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sincericida · 1 day ago

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I was missing mob TASM Peter & Honey so much! And this chapter was absolutely sweet and warmed my heart, because I really want them to overcome the differences, the traumas, and be fine together. Lizzy, thank you so much for coming back and toasting us with your incredible talent to make us travel in your stories ❤️

new rules: sugar + vice vol. 2 (ch. 3) [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: how Peter spent his spring break from Honey, and how the summer vacation is going... 😬

words: 10.4 k

tags: fluff and angst (my otp), also: Peter being insatiable, Peter having PTSD, non-graphic smut scenes, voyeurism, Hawaii, TW: flashback to SA in Vol. 1, child abuse, domestic violence, being spied on, being creeped on by a drunk guy, please take care of yourselves if this isn't your cup of tea).

This took me a ridiculously long time to write. Thank you, everybody, for your patience and your support!

back to sugar and vice masterlist.

3 - New Rules

For a crime boss, Peter Parker was surprisingly good at following rules.

Rules were good. Rules were safe. Rules created order out of chaos. Peter always made the rules. For the Spiders, following the rules meant life or death.

1. Don’t use real names. 2. Never walk into a place without an exit strategy. 3. Always bring a weapon. 4. Remember that someone is watching—always. 5. Respect appointments. 6. Respect partners. 7. Respect the Boss.

Respecting the rules meant respecting the Boss. No one would dare question that. Even if his rules didn’t make sense.

8. No killing.

“Say what again?”

“I said ‘no killing,’” Peter repeated, firm. His voice carried more authority than it had in weeks. Not since he’d left the city.

The Penthouse in Queens was in escrow, sold in record time after John Walker’s disappearance. Leaving the city was against Counsil’s advice. (Matt even took the Lord’s name in vain!) But Peter didn’t care how it looked to anyone else.

So, it was an early spring afternoon at the Catskills cabin when he announced the latest rule to his crew. Their reactions varied.

Peter distinctly remembered Miguel’s mouth forming a tight line before an explosive coughing fit. He choked, it seemed, on nothing—nothing other than the utter nonsense he’d just heard.

Johnny leaned back in his chair, literally scratching his head. He let out a long, whistling exhale.

Jess adjusted in her seat with a wince, not-so-subtle in her discomfort.

Peni and Noir stared at Peter with deadpan expressions. In Noir’s case, he was as “deadpan” as capable before he stood up to pour himself five or six fingers of bourbon.

The only one who appeared unfazed was Felicia.

She lounged in the back, a diamond nail file swiping against her manicure, watching Peter beneath the fringe of her false lashes. Her coral lips, painted in Chanel Rouge Matte First Light, remained perfectly still, though the nail file never stopped moving.

Peter could deal with everyone else’s grumbling.

Matter of fact—Fuck ’em, he thought.

Peter was the Boss.

But Felicia Hardy was scary.

It wasn’t the 4-inch stilettos she wore on Casual Fridays, or the sharp, carbon steel hairpin she sometimes used to twist back her frosted-platinum hair. It was all in her eyes: dark blue as the Atlantic, which held secrets just as deep. Her eyes were on him, unreadable as ever.

It drove Peter nuts.

He hated that he could never tell what she was thinking, only that she was thinking. Or maybe her eyes were smiling, a self-satisfied smirk that she could withhold from the rest of her face. She could’ve been thinking about leading the group into a slow clap. Or poisoning his water bottle. She gave up nothing.

Neither did Peter. He announced the Spiders’ new law, uninterested in giving anyone any explanations. Peter reminded them that he didn’t owe them one. If they didn’t like it, they could leave the organization whenever they wanted. No one was his prisoner.

Not anymore.

He knew they wouldn’t quit. They were loyal, but that wasn’t the reason. (Although, lately, he had reason to question everyone’s loyalty.)

The truth was they couldn’t leave. Not until it was over.

‘Over’ was the variable; the finish line was different for everyone. Everyone had a list of wrongs to right, and they were all prisoners to it.

Just like Peter.

Peter was released the same afternoon he was arrested. He learned the cops had no real case. There was nothing Commissioner Alexander Pierce could pin on him. Nothing that District Attorney Frank Castle could charge him with. Not yet.

Peter had won. But the moment he came home, all he felt was loss.

The emptiness was so loud it made his eardrums throb. The quiet of his lavish, twentieth-story penthouse felt like a black hole, tearing him apart the farther he ventured inside. Soon, he was alone in the dark, swallowed by memories.

He saw the image of Eddie Brock rummaging for snacks in his pantry. A day later, Eddie would be dead.

Peter’s eyes drifted to the large terrarium in the great room. From his illuminated basking rock, Rex locked eyes with him. The bearded dragon was motionless under his heat lamp, glowing red with piercing black eyes that suggested pure contempt.

Those judgmental little eyes triggered another memory: this time of Honey referring to the reptile as ‘the angry guy’ from a Pixar film that Peter hadn’t heard of. She’d laugh about it as she fed him blueberries, grinning wide as he’d eagerly snatch it from her fingers and gnash like he was starving. The dragon perched on her shoulder like he belonged there, his spiny tail spread down the length of her arm like armor.

Honey’s scaly guardian glared at Peter now, live crickets bouncing around his terrarium unfettered. He looked angrier than ever. Why wouldn’t he be? Peter sent away his best friend.

Me too, buddy. Me too.

That was nothing compared to Peter’s nausea when he glanced into his office. What used to be his office.

He surveyed the damage from the threshold. The giant floor-to-ceiling window had been boarded up with plywood. The blood that previously coated the hardwood floor and walls had been cleaned up, but its scent lingered in Peter’s nose. All the destroyed furniture had been removed from the room, leaving it empty.

Empty. Empty. Empty.

Within seconds, Peter’s skin felt clammy. His lungs shrank to a walnut’s size. The tightness in his chest nearly brought him to his knees as he was ambushed by the memory of—

Peter was on his knees. He had been fighting to no avail. Unable to intervene, unable to stand, he was bleeding out from a gunshot wound and multiple broken bones. Never mind the guns that his treacherous guards held on him. Peter was watching helplessly. Uselessly. John Walker was assaulting the woman he loved. The woman he’d die for was rigid beneath Walker’s grip, her breath strangled in her throat. Walker was digging his claws into her flesh, bruising her while he salivated and rutted against her like a rabid dog. Honey’s eyes were vacant in a way that scared the shit out of Peter. Her mind was elsewhere—retreating to a state of dissociation—while her ex-husband violated her. She was quiet, but Peter could hear her heart pounding. He was trapped and panicking. He could hear it in his own voice as he screamed profanities at Walker. In his heart, he screamed that he was absolutely gonna kill that motherfucker with his bare hands. His screams were ignored. The whole attack felt... performative. Walker was taking his time, drawing the assault out, all while his guards howled with laughter. He was putting on a show of torturing them. Honey had mentioned before that her abuser used to enjoy subjugating her in front of people. That’s why Honey suggested this—enduring this nightmare from which she had worked so hard to escape. She had apparently hoped to appeal to John’s barbarity and obsession, maybe as a diversion. She was offering herself as a ‘trade,’ buying time for Peter to rescue them. “It’s not a fair trade” is the only thing that comes to his mind. Peter is worthless.

When Peter returned to reality, he clutched the doorframe so tight that the wood cracked. Sweat beaded down his neck. His breaths came short, and he could taste bile in each one.

He shot out of the room like a bullet. He left the penthouse just as quickly. That was it. Peter could never sleep another night there. Not while every thread in his bedsheets and every fiber of his being still smelled like her.

The Cabin was the only place he had left to go. Even if different ghosts haunted him.

Peter’s thoughts shifted to the present meeting with his crew, hearing how the gang was reacting to his new rule:

“—we might as well call ourselves The Sugarhill Gang and organize ourselves a flashmob—” “—seriously, man, what decade are you even from?” “—fucking insanity, ya tryin’ to get us all killed—?” “—whatchu think our allies are gonna say when we can’t back them up?—” “—gonna need a whole lotta well-placed banana peels—”

Well. That went well.

Peter smirked as he mused. Sarcasm was his only friend.

Honey had rules, too.

Never serve espresso in a cold cup.

Don’t trust anyone who won’t sing along to their favorite song. (Run if they tell you they don’t have a favorite song.)

Always look someone in the eye when you clink glasses in a toast, lest you be cursed with seven years of bad sex.

Then there was their most sacred rule, established early in their “situationship”:

“I promise,” he said. “No touching. Until you ask me to.”

It was the night Peter begged her to sleep with him—or next to him. Beside him, in his bed.

It wasn’t that weird, right? Maybe it was a little inappropriate, but it didn’t cross any lines...

Who was he kidding? It was an episode of “Dateline.” Creepy as hell. It’s a wonder Honey trusted him at all.

How was he supposed to explain (to the woman he’d essentially kidnapped) that he needed her nearby to sleep? He couldn’t close his eyes if it meant losing sight of her. He couldn’t rest without feeling her warmth, knowing he wouldn’t be abandoned.

Maybe Peter was just scared to be left by himself.

See? That’s what I’m talkin’ about, man. Creepy. A.F.

Or left with himself.

Peter had spent twenty-seven days alone in a cabin. He had nothing but his own thoughts.

On Day 28, he had a plan. He just needed to break it down into its most simple rules.

TWO WEEKS AFTER THE REUNION

“I think we should establish some ground rules,” Honey whispered to him, seated beside him. Almost.

There was a short distance across the aisle of the twin-engine jet where they sat apart. If it were up to Peter, he’d have her draped across his lap, safety be damned. She declined the seat next to him, where he could easily wrap his arm around her. Or at least lace his fingers through hers.

He couldn’t remember when he wanted to hold someone’s hand so badly.

They were halfway to Honolulu; once again, she was barely outside his reach. Peter worried they were going back to ‘no touching.’ He would respect it if that was the case. Even if every second of not touching her felt like he was on fire.

“Yeah?” Peter croaked, a little too enthusiastic. He was trying to sound supportive yet subdued. Not too excited—but not dismissive. The result was some kind of “delighted grimace” as he nodded along like a bobblehead. “Ya, ah-uh, ye-yeah, that’s great, I love rules.”

If his nervousness was apparent, she didn’t call it out.

“For the trip?” she added, providing some context.

“Oh, right. Right.”

The trip to Hawaii. The one they were just beginning.

Peter began preparing almost immediately after their reunion. He would’ve gone the following day, but Honey argued that she couldn’t bail on her co-workers. So, they waited until she was granted a week off at her request.

He called in a few favors (friends of friends) and secured a private jet. Later, he learned what the owner meant when he said it was “built for a romantic getaway.” He found a cozy, king-sized bed in the back draped in luxurious silk sheets, and he was eager to spend most of the 11-hour flight from JFK making use of it with Honey.

But it was clear to Peter that wasn’t going to happen.

The loud pop of a champagne bottle reinforced this. Felicia’s voice echoed through the Cabin with an enthusiastic “yowww!” He glanced behind his seat toward the sound.

The silver-haired vixen stood in the galley behind the seats with a bend in her slender waist and her lithe arm extended outward. She poured a generous amount of liquid gold into a crystal coupe, gripping a champagne bottle from beneath its base. It was a tantalizing display of isometric strength, poise, and raw muscle, showcasing her experience as a gymnast and ballerina (and occasional alcoholic).

At the receiving end, Rebecca’s sparkling eyes scanned the toned arm of her server as champagne filled her glass. With bright, flushed cheeks, she quickly darted her tongue out to taste the foam overflowing from the rim. Felicia nodded in approval.

Rebecca Jimenez. Honey’s adult sister. Honey invited her on their romantic getaway. Along with her other sisters. And niece. And far too many of Peter’s crew for him to be comfortable with.

It wasn’t so much a request as it was a condition. Honey reasoned with something thoughtful about memories and sharing moments. Peter worried that it was more about avoiding time alone with him.

Becca fluttered her thick lashes and shimmied her shoulders flirtatiously to Chappel Roan’s synth-pop melody. Music blared from the in-cabin speaker system while hidden LED light strips flashed in sync with the music. Cat and Becca were in sync with each other.

Peter couldn’t help but roll his eyes. At this point, Felicia had a better shot at getting laid.

Across the aisle from Rebecca, their mother Ana audibly ‘harumphed’ at the fun being had. The matriarch’s baggy eyes were full of judgment, trying to ignore the middle sister’s scandalous behavior. Anxiously, she glanced out the plane’s windows while unconsciously clenching her fists, a glass of wine in one hand and a rosary in the other.

Further back, Bella and Miles sat side-by-side, battling each other on their handheld Switches. They were wired on the excitement of travel and Sour Gummy Worms.

Gabriella Jimenez occupied the row behind Miles and Bella, buried in a black Billie Eilish hoodie. The youngest of Honey’s sisters kept her head down and her phone within four inches from her face. Peter had never seen her any other way.

By contrast, Selena Jimenez looked elated. She sat across from Rebecca, delighting in the makeshift celebration between the adults. The teen had the giddiness of a child being allowed to stay awake to watch the ball drop. It contrasted with the “cool girl” vibe she tried to feign.

At the airport, Peter saw Honey and Selena off to the side, engaged in a heated whisper. He could hear Honey grilling her to explain her clothing choice. Specifically, why was her little sister wearing a mini dress, heels, and a full face of makeup on such a long flight? Peter didn’t quite understand the problem, but he figured it was a sister thing and said nothing.

As they taxied on the runway, Honey vented about it to Peter, mentioning her regret that she invited Johnny Storm on the trip. Only then could Peter connect that and the cartoon hearts shooting from Selena’s eye sockets.

Johnny was in the galley with Felicia, dancing like a fool while holding a whiskey bottle in the crux of his tattooed bicep. The brash, charismatic show-off was ‘just being himself.’ That included wearing a muscle shirt that was two sizes too small.

To his credit, he wasn’t trying to draw the attention of a 17-year-old. For someone best described as ‘only sorta occasionally vain,’ Johnny talked a lot of shit about himself. He even admitted that he was dyeing his grays, to Peter’s shock. I mean, he knew about the hair dye, but would never have imagined Johnny being honest about it.

Johnny avoided Selena’s longing gazes like the plague. Peter was pretty sure he heard him fart and belch—simultaneously—just to solidify his unattractiveness. He worked diligently to squash any suggestion that he would reciprocate the girl’s affection.

Honey flashed a look at Johnny that suggested murder, which likely encouraged his efforts.

“So, first, I think we should split up the days we’re going to the Polynesian Cultural Center and the Zoo,” Honey explained, with her well-worn planner in her lap. “I hate going to museums and not being able to read all the stuff.”

Peter brought his attention back to Honey, nodding along. “Yeah, me too. But––”

“And I already know Bella’s gonna want to spend half her time in the peacock enclosure—did you know they bite?”

“Oh.” He didn’t. “I, uh…?”

“And I already know Becca’ll blow her entire paycheck at the mall, but if she maxes out her credit card, that’s on her. She’s a big girl. Do not offer to buy anything, please. It’s like bringing an alcoholic to a bar.”

“Okay, well, maybe—”

“While Bella, Miles, and Selena are staying the extra day at Aulani,” Honey rattled on, “we can hit up Kualoa—Oooh, we need to do the group photo at the log! You know, the—”

“The one from Jurassic Park,” Peter finished, proving that he had been paying attention.

It had been a topic in Honey’s fascinating presentation of facts about Hawaii. Along with the fact that the Hawaiian alphabet only had 16 letters. And that in the 1990s, a Category 5 hurricane blew all the chicken coops away, so now, chickens roam free on some islands like pigeons in New York.

“We gotta force Gabby to get up for Diamond Head, but I think she’ll really enjoy it.”

“Yeah, about that,” he jumped in, attempting to shift the conversation. “I was thinkin’ we might get some time, y’know?” She blinked at him. Peter’s gaze darkened, voice low and dripping with seduction. “Just you and me? Have a little fun? Y’know... alo—”

“Chaperones!” Honey yelped as if just remembering forgotten keys. Her train of thought jumped the tracks. “We should split up to chaperone the kids! We’re gonna be spread out across the island, sometimes across multiple islands. I want to make sure that no one gets lost, everyone has fun, and no one gets bitten by a shark... or a peacock—should we start making lists? I’ll make a list!”

Without waiting for a response, she pulled out a pen attached to the cover of her notebook and dutifully started jotting down names. Peter let out a soundless huff. She was definitely avoiding him.

He calmly stewed in frustration but simultaneously reminded himself that the trip was about her. Only two weeks had passed since their reunion, and emotions were still inflamed.

9. Stay the hell away from her.

That was Peter’s rule throughout their separation. Ending his relationship with Honey wasn’t an easy decision to make. He struggled with it, especially in the weeks after he returned to New York City.

One morning, he resolved to let her go; by that afternoon, his longing for love chipped away at his stubborn instinct to stay alone. The cycle repeated endlessly.

Gwen used to hate that, too.

Stay away from her.

Peter had spent more time than he’d like to admit watching Honey from afar. Not stalking her or anything, just... watching.

Out of sight, usually concealed on the rooftops, he’d watch her leave her apartment building in the early morning and follow her until she reached the greasy spoon diner where she worked as a waitress.

She was safe there. She was fine. Peter just needed to know she was okay, and then he could simply—

Stay away from her.

Except for when he thought he had her schedule figured out, she would then stray from the routine. She would visit a coffee shop, linger for a bit, and then go to another coffee shop. Like she was ranking every latte in Manhattan.

Who drinks that much coffee? (Besides him.)

Then, she would switch to a string of night shifts, which were the worst. Once, she got home after midnight and was headed back to work less than 4 hours later.

That can’t be legal, right?

Sometimes, it seemed like she was covering every available shift. It was exhausting to keep up with, and he knew she had to be even more worn out. He couldn’t understand it.

It wasn’t a financial issue; Peter had loaded her bank account with enough to cover her expenses for at least two years (in the event he needed to disappear for any reason). There was no way she needed the money. So why on Earth was she taking on so many extra shifts? At this rate, the coffee or the excessive overtime would drive them to an early grave.

Stay away from her.

He nearly broke his own rule one night when she took another detour after work. Instead of going home, she hurried down the stairs of a southbound subway station. It was after 11 pm, and the image of her alone on the train made his stomach twist.

He didn’t think. He just ran.

When he found her again, she was just stepping off the platform onto the train, with the doors closing behind her.

Again, he just ran. Like an idiot.

At least I’m staying away! He argued while clinging precariously to the top side of a subway car.

Miraculously, he made it to her stop without being noticed. He trailed behind her until she reached this mysterious, new destination. He was relieved. Then, he was incredibly irritated to see she had traveled to... yet another coffee shop.

Fortunately, his phone buzzed. When he answered, Felicia was already in the middle of a straightforward greeting:

“Where the FUCK ARE YOU right now, Spidey? We said MIDNIGHT! Whadda I look like, a stilted prom date?”

It was enough to pull his focus.

The ridiculousness of the situation wasn’t lost on him. He reflected on the absurdity of his frustration—hypocrisy. Honey had spent nearly her whole life in New York; it’s not like she’d never taken the subway before.

She wasn’t with ME before.

Honey never had to worry about a target on her back. Or Fisk’s goons going after her. But Peter did worry. All the time. He was caught between two fears: one, that his enemies would follow him to her, or the other, that she might never make it home.

It wasn’t her home, he’d reason. That shitty, rundown apartment with the lazy Super who couldn’t just fixthefuckin’ A/C wasn’t her home. He couldn’t fathom why Honey decided to stay. It wasn’t where she belonged.

But it’s where I left her.

Peter was very familiar with her ‘living situation.’ Her apartment had become a part of his regular commute, no matter where he was headed. He hung out on the building across the street, where he would monitor the windows from the roof. Hiding—Staking out (like a coward) waiting in anticipation for her to close the curtains.

Stay far, far away from her.

Honey was as skilled a marksman as anyone he’d ever met. Even from across the street, seeing her made Peter feel like a bullet had pierced his lung. It took his breath away and stung like hell.

Across the street felt more forgivable than watching her like a pervert from the fire escape outside her window. The idea of being caught like that was mortifying.

If he needed to be closer, he would stick to the walls. Literally. It was risky—crawling up the buildings near Times Square and its thousands of tourists. He hoped they were too distracted by lights, selfies, and Sesame Street characters to notice him in the shadows.

Peter clung to the stonework by his fingertips, stopping inches from her windowsill. Not close enough to see inside. He didn’t intend to spy on her. Not a lot.

All he needed was to hear her. He would close his eyes and just... listen.

Despite the chaotic symphony of the streets, he learned to distinguish the beeping of her microwave. He also knew her favorite radio station and which local news channel she preferred. He learned the sounds that marked her good days and her bad days.

The bad ones are on me.

There were days when she couldn’t hold it in. Her muffled sobs and shuddering breaths devolved into heartbroken wails, and Peter forced himself to listen.

I did that.

Maybe the best thing he could do was leave her in peace and hope that one day... maybe... she’d—

She’s not alone.

The realization turned his blood cold. Peter climbed the wall on this particular night and stopped just beneath her open bedroom window. He heard sounds coming from inside, but not the ones he had been expecting.

These were intimate noises that he’d recognized almost immediately. He had caused those sounds before.

They were branded into his brain, echoing in the empty cavern of his dreams at night until he would awaken and realize he was still alone. He lay in bed with tears burning in his eyes while the rest of him felt harder than petrified wood.

It was almost embarrassing how quickly her breathless sighs, needy groans, and moans of pleasure brought his obnoxiously painful erection back to life. Hearing them now, with one palm flat against the exterior wall, he knew he couldn’t be the cause... So, the logical conclusion was one that he did not like.

There’s someone else. Fuck, fuck, fahhhck she’s found someone else!

Of course, she’s found someone else! Because she’s fucking gorgeous, you idiot! What did you think was gonna happen?

One-half of Peter wanted to punch his fist through the wall and rip whoever was touching his girl right out of the room.

The other half wanted to throw up.

Beneath those emotions, his brain was scrambled by heartbreak, grief, and a ridiculous sense of betrayal. Rage drove his pulse, but shock kept his thoughts empty.

“Ohh, Pee-ter...”

He froze. Wait, did she just—his name is... also Peter?

That was definitely Honey’s voice. She sounded almost... pained? Her voice was strained tighter than a wire about to snap.

Nooo. The odds of—

“Pleeease, Peter, please, just like that...”

Peter’s breath caught in his throat as his jaw hung open. He could have been dreaming again, but the whine that came out of her mouth was unmistakably erotic. Outside of the unlikely event that she’d taken some other guy named Peter into her bed, she was moaning his name.

Why did that make him so proud? Why did her inability to move on make him happy? What kind of monster wants that? How fucked up was he?

He was fucked up enough to not move.

Peter stayed still, regardless of how his conscience criticized him. The shame wasn’t enough to overcome his greed. Not this time. And what he did next—savoring her lewd sounds, hanging off her wall with one hand while the other deftly unbuckled his belt—was monstrous enough to prove his point.

10. Never break a secret you can’t control.

Peter didn’t tell her about that night. He avoided discussing his stalking dutiful watching altogether. The times she avoided his eyes had him convinced she already knew.

No touching.

Respect the Boss.

Now, Honey was the Boss. And if Peter wanted to win back her trust, that’s how it had to be. That’s what Gwen would say. He needed to be brave. He needed to trust her.

And that’s how Peter Parker ended up at a karaoke bar: Scared shitless.

It was Honey’s idea (of course, it was). It came off more like a challenge. They were at the end of their trip, and Peter had all but totally failed to woo her. Honey dodged every romantic display of devotion, every attempt to charm her, and his every effort to make her happy.

No romantic private dinner cruise on a yacht. No couples-only spa day being lavishly pampered in a secluded lanai. No honeymoon villa, either—not for anyone but Peter, who spent the last six nights sleeping alone.

Honey’s excuse was that she had to keep watch over her sisters. “Can’t have Gabby up all night on TikTok and Selena sneaking out to creep on Johnny...”

Honey made the rules.

How Peter ended up at the hole-in-the-wall bar with Honey’s family and his crew—the baddest, most feared mob in the Tri-State Area—was a blur.

He watched Felicia climb onto a dinky stage covered with a musty, stained carpet. She approached a mic stand in front of a cheap backdrop lit by old Christmas lights, topped by a tiny disco ball swaying overhead.

She was fueled by a bottle of champagne and three healthy pours of Clase Azul.

“It’s not for shots! You don’t shoot it, you South Shore meathead; ya savor it! Didn’they teach ya anything about culture at the country club back in Long Island?”

Concealing herself behind a shield of boldness that had always served her well, Felicia belted out “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” She practically writhed with the mic stand. The song's lyrics scrolled down a small LCD screen next to the stage, but she didn’t spare it a glance.

The Black Cat was as theatrical as a diva, fearless in her delivery. She milked whistles from the crowd while she passed suggestive glances at Rebecca.

Honey ate it up, relishing how Becca’s face flushed at the attention. It triggered a cackle that Peter had never heard from her before. She teased her younger sibling gleefully as she danced around the dive bar with Miles and her other sisters.

Not being of legal drinking age, the teens were sober, but nobody else could tell. They all let loose, chasing a different kind of high.

Honey’s aura was as intoxicating as it was contagious. The woman radiated childlike energy, bright rays of sunlight burning through clouds. She was effervescent and enchanting, even as she fist-pumped through an improvised 80s training montage. She really was a maniac. And a sorceress.

When the DJ called Johnny’s name, she wildly applauded, hooting and hollering like they were in a saloon.

Johnny wasn’t even at “their table” anymore. He’d abandoned his party a half hour ago, instead preoccupied with charming the pressed linen pants off a group of elderly Japanese women. Each of them was adorned with pearl earrings, flowy pastel blouses, and a variety of sun hats perched atop carefully styled hair.

That whole exchange began when Johnny Storm swaggered up to their table, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive, flashing them a grin that had probably left a trail of broken hearts across multiple continents.

The tallest of the four women, the one with the silk scarf tied under her chin, exchanged a glance with her friends before giving Johnny a slow, assessing look. The one in the strawberry-patterned cardigan hid a giggle behind her hand, while the others sat up a little straighter, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Johnny, undeterred by their age or their unimpressed expressions, leaned in slightly. “Ladies,” he said in a velvet voice, “I have a feeling you’re the real stars of this place. Tell me—do any of you sing?”

The one with the visor, who had been stirring her drink with a tiny umbrella, let out a dramatic sigh. Like she had been waiting all night for this question.

“Young man,” she said, adjusting her pearls, “do you think we came here not to sing?”

Now, he was squeezed between his adoring fans. He’d bought the round of neon-colored cocktails they were sipping on through dainty straws. The women cheered for him with their perfectly manicured hands.

He tipped back his head and put a shot glass to his lips. In a second, the spicy cinnamon amber liquid was gone. He extinguished the fire in his throat with a growl, clanked the empty glass down on the tabletop, then pressed a quick kiss with an exaggerated ‘mwah’ to Strawberry-Patterned Cartigan’s cheek before pulling away.

The woman instantly flushed with shock, almond-shaped eyes going wide. Her friends burst into laughter, which had them shaking their delicate, birdlike shoulders. She brought a hand to her cheek as if to verify the audacious gesture was real.

Then, with the grace of a woman who had raised children and scolded many men in her time, she delivered a light but decisive smack to Johnny’s bicep—not in true anger, but in a way that sent the entire room into a fit of delighted laughter.

“You little scoundrel,” she huffed, though her lips twitched upward despite herself.

“I regret nothing!” he shrugged, taking the stage.

Speaking of “no regrets,” Johnny Storm nailed Shania Twain’s “That Don’t Impress Me Much.” And Peter was very much impressed.

The room transported to another dimension of reality, one where troubles were far away, and the only thing left behind was good cheer. Honey was the star at its center, Peter observed, an absolutely mesmerizing sight to behold. Her delight burned through everyone’s inhibitions and fear. Peter felt lightheaded and giddy witnessing her joy.

It was almost enough to distract him from the fact that Honey mandated everyone, including Peter, sing a song by themselves.

Peter wasn’t scared. He wasn’t.

He just wanted to die. His complexion turned a pale green. He gripped his bourbon so tightly it was a surprise the glass didn’t shatter.

It was like flipping a switch on a time machine. Honey’s request—no, Honey’s sadistic act of torture—reverted the most ruthless Mob Boss in New York back into an awkward, insecure teenager.

Singing in front of Honey that night at his old Baby Grand piano (the one he eventually, to his great embarrassment, tossed into a wall) was a rare display of vulnerability.

Peter remembered that night vividly. It was back in a time when Peter had wanted her so badly that he was willing to do anything. He would have sung her the entirety of Dear Evan Hansen if it brought them closer. If he could just touch—

Goddamnit, we’re really doing this all over again?

Honey’s given name was announced over the loudspeakers. Peter blinked in her direction, watching as she took another sip of her mojito, set down the glass, then bounced up to the microphone.

“This one goes out to someone special,” she purred. The slight slur in her voice from her buzz was almost undetectable.

She placed both hands on the microphone as a few bright, metallic guitar strums rang out through the giant speakers. Peter gulped, staring like a spaceship had landed in the middle of Central Park.

Honey’s eyes didn’t meet his directly. Instead, they scanned the room, seeing only her friends and several unimpressed (and frankly annoyed) patrons. “You know who you are.”

The lead electric guitar strummed the Major chords in an unhurried, lazy rhythm—

D-major, A-major, E-major, F-sharp minor...

Honey closed her eyes and crooned, “You make me come...”

Peter choked on his drink. Full-body short-circuited.

“Owww!” someone catcalled from the audience.

Peter had actually died, he was pretty sure.

But the melody repeated—

D, A, E, F-sharp major...

Now her eyes were fixed on Peter, the kind of mischief in her gaze that only meant trouble. “You make me com-ple-eete...”

The melody repeated. Honey failed to match the higher D-major note on the last syllable, falling a little flat. It wasn’t totally tone-deaf, but it was the kind of sound that triggered an eye twitch in those who were sensitive to off-key singing. Honey didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Peter didn’t criticize. He was still dead. Or speechless, his brain stalling during its system reboot.

At the next chord of F-sharp major, she found the right key again, heartachingly passionate as she laid out the next grenade of a lyric:

“You make me com-plete-ly miserable...”

The music died down momentarily, a dramatic pause in the song. A second later, the whole band—bass, drums, and guitar—roared back to life. The A-major chord thrashed in staccato jabs beneath Honey’s voice as she began the next part of the song.

Peter was still jarred from the force of the blast. The whole thing was a stunt, capped off with a not-so-subtle jab at his persistent demand for her attention. Or at least that’s how she saw it.

It was a stunt, right? That means I don’t have to actually sing now—?

A vibration in his pocket jolted him out of his daze.

Quickly, he grabbed his iPhone clad in a spider-adorned case. Miguel’s name lit up on the screen. Saved by the buzz. He hopped up from the table, phone to his ear, and shuffled out the front door.

A few minutes later, he was wrapping up the call. It was a straightforward status report. Enough to distract Peter from the karaoke bar but caused its own kind of stress.

Honey had invited Miguel and the others to Hawaii, but they all were suddenly busy—or so they said.

Peter knew Miguel wouldn’t be caught dead in a karaoke bar.

When the call was over, Peter tipped his head back and exhaled slowly. Fatigue weighed on his shoulders. He needed a vacation from the vacation. He pocketed his phone into his khaki trousers, brought his free fingers to his forehead, and rubbed at the worry lines there.

When he reopened his eyes, he stood beneath a canopy of stars. The moon hung low over the black ocean horizon, and the tide glistened in its light. Staring at the stars above felt like a mirror image of his experience staring at the streets beneath the Empire State Building. Peter stood on the edge of both worlds, belonging to neither.

No touching.

The thought was accompanied by the sensation of his body hairs standing on end. Lightning erupted beneath his skin, setting his nerves on fire. His hickory eyes blackened, pulling focus like an owl in the night until they found their target.

Honey stood alone outside the bar’s entrance, shifting her weight between her wedge sandals. Peter observed her, raising an eyebrow at how she wrapped her arms firmly around her middle. The curve of her spine and shoulders made her appear to be cocooning herself. Peter could feel waves of anxiety radiating from her.

That’s when he noticed the strange man lurking closer to her. He stood just over six feet, and with his silver hair and fake teeth, he looked old enough to be her father.

The tourist sported a crooked grin as if he had shared a joke, but Honey didn’t find it funny. Instead, she stepped back while he swaggered closer. Clearly drunk, his gait resembled a stumble. He wobbled just a foot away from her, which was eleven feet too close for Peter’s comfort.

“I’m jusss’ sayin’—” the creep slurred with a deep, gravelly voice. “I can getcha a drink.”

To anyone else, Honey remained calm and composed. No surprise there. For years, she fought for her life while hiding in plain sight.

But Peter knew her signs. Each time her eyes darted to the side, her alarm was as noticeable as sirens and flashing red lights. Her whole body signaled a fight-or-flight-or-fawn response. He didn’t rule out the possibility that feral was just as likely an outcome.

Stay away.

Peter waited, feet glued to the Earth. Not hesitating, but not moving. Not intervening. Not breaking the rules. Not crossing any lines. Not touching.

The glassy-eyed man reached for her. “You ain’t gotta be alone—”

“She’s not.”

They heard Peter’s voice before they noticed his presence. It was calm, but foreboding—like the stillness of a cemetery. The Earth seemed to quake from the quiet intensity radiating off of him.

Conversation stopped cold. He had their attention.

There was no urgency in Peter’s tone or movements. Just the slow, deliberate precision of someone who had already decided how this would end. He stood as a monolith, radiating darkness and authority. Like Anubis, ready to guide the dead to the underworld.

Honey blinked at him… several times. Peter loomed large over the drunk man with a sovereign sparkle in his eye. It was a serenely vicious display of what could only be described as reverent malice. The proud way the Devil gazes upon his own Kingdom in Hell.

No killing.

No blinking.

No touching.

Peter’s mouth made no sound, but his eyes spoke volumes.

11 - Don’t pick a fight you can’t win.

Her drunken predator scoffed dismissively as if he could read Peter’s mind. Simultaneously, he took a big step back and abruptly stumbled off. A heavy odor of sweat, sunscreen, alcohol, and piss-your-pants terror trailed behind him, while he muttered something that sounded like “whore” beneath his breath.

Peter didn’t bother watching the man leave. But when the threat was clear, he finally met her eyes.

Honey’s shoulders slowly relaxed, releasing the tension in her body. Despite her apparent calm, she seemed frustrated with herself for becoming flustered at all.

Peter’s gaze held no victory or smugness. Instead, he looked endearingly patient, like waiting for a signal of some kind.

11.5 - Never lose a fight that picks you.

Honey crossed her arms over her chest, feigning disinterest. “I had it handled,” she declared.

Amusement sparkled in his brown eyes. “Yeah?” he murmured with a slight head tilt.

Now, she was the one to huff. Honey sighed with irritation, shaking her head as she briskly walked back inside. “Go fuck yourself,” she grumbled, but without any actual malice to it.

By that time, the party was over.

Honey gave hasty goodbyes, explaining her drop in enthusiasm as exhaustion from an eventful week of travel. Her only desire was to go back to the hotel and crash. She didn’t object when Peter insisted on walking her. He was unsure if she was finally accepting his help or if she was too tired to argue.

They walked side-by-side down a main road in unhurried silence.

Peter stole a few anxious glances at her, observing with concern the way her brows drew together pensively. Unexpressed feelings tugged at the edges of Honey’s smile like an argument was on the tip of her tongue. She didn’t seem like she had enough energy to fight.

Peter didn’t know which scenario was worse.

The uncomfortable silence ended with a whack.

Both of them froze mid-step, halted by the familiar sound. Like a baseball hitting a leather mitt. It was the unmistakable sound of a fist to flesh. The next noise was all wrong. It was a strangled, breathless shriek. It was like shattering glass, a foreign wail that was too high-pitched for any man or woman.

The cry of a terrified child in pain.

Wide-eyed, Peter and Honey snapped their gazes over to the source. Shadows played beneath the fronds of a palm tree on the street corner, the canopy illuminated by a golden streetlamp. They concealed the figures of a man, a woman, and a smaller person between them.

A boy, they noted—a baby. No older than three. The family likeness was unmistakable. The boy’s father had his tiny forearm twisted up behind his back. The child was screaming like his arm was broken, his face soaked with hot tears that glistened in the streetlights. He shrieked and wailed—like a toddler should.

Standing a few feet away from the boy and his father, the woman watched the scene in silence. She hugged herself while swaying slightly, her eyes drifting in and out of focus.

That look, both Peter and Honey knew very well. Judging by the scene, it wasn’t the first time this had happened.

Peter jumped to action, rushing from Honey’s side. He caught the grown man’s arm just as he was about to strike his son a second time. By the time the father looked back to see who interrupted him, Peter had already crushed the bones in his wrist.

The boy tumbled to the ground, still sobbing with an added level of panic. But his cries were overshadowed by the howl that tore from his father’s throat.

Honey watched in horror as the man’s entire arm seized in Peter’s grip, his useless fingers twitching helplessly. The father was on his knees, staring up at Peter with sudden desperation. His breath came in ragged gasps, the pain suffocating him.

Peter appeared to wait a few moments, not for the screaming to stop, but for his victim to come to terms with what just happened.

The crime boss had no remorse in his eyes. No shame to be found, not even for the pleasure he took in splintering the man’s bones. He exacted justice. He righted a wrong. It was as simple as that.

Panicked screams persisted, with the boy’s mother now shrieking. Terrified, she clung her sobbing child tightly to her chest and fled the scene.

Peter appeared unaffected, leaning down close to the whimpering man’s ear. He placed a calming hand on the shuddering man’s back.

“Next time,” he whispered, sharing a secret that was cast down like a curse, “I take the whole thing.”

Once Peter let go, the father flattened on the ground, crumbling faster than his carpal bones. The situation ended as Peter stepped backward, leaving the man to writhe on the pavement alone.

An eerie calm fell over them, contrasting the pounding of their hearts.

Then, Peter directed his attention on Honey, studying her with worry. She blinked at him, wide-eyed and shaken, as he closed the gap between them. His hands surrounded her shoulders, his fingers gripping her tight. The action seemed as if he was reassuring himself.

An unspoken exchange between them set them off towards the hotel.

They walked briskly, his hand on her lower back to guide her and keep her moving. His pulse wasn’t racing—he wasn’t panicked. But he remained on high alert, scanning their surroundings even though the immediate threat seemed to be over.

His main concern was Honey. Her heavy silence left him wondering how she processed everything. The pressure didn’t let up until they stood in front of the gated entryway to Peter’s villa. It wasn’t located near the luxury suites where Honey stayed with her sisters, but she didn’t question it.

The entrance to the private villa was secluded, with lush greenery forming an arbor that nearly enclosed them completely. The shroud of nightfall was almost like a protective bubble around them. It was the closest thing to a haven that Peter had within 5,000 miles.

He was still holding her close, though they didn’t move to go inside. The distant rolling surf and heavy evening air helped to calm them down.

At some point, they both looked down. Peter’s eyes widened in horror to see a bloody handprint on the dress’ waist. It was from where Peter’s hand had been. The blood belonged to the father, obviously, but he snatched his hand away like he’d been burned.

It was Peter who appeared to be struggling now. A storm of emotions raged behind his eyes, an amalgamation of relief, revenge, and regret. Honey kept peering at him, at his hands, and at his face. He could almost see the moment replaying in her mind endlessly. She was either at a loss for words or silenced by her fear of him.

“Honey...” Peter stuttered, trying to find his voice.

He jabbed his fingers into his hair, running them across his scalp. His voice was thick in his throat, making it harder to breathe, and every sound died before it left his mouth.

“I... You... I-I-I—”

“I’m sorry,” she replied abruptly. Melancholy filled her eyes.

He raised an eyebrow at that. “Wh... what?”

“About tonight,” she explained, but her explanation only confused him further. “About the karaoke bar. And about my song.”

It took several moments for Peter’s baffled mind to catch up, during which he’d side-eyed her like she’d grown another head. She was apologizing...? For karaoke? For that 90s song?

He didn’t know the song well or remember the band’s name, but he had a vague recollection of a 50-foot-tall Pamela Anderson-giant in a sporty bikini. He did, however, remember the song’s takeaway: “You make me miserable.”

“It was—it was very rude of me,” Honey admitted remorsefully, a small line forming between her brows.

Peter blinked, still unsure how to respond. “I’m... sorry...? I’m sorry,” he mumbled despite his confusion. She continued to study the flagstone beneath her toes. He tucked his chapped lip between his teeth, pondering quietly as the tension between them faded.

A sheepish half-smile warmed his face. “I’m, uh... sorry I didn’t get to hear the rest of it,” Peter said. He slipped both hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

Honey released her lip and sucked in a courageous breath. “I shouldn’t have made you feel like you were forced to sing,” she confessed. “That was... not cool.”

“Nah,” he chuckled lightly. “You were great. Everybody had fun.”

“Not you,” she frowned, still hardly able to meet his eyes. “You weren’t having fun.”

“That’s just ‘cos I’m a pussy and I had no clue what to sing,” Peter revealed to her conspiratorially, scrunching his nose and bobbing his head from side to side. “It’s- it’s like my mind went blank. Just... ‘Happy Birthday’ and ‘The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air,’ and no way was that gonna happen.”

The conversation fell silent again, but the mood had shifted. The waves seemed calmer in the distance.

“I would’ve liked to hear it,” Honey added as an afterthought. She met his eyes with a genuine spark. “Whatever you would’ve chosen.”

They were quiet again, suspended in time and space, with Peter caught in her endearing gaze. It made him want to melt. It was like staring into the sun, where he could only observe her light in fleeting glances. Meanwhile, his hands in his pockets ached for her warmth.

It felt like they were on the precipice of their journey.

“Are you, um—” she cleared her throat while her fingers twisted the edge of her sleeve. “Are you going to invite me in?”

Peter froze at her modest question as his thoughts came to a standstill. Too many seconds went by with Peter staring at her like a flustered fool, his lashes fluttering.

“Y-you mean... to-to stay?”

He framed it like a question, but he simultaneously nodded his head in unspoken agreement as if there were no doubt. At this point, he was afraid to make any assumptions. Worried that he possibly misunderstood, Peter added, “Or did you want— I-I-I can... get a different room—?”

“Stay,” she whispered, feather-soft.

The simple reply left her lips while her eyes contained volumes of words—entire essays on longing and fear of intimacy that she had memorized and was prepared to defend. Sonnets penned with heartfelt sincerity.

“Stay with me.”

Peter didn’t look away. He stared back, questioning if his eyes and ears were lying to him. Wordlessly, he watched as she reached over, freed his hand from his pocket, and pressed her palm to his.

He studied the action intently, trying to document every moment. Only letting his eyes shut when their fingers wove together. Peter was enraptured, awestruck at the way her touch soothed him, as chaste as it was. He was suddenly lightheaded, heart thrumming in his ears, and he craned his neck forward. With tenderness, he pressed a soft kiss to her hairline, taking a moment to rest his chin against her hair.

Their last night in Hawaii was spent in each other’s arms, adorning one another with tender kisses and comforting caresses. They melted into each other. Every blissful moment Peter spent inside of her felt like a wildfire, setting his soul on fire. The lines between their bodies blurred like smoke billowing and twisting in the wind.

Admittedly, Peter had forgotten what this was like. The signs were familiar; their hair was damp from perspiration. Their sweaty chests heaved as they panted from the exertion. The rhythmic pounding of skin connecting with skin overlaid with the melody of their moans. The pitch ranged from soul-shattering groans to helpless whimpers while they poured filthy words and devoted praise into each other’s ears.

It wasn’t fucking. It wasn’t just sex.

It was something Peter had only experienced a few times in his life. Gwen was the first— the first woman he’d ever made love to. Honey was the second. There was nothing Peter wouldn’t sacrifice to have her be the last.

Two hours after they landed in New York, the couple stood outside of a different entrance. In the hallway outside of Honey’s apartment, stray voices from televisions turned too loud, and shrieking young children competed with the echo of distant sirens. Overhead, a flickering yellow bulb buzzed like it resented the effort.

Peter avoided having his gaze linger too long at the stained carpet beneath his Flower Moon lace-up trainers. The floor stains blended well with the frenetic carpet pattern that reminded him of an old movie theater.

Her building was uncomfortably warm—and so humid for a moment he thought he was still in Hawaii—but he avoided criticism about it. He made a mental note to have one of his associates pay a visit to that useless Super, so they could “discuss his timeline” on getting the A/C fixed.

He had the handle of Honey’s suitcase in his palm, having carried it up the stairs for her. A chartered car waited outside her building.

The two of them stood facing each other in front of her door, a pregnant pause between them.

“So,” Honey timidly began, pointing with her eyes. “This is me.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed. “I wish it wasn’t.” A tinge of blue colored the statement as it sat unanswered.

She cast her glance down at her shoes. “Thanks again… for everything.”

“Oh, yeah…it was— um, it was nothin.’” Sheepishly, he looked everywhere but at her, and when he finally did, he found her studying him. Her gaze was soft and curious.

“It’s not nothing,” she said, resolved. “We never went on any family trips. At least not like that.”

He blinked at her several times, not sure what to say.

“I’ve got an early shift,” Honey sighed, glancing at her door handle expectantly.

“Oh? Oh. Yeah, right. You, uh, gotta—”

“Clean up around here. Tackle some of this laundry—“

“I, uh—yeah, I get it, I gotta, um—“

“You don’t have any laundry to do.”

“Well, no—"

"Someone else does it."

"I, um—”

“I don’t think you know how to do laundry.”

Pink traveled up the back of his neck and painted his cheeks a lovely color. “I remember how to do laundry,” he argued coyly. “It’s-it’s easy—”

“Someone folds it for you, too. Turns your briefs into tiny little squares.”

“One mishap. I had one laundry mishap—”

“Aren’t you, like, a scientist or something?” Her lips curved into a cheeky grin.

“I am perfectly capable of laundry,” Peter gently affirmed. A thousand-watt grin adorned his face. “I have a Ph.D. in laundry from the school of… cleaning.”

“Don’t worry. Your laundry handicap is safe with me,” she teased.

Peter turned his head away, unable to shake the smile off his face. “You seem like you’re an expert in this field.”

Honey pursed her lips, with courage balled up in her throat. “Well, maybe I can teach you.” Her eyes caught his. “If you’re not too busy.”

For the second time in 24 hours, Peter questioned his hearing. Confronted with her fluttering lashes and somewhat suggestive tone, his jaw hung open like it had forgotten its purpose.

“Do you want to come inside?” Honey stated clearly, purposefully—recognizing his distress.

Peter gawked at her like a pot of gold, transfixed by the preciousness of the moment. He felt like swallowing a powerline just to get his tongue to move. “I…uh…”

“C’mon, don’t make me use some dumb, teenage boy metaphor," she rolled her eyes playfully. "I'm not gonna ‘help you with your load—’”

"I can’t," he blurted, with the pain and urgency of ripping off a bandaid.

The smile fell from her lips just as abruptly. For a moment, they were both stunned.

“Oh.” She quickly redirected her gaze.

Peter bit his tongue, his brain screaming at him to recover. He tried to think of some kind of explanation, knowing that a simple ‘no’ wasn’t going to be enough.

“I-I-I have—I’m… I’m sorry, I gotta—” He took a breath. “I just—I-I have this—y’know—”

She nodded stiffly. “Yeah, I get it.”

“It’s not that—I would. I want to—”

“You’re busy. I get it.”

“It’s just this—um, this, uh—thing I have. Johnny and me. And Miguel. And Jess. It’s uh-a-a meeting. Hotel business, y’know. Numbers and boring stuff—”

“You don’t have to lie.”

It was a soft declaration that felt like a stab to Peter’s stomach. Her gaze was razor sharp, while her face retained a tight-lipped smile.

Peter shook his head more aggressively. He looked at her the way a captain watches his ship sink. "No, no, I’m not—"

"I had a really good time, Peter," Honey interrupted, with her hand on the doorknob. “Thanks again.”

Before he knew it, he found himself standing alone in front of her closed door. Almost entirely full circle.

Closing his eyes, he let his head fall backward with a heavy sigh. His fingers twitched at his side, debating whether or not he should knock.

Peter’s phone once again came to the rescue, but he yanked the device out of his pocket with a scowl on his face.

An unread message was waiting for him. He already knew who it was from. The phone unlocked with a scan of his face, then the encrypted app unlocked once he entered a six digit code—041894.

A message was waiting for him, sent from a contact only labeled by two emojis.

Don’t use real names.

🇮🇹🏋️ “Where are you? We had a meeting.”

Peter’s immediate reaction was a wince. Out of an abundance of caution, he glanced over his shoulder, despite him being alone in the hallway.

Somebody’s always watching.

Gritting his teeth, he tapped out a reply.

🕷️ “Late. Got held up.”

Respect appointments.

🇮🇹🏋️ “I’m putting my ass on the line for you. The least you could do is be on time.”

Respect partners.

🕷️ “Don’t go gettin’ your panties too wet. I’m not far.”

🇮🇹🏋️ “If you stab me in the back on this, it’s your funeral.”

The Boss pursed his lips at that. Part of him wanted to snark right back. He’d hate to disappoint.

🕷️ “Threatening again? And I was gonna use 👅”

🇮🇹🏋️ “I don’t need to remind you of what’s at stake.”

Peter bit down on his tongue, feeling his stomach suddenly churn. He glanced back at Honey’s door, recalling the trip he’d finished. The memories he’d made.

Honey never went on any family vacations. Neither had Peter. The difference was that Peter had gone so long without a family, he didn’t know what to do once he’d found one. He still didn’t know.

🇮🇹🏋️ “Don’t forget. You came to me. This was your plan.”

Doubt suddenly filled his mind—not just about his plan, but also this “family” thing.

Peter had never considered his associates as family. The most attachment he had was to Miles. Mostly, he’d felt sorry for the kid and maybe a little protective of him. Considering how he met Miles, that was understandable.

Miles was nearly killed because his uncle was a punk. Couldn’t keep his business separate from his family.

Don’t pick a fight you can’t win.

Business and family are a volatile mix. That’s why Peter wouldn’t get mixed up in ‘families.’

Or... he hadn’t. Not yet.

He hadn’t met Honey. During the short time they were together, she wove a tapestry into his heart, pulling together threads that went unseen. He hadn’t noticed them for years. Knowing her forced the tapestry to take form: the picture of Peter’s family was finally clear.

It was almost worth risking everything. But winning? It was worth losing it all.

He chewed on the rough skin of his lower lip, eyes narrowing on the blinking cursor on his screen. Then brought his thumbs to the keyboard.

🕷️ “Slow down, tiger. You keep ridin’ my ass like that, you’re gonna make me cream my pants right here.”

As soon as he hit ‘send,’ Peter heard the familiar ding of a microwave. His eyes flicked toward the source. Like Pavlov’s Bell, he was conditioned to it. And a split second later, he made a choice.

Fuck it. Frank can wait.

🕷️ “Ttyl, babe. gotta take care of a little problem.”

Peter shoved the phone back in his pocket, throwing himself towards Honey’s door. His fist went wild, knocking erratically. Seconds later, he heard her footsteps approach, alarmed. When the door opened up, she gazed up at him with owlish eyes.

“M’m sorry,” Peter leaned inwards on the doorframe. “I seem to have forgotten something.”

Her brows shot to her hairline. “Oh?” She glanced over her shoulder to where her suitcase was parked—that sweetheart—an apology of some kind was already on her tongue. She looked worried, like she was about to ask him if she accidentally switched toothbrushes.

When she faced him again, Peter’s lips were on hers. His hands cupped her cheeks, fingertips crawling across her scalp. Honey’s body was stiff for a moment, but then she melted like butter with a swipe of his tongue. Her body softened until he scooped her up in his arms, his hands kneading the flesh on the back of her thighs.

Peter pushed her over the threshold. With abandon, he let his tongue brush against hers like he wanted to commit it to memory. Both of her arms went from his shoulders to his nape, hooking herself around his neck as she groaned into his mouth.

The vibration from her groan triggered another one from deep in his belly. He let his fingers wander across the silky fiber of her leggings, greedily squeezing the mounds of her ass while grinding her warmth against his waist.

“I forgot...” he muttered in staccato breaths between kisses, “turns out... you’re the only... thing that I give a shit about.”

Honey hissed as his fingertips prodded at her heat through her tights. Her eyes rolled back at the pleasure, and it took her a moment to regain her focus.

She found Peter staring up at her with a dopey half-smile. His eyes were a different story; full, unbridled passion burned inside their amber hue. Pure admiration glowed in his gaze, with tiny laugh lines that shot out like sun rays from the outside corners of his eyes.

One of his hands traveled beneath her shirt, gliding up the skin of her back. She shuddered at the touch, meeting his lips hungrily for another batch of kisses. He let her control the kiss, relishing in the sublime feeling of her nails across his scalp while her tongue played with his.

It was a crime to pull away. But he was a criminal, after all.

“Jus’so you know, you were right,” Peter interrupted, stealing his lips away from her as much as she would allow. “I gotta huge load that I need you to help me with—”

The laugh that burst from her lips was punctuated by a snort. He basked in the light of her grin, idly kicking his foot backward against the door. The door latch clicked as it slammed closed.

@blooming-violets @moonyslove78 @raindropsandteaandtears @withahappyrefrain @sincericida @lanadelreyscokewhor3 @backtothefanfiction @zhanylai @webslingingslasher @moonstruckme

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