares down at them as though the right arrangement of his fingers might provide an answer. When he finally looks at you, there is something painfully vulnerable in his expression.

“I thought you were going out with Liam tonight, and I didn't want you to.”

Your heart gives one hard beat. Peter keeps going before you can respond, the words coming more easily now that he's finally started.

“I know I don't get to decide that. I wasn't going to show up here and tell you that you couldn't go or anything. I just...” He rubs his palms against his jeans, shaking his head slightly at himself. “When he texted you Wednesday, I hated it. Then today you sat with him at lunch, and he was making you laugh, and he asked you out right in front of me, and I realized I was probably going to have to watch you start dating him because I'd been too scared to say anything.”

You barely register the flowers shifting in your hands as your fingers tighten around them. Peter glances at you, then away again.

“Ned didn't tell me how you feel about me,” he adds quickly. “Before you get mad at him. He just told me that if I liked you and I sat around doing nothing while some other guy asked you out, then I couldn't really complain when you said yes.”

The words seem to take a second to settle.

If I liked you.

You stare at Peter. He appears to realize what he has just said and his face goes red.

“You like me?” The question comes out much quieter than you intended.

Peter gives a short, nervous laugh, but there is no humor in it. “I bought you flowers and came here to try to convince you not to go on a date with another guy. I was kind of hoping that part was obvious.”

It wasn't. Perhaps it should have been. You look down at the bouquet again because suddenly looking at Peter feels impossible.

“You could've just told me,” you finally say.

“I've been trying to for the last ten minutes.”

“No, I mean before all this.”

Peter lets out a breath and leans back slightly, staring toward the ceiling.

“You're one of my best friends. What was I supposed to do? Just tell you and hope you didn't spend the rest of your life avoiding me?”

You wince. Considering the past week, that hits a little close.

Peter notices. “Okay, bad example.”

He shifts again, and this time the movement brings him intentionally closer rather than farther away.

“I've liked you for a while,” he admits. “I don't really know when it started. I kept thinking it would go away because you're you, and we've always been friends, and then it didn't. It just got worse.”

You turn toward him. “Worse?”

“In a good way.”

“That doesn't sound good.”

“You know what I mean.”

You do. More than he realizes.

Peter looks down at his hands again, but his shoulder is almost touching yours now.

“I thought maybe you liked me too after the party,” he continues. “You seemed upset after Jenny kissed me, and I know it's probably terrible that part of me was happy about that, but I thought maybe it meant...” He trails off, shaking his head. “Then in your kitchen you told me you didn't care what I did with Jenny or any other girl, so I figured I'd made the whole thing up.”

You close your eyes briefly. “And then Liam texted.”

“Yeah.” Peter grimaces. “That didn't help.”

You turn the bouquet slowly in your hands, trying to absorb the absurdity of the past week. You had been distancing yourself because you thought Peter wanted Jenny. Peter had apparently interpreted that distance as rejection, then spent several days getting jealous of Liam while you convinced yourself he couldn't possibly see you as anything more than a friend.

Ned's assessment is becoming increasingly difficult to argue with.

“We really are idiots.”

Peter nods, a serious expression on his face. “Ned called it.”

“He seemed very confident about it.”

“He usually is.”

A quiet laugh passes between you, easing some of the nervousness that has been gathering in your chest.

Then Peter looks at you again. This time, he doesn't look away when the eye contact becomes too much.

“I do like you,” he says, more steadily now. “A lot. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, especially if somebody was making you think...whatever Jenny said to you, she is wrong.”

You swallow. “You don't even know what she said.”

“I know enough.”

There is no hesitation in his voice. It takes you back to Ned sitting on your bedroom floor two nights ago, looking almost personally offended that you'd ever wondered whether somebody could want you.

Peter looks different now, all nervous and pink-cheeked and still Peter in every possible way, but the certainty is the same.

“You're not hard to want,” he says quietly. “At all.”

Your throat tightens. You don't try to laugh it away for once.

Peter seems to realize the effect the words have had on you and immediately looks more nervous again, as though he's worried he's gone too far.

You save him this time. “I like you too.”

He goes completely still. The silence lasts long enough that you begin to wonder whether he actually heard you.

Then his eyes widen. “You do?”

You nod, unable to stop the smile slowly pulling at your mouth. “Unfortunately, yeah. For a while now.”

The relief that crosses Peter's face is almost ridiculous. He drops his head for a second, laughing quietly to himself, and when he looks back up, his smile is wide enough that you feel your own grow in response.

“I really thought Liam was going to beat me to it.”

“He didn't even finish asking me out.”

“I know that now.”

“And I probably would've said no.”

Peter blinks. “Really?”

You give him a look. “I like you, idiot.”

“Right.” His smile somehow gets worse.

You bump your knee against his and Peter bumps yours back, and for a moment the two of you simply sit there, close enough that your shoulders touch, smiling like complete idiots in the quiet of your bedroom.

Eventually, your gaze drops to the flowers again. “So you genuinely came here planning to talk me out of a date?”

Peter groans and covers his face with both hands.

“I wasn't going to talk you out of it. I was going to tell you how I felt, and then if you still wanted to go with him, I would've...” His voice becomes muffled behind his palms. “Gone home and died, probably.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“You don't know how bad today was.”

You smile and pull one of his hands away from his face. Peter lets you and your fingers remain around his for way longer than necessary.

“So,” he says after a while, turning his hand until your palms fit more naturally together, “since you're not going out with Liam...”

You raise your eyebrows. Peter glances at your pajamas, then wisely decides against commenting on them again.

“Would you maybe want to go out with me instead?”

Your heart flutters embarrassingly. “Tonight?”

“Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever you want.” His thumb moves against the side of your hand. “An actual date, though. I feel like I should be very clear about that considering how badly we've apparently been communicating lately.”

You pretend to consider it, mostly because watching Peter immediately start worrying again is far too entertaining.

Then you look down at yourself. “I'd have to change.”

The relief on his face is adorable. “I can wait.”

“And I should probably put these in water.”

“I can also wait for that.”

You smile and make absolutely no attempt to stand. Neither does Peter.

The realization seems to come to both of you at roughly the same time, because his eyes flick toward the closed door before settling back on you. You're still sitting close enough that your knees are pressed together now, one of his hands tangled with yours while the other rests against the mattress between you, and suddenly you're acutely aware of just how little space there actually is.

You've been this close to Peter before. Closer, probably.

You've fallen asleep against him during movies and leaned over his shoulder to copy homework answers you absolutely could have gotten yourself. You've squeezed into the same subway seat when there wasn't enough room and spent entire afternoons sprawled across each other because apparently personal space had stopped being a consideration sometime around middle school.

None of those moments had felt anything like this.

Peter's gaze drops briefly, not to your hands this time, and your breath catches.

His eyes return to yours almost immediately, and the pink in his cheeks deepens as though he's embarrassed you noticed. For a second, you think he might look away altogether, but he doesn't. His thumb has stopped moving against your hand, and there is something questioning in his expression that sends another nervous flutter through your stomach.

You could wait for him, but you think maybe it’s your turn this time.

Judging by the flowers, the confession, and the fact that he'd apparently spent most of the day convinced Liam was about to steal you away, Peter has done more than enough terrifying things for one evening.

So you shift a little closer.

It's barely a movement, but Peter notices immediately. His eyes widen just slightly before dropping toward your mouth again, and when he leans toward you this time, he does it slowly enough that you could stop him without ever having to say a word.

His nose brushes yours first.

Peter pauses there, so close you can feel his breath against your face, and the sheer nervousness of it makes affection swell inside your chest.

“You're thinking really hard,” you whisper.

A quiet laugh escapes him, the sound a little shaky. “I'm trying not to mess this up.”

“You've kissed someone before.”

Peter gives you a look that immediately reminds you of exactly which kiss you're referring to.

“That was different.”

You know it was.

This is Peter sitting on your bed with his fingers threaded through yours and flowers he bought you resting across your lap. This is years of friendship balanced precariously on the few inches left between you.

You squeeze his hand. “I don't think you're going to mess it up.”

Something in Peter's expression softens. Then he closes the distance.

The first touch of his lips against yours is so gentle that for half a second you're not entirely sure it counts. It feels more like a question than a kiss, hesitant and careful and unmistakably Peter, as though even after everything you've just told him, he's still giving you one last opportunity to change your mind.

You answer by leaning in and that seems to be all the reassurance he needs.

Peter kisses you again, properly this time, and the nervous tightness in your chest dissolves almost immediately. His free hand comes up uncertainly before settling against the side of your face, fingertips brushing into your hair while you let go of his other hand long enough to catch lightly at the front of his shirt.

It isn't perfect.

Your noses bump when you both tilt your heads the same way, making you laugh against his mouth, and Peter pulls back barely an inch with a startled smile of his own. For a second, you're both grinning too much to accomplish anything.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

You laugh again, and this time when Peter kisses you, there is less hesitation.

It's still soft, still a little uncertain around the edges, but the strange newness of it begins to give way to something that feels startlingly natural. Because underneath everything else, it's still Peter. You know the hand resting against your cheek and the quiet breath of laughter when you accidentally smile into the kiss. You know the slight crease between his eyebrows when he concentrates too hard and the way his fingers fidget when he's nervous.

You just hadn't known what it felt like to kiss him.

Eventually Peter pulls back, though he doesn't go far. His forehead settles lightly against yours, and for several seconds neither of you says anything. His hand remains against your cheek while yours has somehow ended up curled into the fabric near his shoulder.

When you finally open your eyes, Peter is already looking at you. The expression on his face makes warmth rush straight into your cheeks.

“What?”

His smile grows. “Nothing.”

“You're staring.”

“I know.”

Ordinarily, you would shove him. Instead, you smile and lean forward to kiss him once more, shorter this time, just because you can.

Peter looks ridiculously pleased when you pull away.

“You know,” he says, still close enough that the tip of his nose brushes yours when he speaks, “I had a whole plan for tonight.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Did the plan include my favourite strawberry pajama pants?”

“That was where things started going wrong.”

You laugh and finally push lightly at his shoulder. Peter catches your hand before you can pull it back, linking your fingers again as though he's already decided he likes having them there.

You look down at the flowers still trapped somewhat precariously between you.

“I really do need to put these in water.”

“Yeah.” Peter glances toward them before looking back at you. “Probably.”

Again, neither of you moves, his gaze keeping you rooted right where you are. 

A few seconds pass before you tilt your head. “Peter.”

“Right. Water.”

This time you actually stand, though Peter keeps hold of your hand until the distance forces your fingers apart.

You make it two steps toward the door before remembering something and turning back.

“Oh, and my grandma is definitely going to interrogate you while I get ready.”

Peter, halfway through standing, freezes. You smile sweetly.

“She already loves you. You'll be fine.”

“That doesn't make me feel better.”

You laugh as you head into the hallway with the flowers cradled carefully against your chest, and a moment later you hear Peter following behind you.

There are still things you'll have to figure out. There is a conversation with Jenny waiting somewhere in your future, and whatever happens next with Peter will probably come with an entirely new collection of things for the two of you to overthink.

But those are problems for later.

Tonight, there are flowers to put in water, clothes to change into, and apparently a first date to go on with the boy you've spent a long time insisting is only your friend.

You reach the kitchen and glance back to find Peter still smiling. You have a feeling you're doing the exact same thing.