#I updated clip and it messed w my brush settings so these are a bit wonky but they are full of serotonin so <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[derelictdumbass]

Very self indulgent doodles of the Seeds and the Sinclaire kiddos <3

[boonki]

something there, something more

a little continuation of a fever prompt, the first part here and the second part by @sonderwalker here! from this prompt list 

Cheers to our pining boys stuck together in the snow

______

The email he had been anxiously awaiting for dings his phone, and in the early morning light of his room, only a single lamp to illuminate the intimate space, he rolls over in bed to fumble it from the nightstand, blinking at the bright screen. 

To the University of Washington community, 

For the safety of our students and staff, classes have been cancelled for the day due to the snow conditions and road closures. Please wait for updates from your teachers on how best to proceed with assignments and exams. Updates on future cancellations will be issued nightly no later than 7 pm. Best, 

President Palpatine 

The same giddy relief that once met him as a college student still worms its way into his heart as a professor, an unexpected day off, no plans ahead of him, just hours and hours of free time. Except, he supposes, a quick email out to his students to continue their essays as normal and wait for the update on Friday’s class. He isn’t sad about losing the day’s lesson plan, it had mostly been a filler class. 

He hums lazily, a sleepy grin pulling his lips back. 

For the first time in weeks, he clicks the lock button and rolls over, stuffing his face into his pillow, and falls back asleep. 

___

Hours later, the sun already cresting in the sky, hidden behind layers and layers of clouds shedding snow, he pads around his kitchen, pulling ingredients out of his fridge and pantry: carrots, chicken, celery, chicken broth, some garlic, an onion, and some noodles. 

When he was younger, his mom had always whipped together chicken noodle soup on the colder days, and when she passed away when he was a teenager, he kept the tradition alive. In the silent, airy space of the kitchen, he feels closer to her cutting up the ingredients and carefully dropping them into the pot, can feel her gentle hand guiding him. The ache of her death has long since passed, but Obi-wan can’t help but wish she were here with him, oiling the stove for the chicken and passing him the garlic to press. 

Somehow, in the many, many years since her death, the habit of cooking for two hasn’t left him; every time he makes this recipe, he ends up with days worth of leftovers. 

The wood floor is cold beneath his bare feet; he didn’t think to put warm clothing on before coming downstairs, head still foggy from sleeping past noon. He knows his hair is sticking out in every direction, and that he could probably use a quick beard trim, but there isn’t anyone to judge him here. No pets, no roommates, just him and his big empty house. 

The smell of the soup bubbles up at him: rich and inviting. He takes a spoon and sips on the broth, using his teeth to grab a very hot carrot that mashes easily in his mouth, a good sign that he can turn the heat down to let it simmer while he gets ready for the day. Some small part of him knows his destination, but the majority of him is still in denial. He has so much soup to share, though. Why let it go to waste? Besides, it’ll be a quick drop off so he can come home and finish the blanket he’s knitting, maybe read a few chapters of his library books. There’s something about an expected day off that makes the mundane feel enthralling. 

He pads back upstairs, lost in thought as he goes through the motions of pulling a sturdy wool sweater over his head, brushing his teeth, combing his hair back, ignoring the shoddy state of his beard. Anakin had looked so horrible the other day, all pale skin and hollowed out eyes, his voice catching on itself, and god, his cough. Worry pangs Obi-wan’s heart, did Anakin have anyone to take care of him? Make sure he doesn’t die of a fever? He can’t go out in this weather to get take-out, and there’s no way he would be cooking with the state he’s in. 

In the back of his head, Obi-wan knows there are very large excuses he’s making for the car crash of the truth: he wants to go see Anakin. 

When he gets back downstairs, the soup is perfect. His mom would be proud. 

___

Snow cakes the road ahead of him, and what should have been a ten minute drive turns into a forty minute one. Obi-wan thinks he has at least six different knots in his back and neck from sitting so close to the steering wheel the entire time, peering intently through the fast-paced windshield wipers as if the effort of looking harder would have any effect on his ability to see in front of him. When he finally pulls up in front of Anakin’s apartment building and finds a neat little spot to back his car into, he lets out a deep breath and slumps into his seat. Maybe this was not as good of an idea as he had hoped it would be. 

He hadn’t even texted. Should he text Anakin? Is showing up at his door, soup in hand, too much? Too forward? Obi-wan is already anxious about pushing the bounds of their relationship too far; what if Anakin thought he was trying to groom him, thought he was a creepy old man with nothing better to do?

Obi-wan hits his head against the steering wheel. 

The weird thing is, he doesn’t mind how inappropriate their relationship had become. Obi-wan had liked coming to his building, liked texting him about casual plans. He just worries his enthusiasm is one-sided. 

It’s been so long since he’s had anything resembling a relationship, so he feels brand new to it again; it’s like riding a bike: the skill will never leave you, but if you take a ten year gap, you might need to wobble a bit before you glide. Obi-wan is wobbling. 

Because he does have a crush, doesn’t he? Isn’t that why he’s here, sitting in his cooling car with homemade soup, outside of some boy’s apartment building? Why else would he go to such measures- especially on his day off? God, he feels so juvenile. 

He hits his head on the steering wheel again. 

The cold is starting to seep through the seams of the car, so he takes a deep breath, grabs his soup, and steps out into the snow. It crunches underneath his boots, leaving a trail of footprints all the way to the door of the building, which swings open easily for Obi-wan. 

He fishes his phone out of his pocket. Anakin had texted which one he lived in, but it had felt too… like too much, last time he came. He hadn’t wanted to intrude on Anakin’s personal space.

#344. 

The elevator ride is both too short and too fast, his anxiety rising with each floor. What if Anakin didn’t like chicken noodle soup? He definitely should’ve texted. But the doors glide open and the wide expanse of the hall looms in front of him, stretching for what seems like forever in both directions. The floorplan seems to be circular; a little guide that reads “301-322 left, 323-344 right” with arrows points him in the right direction, so he sets off to the right, each step waking up a new butterfly in his stomach. 

When he reaches 344, he stares at the door for a moment, considering the fact that Anakin is on the other side of the thin wall, completely unaware of Obi-wan. Something yanks at him to turn back, but Obi-wan would feel even more pathetic if he went home with a full bowl of soup, and Anakin does probably need it, so. Here goes nothing. 

The bell ding-dongs from the interior, the sound muffled. Obi-wan hears nothing, and then slow footsteps and a lock being unlatched. 

Anakin is wearing his sweater. 

“Obi-w- Professor Kenobi, hey,” Anakin rasps out, eyes wide open, clearly startled, and sounding a bit better than he had a few days ago, but not by much. His bangs are held back by a little clip, shooting a tuft of hair straight into the air. “Sorry if I missed your text, I’ve been asleep-” 

“Ah,” Obi-wan shuffles in place, embarrassed. “I didn’t text, which I realize now that I should have, but-”

“No,” Anakin cuts in, “that’s okay.” 

They stand there in awkward silence before Anakin points at the bowl Obi-wan is clutching to his chest. 

“You brought soup?” 

Obi-wan looks down to the container like he’s never seen it before, cheeks burning like lava. “Yes! I, well, you see my mother and I always made soup when it snowed, and I always make extra, so I thought you’d, well,” he chances a peek at Anakin, whose features are slackened in a soft smile, “I thought you could use some given that you’re sick and it’s snowing.” 

“Have you eaten yet?” Anakin asks, ignoring his bumbling explanation. 

“No,” he thinks back, “I didn’t get the chance.”

Anakin drags his door open and steps back, gesturing for Obi-wan to come inside. “Let’s share, then.” 

Obi-wan balks at the open door, because he knows once he crosses that threshold there is no going back between them. He’d have officially been in Anakin’s apartment, sharing homemade soup with Anakin, taking care of him while he’s sick. The intimacy of seeing how someone lives, to see all the details of their existence on display, who they are when no one else is around… that sort of intimacy frightens Obi-wan. 

“I don’t want to be an imposition,” he starts, only to get cut off by a particularly nasty sneeze from Anakin. “Bless you.”

“You’re not, so come on.” Anakin reaches forward and tugs on his arm, and really, Obi-wan has no choice. 

While he had never actively imagined Anakin’s living space, he had always assumed it would be something akin to a sparse bachelor pad, dirty and meant for college students who couldn’t afford any better. But this is a pleasant surprise: a black rug and couch sits neatly against the wall of a tidy and cozy living room, branching off to a kitchen and a door Obi-wan assumes is Anakin’s bedroom. There are a few mirrors behind the couch, and a few (fake?) plants spotted around the room, even a candle on the coffee table. 

Anakin leads him into the kitchen and Obi-wan sees now this is where the mess lies; computer parts, nuts, bolts, tools, and loose wires scatter the counter, leaving little room for anything else save the sink and a hand towel. He stands there and waits for Anakin to clear a space for the bowl, muttering about how he didn’t know company would be over otherwise he would’ve picked up a little. 

Obi-wan doesn’t know if he even wants to ask what Anakin is making. 

The bowl is transferred into the microwave, cooking for a few minutes on low to properly reheat, and Obi-wan sets out to find some spoons so he’s not left in awkward, still silence. 

“Sorry there’s no table, I never really have anyone over and it takes up so much space, so,” Anakin is blushing, either embarrassed to have someone over or still running a fever. Maybe a bit of both. “Oh, here, in that drawer,” he motions to Obi-wan, crowding into his space to pull open the drawer. Obi-wan stiffens at their proximity; he can feel the heat pouring off of Anakin, and he grips the spoons like his life depends on it. 

They perch by the counter, listening to the hum of the microwave. 

“What are you doing during winter break?” Anakin asks him, breaking the quiet. 

Obi-wan breaths in, thinking of his answer. “I’m not sure, probably just relax. Maybe work on my library books, plan for winter quarter.” 

Anakin scoffs, and it turns into a full blown hacking spree. When he’s done, he winces. “Sorry, your plans are so sad my whole body freaked out.” 

He snorts. “My plans aren’t sad. What are you doing, then?” 

“Well, now that I’ve graduated, I suppose I should be looking for a job, so probably that.” Anakin stares up at the soup rotating in the microwave in contemplation. 

Something small and sad tugs at Obi-wan’s heart. He had forgotten that Anakin wouldn’t be around anymore. No more impromptu office visits. 

“But,” Anakin continues, “it would be nice to have help with my resume and interviewing.” He glances at Obi-wan out of the corner of his eyes. 

The microwave beeps: the soup is finished reheating. 

“Of course, I’d be happy to help.” Obi-wan says, warmth flooding his tone. He’s grateful that Anakin still wants him in his life, still wants his help. 

Anakin sniffles and splits the soup into two bowls, handing one to Obi-wan, who is still holding both their spoons. 

“You wanna watch something? We can sit on the couch.” Anakin says, and motions for Obi-wan to follow. Obi-wan tentatively settles into the couch, which is surprisingly cushy, as Anakin flips open Netflix and pulls up The Great British Baking Show. 

“Is this okay? It’s kind of addictive.” Anakin looks suddenly self-conscious about his choice in television, grabbing a set of glasses from his coffee table. They are way too big for him and nearly slide down his nose in seconds. Obi-wan might combust. 

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.” 

Anakin shifts. “Only to see long distances, I mostly just use them for watching things.” 

Obi-wan nods at that, and throws a hand up in the air towards the TV screen. “This is fine, I like cooking shows.” 

“They’re definitely my guilty pleasure, I’ve always wished I was better at cooking.” Anakin blows on the soup on his spoon, eyes glued to the TV.

The hosts introduce the challenge, and Obi-wan looks down at his soup, stirring it all absentmindedly. “I can teach you, if you want. My mom passed a lot onto me before she, well.” Obi-wan smiles at him. “I’d like to think I’m a pretty good cook.” 

Anakin pushes his glasses back on his face. “If the soup is anything to go by, I believe you.” 

He chuckles, shifting his attention back to the TV. Helping Anakin find a job, teaching him how to cook- they’re both just trying to find excuses to stay in each other’s lives. It’d be endearing if it weren’t so sad. 

The episode drags out, a winner is named and someone gets sent home, and Anakin and Obi-wan are long finished with their soup, the bowls having been discarded onto the coffee table a while ago. When the credits roll, neither of them get up, and the next episode autoplays. Obi-wan hopes he isn’t overstaying his visit, but Anakin seems comfortable and relaxed. Anakin offers him a blanket, and Obi-wan drapes it over his lower body, slouching further into the couch. 

Over the next few hour long episodes, they seem to inch closer, fully lounging now. Jokes are made, laughter is shared, and Obi-wan keeps handing him tissues, grateful that he isn’t wiping his snot on the sweater’s sleeve. 

He still can’t believe he’s sitting here on Anakin’s couch, watching a cooking show, while Anakin sits next to him wearing one of his sweaters. 

Maybe he is the one with a delirious fever? 

The fourth episode draws to a close, and Obi-wan spares a glance at one of the windows, where the afternoon had faded into evening. “I still don’t think she should have won, did you see the state of her frosting?” He stands up and stretches, sighing in relief when a few of his bones pop, laughing when Anakin’s do the same. “I should probably get going, though, it’s getting dark.” 

But when the pair make it to the window, they are greeted by glistening white, snow almost completely covering the cars parked outside. There’s no way he can drive home in this, and they both know it. The air seems to thicken between them. 

“Hey, you can crash on the couch and drive home once the snowplow has been through?” Anakin, though standing right next to him, seems miles away, his tone small and unsure. 

“Surely not, you’ve already let me stay long as it is. I’ll…” he trails off, thinking. 

“What, walk home?” Anakin supplies, shaking his head. “Absolutely not, you can stay. I don’t mind,” he places a hand on Obi-wan’s arm, “really.” 

“You’re right, I don’t have much of a choice.” Obi-wan laughs under his breath. Still, if he did have the choice, he’d want to stay. Not that he’d ever admit that to Anakin. 

Anakin takes the few steps back to the couch, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around himself like a cape. “Well, should we finish the season then?” 

_____

It’s midnight by the time the pair are too tired to stay awake, drifting off into separate spaces. 

“Can I borrow something to sleep in?” Obi-wan asks Anakin, who is standing in the doorway to his room. From what Obi-wan can see, it looks a lot like the living room, all blacks and soft fabrics. 

Anakin’s eyes widen. “Uh, yes. Hold on.” He disappears into his room and comes back with a blue flannel pajama set. “Here, the bathroom is just across the kitchen.” 

Obi-wan takes the little pile of clothing from him with a soft thanks and retreats to the bathroom to change. The pants are entirely too long on him, and the shirt hangs on him, clearly meant for someone who has a little broader shoulders. But the set smells like Anakin, and Obi-wan wants to breathe it in forever. 

When he comes out, Anakin bites back a smile, holding his lower lip between his teeth. He doesn’t say anything though, and Obi-wan is both disappointed and relieved. 

“So there’s a bunch of blankets on the couch for you, let me know if you need anything else.” He says, backing into his room. 

Obi-wan clears his throat. “Of course. Goodnight, Anakin.” 

Anakin dips his head and closes his door. “Goodnight.”

In the dark of the living room, Obi-wan shakes the blankets out so they lay flat over the couch, and slips his legs under them to get comfortable, laying on back to stare at the ceiling. 

What a day. 

If someone had told him this was what his snow day would’ve looked like, he would’ve laughed in their face. Just under two weeks ago, they had been huddled together in his office, working on Anakin’s paper like normal. And now, he’s spending the night at Anakin’s apartment. And while Anakin technically isn’t a student anymore, and certainly not his student any more by a long shot, there’s still a sticky and uncomfortable unease sitting in his gut; he doesn’t know how old Anakin is, but Obi-wan is surely much older than him. Plus, he doesn’t know if there’s a power play at hand, what if Anakin just thinks he’s being a creepy old man and feels obligated to let him stay? 

But he thinks about the way Anakin’s flashed with happiness when Obi-wan laughed at one of his jokes during the show, the way they inched towards each other, Anakin’s face when Obi-wan came out of the bathroom in his pajamas. 

Needless to say, Obi-wan doesn’t get much sleep. Instead, he thinks about the fact that Anakin is also lying down, just a thin apartment wall in between them, and watches the large snowflakes drift down in silent waves outside. 

Obi-wan wonders if Anakin is sleeping in his sweater. He hopes he is. 

[sergeanttpoliteness]

➹one make out session, please➹ (peter b. parker x reader)

The sad and divorced man who's become a regular for the past year is constantly spilling his emotions to you, his favorite bartender. This wasn't something new; you can't count with both of your hands the times you've heard someone recount the odyssey of their life. But these flutters in your stomach were definitely something you didn't experience with your customers, and you definitely did not end up making out with them at the end of the night. Maybe Peter B. was your only exception, though.

(PART II) 

word count: 7.1k (sorry)

a/n: i tried like 8484 times to add a gif but tumblr wouldn’t let me so ((:: hello @ whoever’s reading this tho!! love how i went from 2k to 7k words lol, i’m sorry about that i don’t know how it happened. feel free to help me out w ideas and send requests if you want (: hope u enjoy !! Tiresome was a massive understatement when it came to having to describe enduring the same routine most nights. Not that you slept peacefully like a newborn baby all the time before taking a job as a bartender at the bar; but once in a while, when you returned home and watched the bright red numbers of the clock switch to 5 o’clock in the morning since your brain was punishing you by not giving you your well deserved rest, you sure did miss those simpler times when you didn’t work at night. Yes, at first it may be amusing to watch a drunk customer go haywire as they try to understand the meaning of life, and it’s nice listening to the story of how someone ended up drinking five shots of tequila that evening. You relished listening to other people’s problems, their stories, their lives— perhaps because, as much as it ashamed you to admit it, you didn’t make much out of yours. However, two years of the same old passed, and soon enough, every conversation and dusk began to blur together; everything became a monotonous daze, like an old movie replaying endlessly every week. The obvious route would be to quit your job as a bartender before you lost your mind, but the old lady who owned the bar paid somewhat generously considering the career— both with affection and money— and, despite how cocky it might’ve sounded, you knew well that the customers would be lost without your glorious daiquiris and margaritas. You’d also grown fond of the few people there and the new friends you made once in a while; you didn’t have the exact explanation as to why, but whilst you were in that hazy trance, you were quite the charmer. 

Every night was just like that: nothing more than a few more hours to your life, until a man who you guessed was probably nearing his forties and with a really, really nice nose (what could you say? You had an appreciation for the art of beautiful noses), dropped on the stool directly in front of you with a heavy sigh.

“One whiskey served over ice, please.” He muttered, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. You didn’t think much about it as your hands got to work and moments later handed the man his drink. You later spent your time trying to distract yourself with the preparation of other beverages, yet your eyes were drawn to him momentarily once or twice. Even as you talked with a tourist— a woman from Croatia asking about the best restaurants and stores in the city— the image of the guy itched at the back of your head, and you couldn’t figure out why. He was attractive, you decided, in spite of his rugged looks; he honestly appeared as if a train had hit him. Whether it was a physical or emotional train, you wouldn’t be surprised if it had been both.

The tourist sadly ended your conversation, distracted by the game on the TV, but you took it as an opportunity to comply with your desires and approach the man. You see, you liked to believe you possessed powers— useless ones, to say the least: just by a quick scan, you knew if a person needed a good talk; it could’ve been after their third drink, maybe even when they’re still sober. Suddenly, though, your bartender-senses abandoned you along with your charm and you simply couldn’t find a way to spark up a conversation with the guy. Really? You thought to yourself. Right now, when a cute older dude is sitting right in front of you, probably in need of your comradeship? Yeah, he was most definitely older than you, perhaps by some ten years, but did you really care? 

You were stuck, unable to crawl out of the crater until, eventually, he asked for his third drink. Showtime, you breathed in, the confidence hugging your entire body. “Just saying, but I could already sense this third drink once you walked in through the door,” You tried to joke.

He huffed through his nose, a hint of a smile on the corner of his lips. “Do I look that bad?” He asked, a playful tone in his voice. A lopsided grin found itself onto your face and you slightly leaned over to wipe the surface next to where his hand rested.

“The opposite, actually. You’re quite the handsome guy.” Oh, there it was. He didn’t seem repulsed, which could’ve been a good sign, except that he didn’t look like anything— his expression was unreadable.

He raised his glass up to his lips. “Yeah, well, don’t really feel like it right now,” He said before taking a swig of his drink. You picked up a wet empty glass and dried it with your towel, like the true bartender you were.

“Well, do you feel like talking about it?” His eyes darted up to you and he lifted a brow. “There’s obviously a reason why you’re sitting here right now, no?”

You waited for an answer, but he swallowed his entire drink before he set the dry cup on the bar. “Maybe another time, kid.” Ouch. Kid? Really? You thought this was over once you turned twenty-three. “But I gotta get going now.”

That was the first conversation you two shared, and you bit the inside of your cheek as you watched him leave, disappointed that it also could’ve been the last one. You should’ve learned by now, though: this wasn’t the first time you made a “friend”, hoped that they would drop by again in the future, only to never see their faces again. You took in his appearance one last time then, cherishing the fleeting buzz in your head. But you were lucky when two weeks later he entered through the same door again. Nonetheless, not lucky enough, since he arrived the only day your shift ended early.

“One whiskey served over ice, please.”

You didn’t realize he was there until you heard that scratchy voice, the one you thought you’d never have the pleasure of hearing again. Your head jerked up and you didn’t miss a beat before gladly serving him— there was no way you were leaving without interacting with the older man, regardless of how small and brief the action was. It was a Greek tragedy in your eyes: saying goodbye to the back of the head of the attractive man in his thirties. You jokingly (but not really) warned your coworker to not make a move on the man; and, of course, you asked him to update you the next day if he mentioned you even just once. The next day (or rather, night), the first thing you obviously did was pester your friend to spill all the juicy, if any, details.

“I don’t know, he didn’t really say anything. He so checked you out when you left, though. Like— okay, maybe not check you out, but he definitely stared at you for a few seconds.”

You deflated. Anyone else would’ve cheered, but all you needed to hear was the first part; your friend had the poor tendency of overanalyzing and exaggerating every small detail— you learned that when, after some customers had a lousy argument, you both recounted the event to your boss during your monthly coffee session. What had probably happened was that the man merely breathed in your direction and your coworker’s eyes jumped out of their sockets. You brushed away your discontent, though, reminding yourself of your principles: you never hooked up with customers, especially since your boss was adamant about that after an incident with another bartender, and you didn’t want to endure new job interviews for as long as you could.

But the rush made you want to have fun with this guy.

Another entire month went by; no sign of mystery guy, no whiskey served over ice. No drops of your stomach, until one evening you couldn’t believe your eyes when you saw that beautiful mess of a man, a scratch on his forehead you didn’t think much about since you’d seen much weirder things, sat in front of you. “Would you look at that! We meet once again,” He smirked. You placed your hand on your hip, biting your lip.

“Thought I’d never see you again. Tell me, do you want to try out something different tonight, or your boring, usual—”

“—whiskey served over ice. Yeah, please.”

Whiskey served over ice was quickly becoming your favorite order.

You didn’t exchange any other words— you were too engulfed into the breaking news playing on the flatscreen: a poor quality clip— something that still occurred even if it wasn’t 2005 anymore— of Spider-Man stopping a truck before it crashed into a hurt kid in the middle of the street. You grabbed the remote control and boosted the volume a bit, deciding you could perhaps multitask for a while. “So,” You started while maintaining your attention on the screen, catching his own. “You ever met Spider-Man?”

An odd question which made him snort as he turned his head to watch the screen. “No, not really. Wouldn’t want to, though, he’s kinda overrated.”

Your eyes went round, and you had to unstick your view from the TV to search for any sign of playfulness in the man’s face. He seemed dead serious. “Overrated? Full offense, but I can’t let you say that about Spidey, an actual superhero.”

He rolled his eyes, amused and defensively holding up one hand. “I’m just tired after hearing about him for the last twenty years. Can’t believe he’s not going around with a walking stick yet.”

You returned to your previous position, your forearms resting on the counter as you continued to observe a recap on a football game of the night before. “Yeah, I won’t argue against you on that. I remember watching him swing on TV back when I was seven-years-old. Big part of my childhood, the guy.”

He inclined closer to you, his brows drawn together. “What’s your age?”

“Twenty-nine.”

He let out an ‘oof’. You would’ve been insulted if it weren’t for the exaggeration in his tone. “You’re getting old. Soon you’ll be complaining about how much your back hurts and wishing for the sweet release of death.”

You chuckled, eyeing his appearance. “Ah, well, too bad because I already do that. How old are you? You’re acting like you’re sixty when in reality you’re probably just like forty, or something.”

“Eh, close,” He grinned, and then took a deep breath. “I’m thirty-seven.”

“And you’re calling me old?!” You exclaimed, earning a laugh from him. “You’re basically almost on your deathbed. Age doesn’t hold me back, though.” You winked jokingly and he bit his lip, his eyebrows raised.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, you know— more experienced, sometimes wiser, sometimes more of a gentleman…” You mused, drawing patterns on the bar. You didn’t notice him giving you a once-over. Someone called for your attention, and you let out a disappointed sigh, pouting at him. “Gotta go! Duty calls.”

“Have fun,” He raised his drink, bowing his head. As you walked away, you allowed your face to pale with terror and you began to wonder if the air-conditioning suddenly malfunctioned, for you were too heated for your comfort. You took as much time as you could with the rest of the clients, too frightened to face the man after your shameless flirts, dreading the repercussions. But you were finishing the preparation of a mojito, wishing you could down it yourself, when he lifted his empty glass and whistled at you. You nervously glared at him, motioning for him to wait before you served the finished beverage to its rightful owner and you met him once again.

“Tell me,” You began as you poured the liquid in his cup, trying to change the subject and mask your trembling hands. “I’m tired of thinking of you as the whiskey man. What’s your name?”

He let out a short laugh, thanking you before he took ahold of his drink. “Peter. Peter… B… Parker,” He moved his head along to each word and you sang out an impressed ‘ooh’.

“Peter B. Parker. Catchy. Giving me some boy band vibes.”

“Boy band vibes?”

“Yeah, like, ‘pretty boy in a band who’s a total teenage heartthrob’ type of vibes. You definitely fit the description.” Goddammit, you did it again. Just this once, you wished, just this once shutting your mouth would make everything easier for you.

Peter, his face finally having a name, licked his lips after sipping the alcohol. “So you think I’m pretty?” He inquired, a crooked smile on his face. You were good at holding back the tingling that wanted to suffocate your cheeks, the way you wished you could with your words. You hummed, surveying him quickly.

"Well, I did say you were handsome last time, didn't I?"

"Yeah— yeah, I remember that," He squinted his eyes, pointing his finger at you. "And you're...”

“Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N…” He took his phone out from his back pocket and frowned down at it with concern. “Can you help me? There’s something wrong with my phone— it doesn’t have your number in it.”

Oh, my God.

You glanced down at his cracked screen and then back up at his face. Snorting so loudly it hurt your nose, your hand flew up to cover your mouth. “Oh, my God. I’m sorry, I’m just—” You pinched the bridge of your nose, wheezing. “I can’t believe you just did that. That was so cheesy, oh my God.”

“Are you gonna fix it or not, though?” He smirked, offering you his device. “‘Cause it’s a real problem.”

He got your number. After you returned his cell phone, you noticed his yet again empty glass, wondering how he downed it in just the time you were adding your phone number to his contacts. You grabbed it and poured more ice, seeing as the previous had already melted. “Since you successfully made me want to walk away from you and stroll around the place to try and heal myself after that awfully cheesy pickup line, this next round is on the house.” You declared as you opened the bottle of whiskey. He declined, emphasizing his refusal with the flutter of his hand.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Whatever, I’m gonna do it anyway,” You slid the alcoholic beverage towards him, and his eyes softened along with his entire face, too.

“Thanks.”

Your conversation continued the entire night. You talked non stop— so much that you might have forgotten about the existence of other customers. But it didn’t matter. Despite their annoyed expressions, it was worth it. You heard the story you had so desperately yearned for him to tell; he reminisced about his dead aunt and uncle— the lovely angels who raised him and the ones he looked up to the most. But your heart cried out when Peter sorrowfully stared into his whiskey, and you first heard the name. MJ. His ex-wife. The owner of his love for the longest time, the woman who crushed him a year ago. The one whose heart he broke, too, though, all because he was too terrified, too much of a wimp to take the next step, ‘not enough’, he said. You remained silent, realizing your flirtatious exchanges earlier were solely a way to muffle Mary Jane’s memory in his mind. Nevertheless, your hand reassuringly rubbed his shoulder, the action alone speaking the comfort he needed.

It wasn’t the last time it happened. After that, he began to show up at the bar more frequently, once a week. And whenever he did come, he left until your shift neared its end.

“Like, what type of father would I even be? Look at me!” Peter pointed at his head, stirring the whiskey with a finger of his other hand. “I’m a mess, I can’t even take care of myself— how could I take care of a child?! I just… I don’t have the time,” He sighed, laying his head atop the bar. You frowned as you prepared a second margarita for the mother of one of your classmates from high school, which was what initiated the conversation of parenthood and such in the first place.

You shrugged, aggressively rattling the shaker with your two hands. “I don’t know, maybe you’re underestimating yourself,” He peered up at you, doubt in his expression. “And you do have the time to come here every week, though,” You pointed out, wiggling your arms from how sore they were.

“Yeah, but you’re… this is different, this is…” He slurred, waving his hand. “Whatever. Work always ruins things for me. It has ever since I was a little tot.”

“Damn, what is your work?”

Peter began to gulp down his entire drink after your question and seconds later slammed it on the table with wide eyes, attempting to digest the liquor. He cleared his throat, rubbing his eyes. “It’s… it’s, uh, I-I work at the Daily Bugle.” You opened your mouth with astonishment, stopping in the midst of rubbing a lime on the rim of the glass.

“The Daily Bugle?” You asked incredulously. “That one newspaper with the dude who’s obsessed with Spider-Man? J-something-Jameson?”

“Yeah… yeah, that’s my boss.”

You grimaced, instantly comprehending his daily fatigue and he nodded, agreeing with you. “What do you do? Write?”

“Nah, I’m a photographer.”

“Ooh, so you’re a photographer? That’s hot,” Moments ago he’d been complaining about his marital issues yet there you were, calling Peter hot. You might have slipped the compliment right before you left to give the margarita to your ex-classmate’s mom in fear of his response, therefore missing the faint heat that overwhelmed his cheeks and ears. 

“Is… it’s nothing, really,” He dismissed your words, being all humble and shit. You placed your elbows on the counter, coming closer to him.

“Could I ever see any of your pictures?”

He threw a block of ice into his mouth. “Mm, thure,” He said, his mouth full. Your mouth twitched in amusement, and you decided to sit down considering the night was particularly slow. Your boss lectured all the time that there was never time to sit down and there was always something to do; keeping that in mind, you still ignored the four dirty glasses, instead choosing to spend time paying attention to the man with ice in his mouth. “I’m boring, though— tell me more about yourself. There’s gotta be more to the attractive barista who works at the bar near my apartment.”

You were taken aback, both by the fact that he considered you were good-looking and that he was pushing to hear about you. “Me?” You blinked. He nodded, looking at you expectantly. You lowered your head, picking at the skin around your nails— damn past you for cursing you with the habit and, consequently, terrible nails as well. “This is… weird. I don’t really talk to customers about my life. They even tell us to not do that specifically.” You laughed.

“What? Why?”

“Well, because you don’t want to hear about me: my childhood and the drama in my life, I guess,” You said with an obvious look. He scrunched his brows together.

“But I do.”

You despised the way your heart missed a beat. “Alright, well… I don’t know, what do you want to hear about?”

“Were you born here? In New York?”

You shook your head. “Nah, I moved here after finishing college. I thought I was gonna be a successful artist and stuff.”

Peter gasped with wonder. “Artist?! Cool! What, what type of artist?”

“I paint,” He whispered an adorable ‘whoaa’ and your shoulders shook with laughter. “It’s really not that cool. I do paintings once in a while. Pays well and can help with the bills if someone buys them.”

“I’d buy many if I had the money.” 

“Nah, I would paint you one for free,” You smirked, leaning closer to him.

“Oh, sweet— you can paint me naked. You know, like one of your french girls.” He hummed, a goofy grin breaking out on his face. You quirked a brow, giggling.

“That’d be interesting.”

“I know, I’d be a great muse. Tell me more, though, you got any friends? Family?”

You hesitantly nodded. “Yeah, except they’re all back home. The only people I’ve got here are at the bar, my boss basically adopted the few people who work here.”

“Wish my boss was like that,” He grumbled, grasping more ice. “Well, now you’re stuck with me too, though.”

You gripped your knee, your lips pressed together to retain the beam threatening to appear. “Is that so?” The ice he had shoved into his mouth was too big for him to speak without drooling all over his chin; so with his chipmunk cheeks, he moved his head up and down. “Is this us officially becoming friends?” You waggled your brows teasingly, your lips now stretching widely.

“I thought that happened the second you gave me a free round of drinks.”

Three more months passed by. You realized your nights weren’t a blur anymore. No— now they were Peter B. Parker, his weary brown eyes, and his whiskey served over ice. You couldn’t help the scrunch of your nose and your slight smile whenever someone else ordered whiskey, since, as ridiculous you knew it was, those words were Peter. You held yourself back each night you two shared from leaning over the bar and tasting the cold liquor in his tongue. You wondered if, perhaps, that’s what Peter Parker tasted like. But it didn’t matter how strongly you craved to find out; you couldn't be anything more than a friend to your customers, you constantly reminded yourself. Not that it even was a possibility with Peter, anyway— it was evident he still cared about Mary Jane. It was clear she lingered in the fog of his memory, despite how much he drank or how hard you attempted to take her place with every conversation. You tried to convince yourself that it was alright, and it wasn’t working, but you hoped someday it would.

It was a Saturday night— or more like the early hours of Sunday— when you went to joyfully take Peter’s order after he sat down, only to be met with an awful bruise on the bridge of his nose. You winced, unconsciously reaching out to touch his face, but drawing your hand back before he noticed. “Pete, what the fuck happened to your face?”

“That’s not a nice thing to say about someone.” He simply responded, evidently trying to disguise the swelling with his hand, but sighed after seeing your scowl. “Fine, it’s embarrassing. Like… really, really embarrassing—”

“I’m listening.”

He squirmed, his gaze moving to his right and his voice coming out high pitched as he searched for a way to explain himself. “I tripped.”

Something you’d learned throughout the past months of weekly meetings with Peter Parker was that the man was not subtle. Far from it. And this wasn’t the first time he arrived with a scratch or sort of bruise, which truly clutched at your stomach in the wrong way, but although he’d talk about anything— from what he ate for breakfast that day to confessing a pestering fear in his head, he never ever talked about how or why he got hurt. He always managed to steer away from the subject; the sneaky bastard, you’d think to yourself when minutes later you two were thoroughly discussing the best ways to eat an egg. You never budged, though, for you couldn’t bear to lose his trust or him getting mad at you; which hadn’t occurred yet, and you wished to keep it that way. You questioned your decision, however, as you grabbed the box of bandaids hiding under the counter (the bartenders there could frequently be quite clumsy), and grasped one with your fingers. You opened it, detaching the paper from it.

“It’s really nothing,” He continued insisting, trying to erase the creases between your eyebrows. “I just gave the ground a real nice smooch—” He stopped talking when you leaned over to touch his face, your hand cupping his cheek as you smoothed the plaster over his nose.

“I… what?”

“Sorry, it just looked really gross,” You lied, truthfully concerned about his well-being. “You couldn’t go around walking like that.”

“But I can go around walking with a…” He inspected his reflection on the cupboards, squinting to make out the pattern of the bandaid. “Spongebob bandaid on my face. And how is that supposed to heal a bruise?”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s alright. I… I like Spongebob. One whiskey served over ice, though, please.”

You scoffed, picking up a glass from the cabinet. “I’ve held myself back from asking, but…” You shut your mouth as you continued preparing his drink, doubt winning its battle again. He tilted his head.

“But?”

“But… how come you’re always getting hurt in some way? It’s kind of concerning,” You laughed nervously, not wanting to reveal how much it truly worried you. He shrugged one shoulder.

“I guess I’m just really clumsy.”

“This isn’t clumsy, though,” You argued, your forehead furrowed. “This is… getting beat up type of stuff. Is that it? Do you get into street fights or something?”

“No! No, I, uh…” He hesitated, avoiding your gaze. “That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

Peter searched for words, his mouth ajar. He closed it and rolled his lips. “I want to tell you, I really do, but now is not the time. I promise I will in the future.”

You prepared to question him more, until a tune filled your ears. You raised your hands up to your head, your palms squeezing your temples as you gasped. Peter raised an eyebrow, entertained. “I fucking love this song,” You explained as ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ by Whitney Houston played on the TV. Peter sat still as he paid attention to the music, confusion glinting in his eyes until he recognized the melody and his body lit up.

“Wait, so do I—”

“Clock strikes upon the hour, and the sun begins to fade…” You shouted, your head jerked back. Peter put his fist against his mouth, embarrassed by your hilariously terrible singing, but at the same time holding himself back from joining you in your performance. “Still enough time to figure out how to chase my blues away!” You sang, pointing your finger at him. He muttered an ‘ohmygod’ under his breath, his face beet red.

“I’ve done enough ‘till now, it’s the light of day that shows me how!” You dramatically laid back on the counter, true singer-like style, holding an imaginary microphone up to your mouth. “And when the night falls, loneliness calls…” You turned your head to face Peter and booped his nose, an action which you would undeniably regret once the euphoria of hearing one of your favorite songs ended.

“Ah, fuck it…” He whispered, beaming at you and grabbing your fist to sing into the invisible mic as well. “Oh! I wanna dance with somebody! I wanna feel the heat with somebody!” He cried out, his eyes passionately closed and his hand pressed flat against his chest. You scream-laughed at him, holding your torso. However, you quickly rolled onto your stomach, your faces now in close proximity.

“Yeah! I wanna dance with somebody! With somebody who loves me!” You both sung into your clenched hand, incredibly out of tune. “Oh! I want to dance with somebody!”

“I wanna feel the heat with somebody...” A customer in the background yelled out. You two exploded with laughter, your head pressed against his cheek and Peter gripping your hand tight.

That night, you sang with somebody you loved.

The end of the year arrived too quickly, and you were disconnecting the plug of the Christmas lights adorning the windows of the bar as you wondered whether you should get Peter a present for the holidays or not. Some new sweatpants, you considered; they were his favorite piece of clothing, you had come to learn, and in the times that he wore a pair, you noticed it was always the same. But you also questioned if it would be bizarre to hand him a gift— you only saw each other at the bar, after all. There weren't any instances where he called you to meet up for lunch, or something similar; and once in a while, you hoped to hear your blaring ringtone and to answer your phone to him. That never happened, though; your relationship would never evolve from the occasional text throughout the week. To make matters worse, you hadn’t even seen him for three weeks, three days, and counting. And, my God, did it sadden you that you knew that. Every time you’d type a greeting along with a question about his whereabouts, you’d stare at the screen of your cell phone for far too long and eventually delete your words— the exact process repeating over and over again. Maybe he’s with his friends or remaining family, you concluded. Hanukkah did end yesterday, stop being so obsessive.

A knock on the door provoked a startled squeak out of you. You jerked your head, confused, because who in the world was knocking on the door at three o’clock in the morning? Your terror was fleeting, however, for behind the foggy glass existed Peter B. Parker’s guilty smile. You exhaled and headed to open the door to shelter him from the violent and raging winter wind outside. He barged in, the tip of his nose the color of raspberries, most likely a repercussion of his poor clothing coverage for the season. “Hey,” He greeted you, rubbing his hands together.

“Wow, I think you got here a little too late,” You teased, folding your arms across your chest. The bags under his eyes were particularly prominent that night, not that it surprised you in any shape or form. He leaned against the wall, resting the back of his head on the timber.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” He apologized and you shook your head. It was useless. You were aware that there was no chance you could be mad at him for finally visiting you; in fact, you were ridiculously elated to be seeing him at such late hours, in spite of your bed crying out for your company. “I guess I lost track of time.”

“What are you doing here, anyway? I haven’t seen you for three weeks and when you do show up, it’s at three A.M.”

“I don’t… know.” You quirked a brow, wondering if he’d had a few too many drinks. “I sort of just walked and my feet got me here.”

“Are you drunk? And did you get in a bar fight or something, because you’ve got a bruise forming under your jaw and it looks too animalistic to be a hickey,” You asked with a gesture of your hand toward his face, relieved the jealousy didn’t bleed through your voice if the latter turned out to be more than a mere speculation. The scarlet on his nose spread to his cheeks. “I hope not, because that would mean you cheated on me by going to another bar.”

He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his stubble. “Nah, I wouldn’t ever do that to you.” You walked up to him and patted his shoulder, congratulating him for his great response but also to move him away from the window to check if it was closed. “I’m just tired.”

“Long day?”

“Awfully long.”

You still didn’t get an answer to why he was out so late, but you didn’t have the energy to continue budging. “Yeah, same.” You whispered, lifting a chair to place it upside down on a table.

“Wanna talk about it?” You looked at him confused. “Your day?”

“I would, but, uh, I kinda have to close this place. Y'know, it’s the holidays, so we’re not open 24/7 because my boss likes spending time with her family,” You explained, hearing his understanding hums. “Everyone already left and I didn’t have anything to do, so I promised her I would do it for her.”

He moved to stand opposite to you and copied your actions of setting the chairs atop the table. “That’s not safe— you being here alone, I mean. I can help!” He offered, as if a random spike of energy flourished in him.

Your brows drew together. “Shouldn’t you go home?”

He paused in the midst of reversing a seat, the furniture cradled in his chest like a baby. “Yeah, but so should you. It won’t hurt to sacrifice one hour of sleep just to help a friend,” He smirked, shrugging.

You allowed him to give you a hand in arranging the place, not that you had much of a choice, anyway; he would’ve done it nonetheless despite your refusals. Thirty minutes later, you were standing outside, your body aching tremendously. Peter noticed your soreness and, before you could even react, he was lowering the roll-up gate. “I could’ve helped with that,” You mumbled as he wiped his hands on his sweatpants. “Don’t want you breaking your back, grandpa.”

He laughed, shoving his hands inside his jacket’s pockets. “I’m a cute grandpa, though, right?” He asked with a flirty smile. You rolled your eyes.

“Hm, yeah, a total gilf.”

“Gilf?”

“Yeah, you know, like a ‘dilf’ but instead of a dad it’s a grandpa.” You both giggled as you began to walk to who knows where, visible breaths leaving your mouths like small dragons puffing out smoke. 

You stopped in your tracks, gripping the straps of your backpack tightly. “Oh snap, I forgot!” He turned around with a questioning brow. “My car broke down, so I have to take the subway back home.” You explained, nudging your head back at the green stairs heading down to the metro station. He tilted his head, frowning.

“Y/N, it’s four in the morning. I don’t think going to the subway this late is such a smart idea.”

You rocked on your heels. “Yeah, but… how else am I gonna get home? You want me to sleep in the bar?”

His gaze shifted as he pondered, grunting. “Do you, uh… do you want to go to my place?”

Your stomach clenched, your heart starting a run when you heard his suggestion. He doesn’t mean it that way, you idiot,  you scolded yourself. Yet you wished he did. “...Your place?”

“Yeah, it’s just a few blocks away from here, like a ten-minute walk.” There was a prolonged silence as you entered deep in thought, making him panic and stutter. “T-that’s if you want to, though. Don’t want you to feel pressured—”

“No, Pete, I…” You stopped him, grinning. “I mean, you sure?”

“Yeah,” He clapped his hands and held them together up to his chest. “Why not?”

“I guess I’ll take you up on that offer.”

“Cool! Uh, cool.. just… c’mon,” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder and you began your trek to his apartment, your shoes thudding lightly against the concrete of the sidewalk, wet due to the rain two hours ago.

“Thanks…” You started, wiggling your fingers, numb from the bitter cold, but to wake yourself up as well. “I actually am sort of terrified of taking the train, so I’m glad you offered. I’ll sleep on the couch, don’t worry—”

“What? No! No, I’ll take the couch, you’re the guest.”

“No, no, no, I insist—”

“Y/N.” You looked up at him, a teasing smile on his face. “You keep the bed. Plus, the change of place will be nice.” You groaned, your eyes closed.

“You’re such a great dude: offering me to sleep at your place so I don’t get mugged and shit, and here I am, stealing your probably comfy bed.” You then moaned, your eyes going blank. “Bed. God, just thinking about sleeping really turns me on right now.”

He huffed softly, bumping into your side. “What… what’s happened, though? We haven’t seen each other for a hot minute.”

You looked heavenward, your mouth ajar as you tried to recall your previous three weeks. “Mm, well, I honestly can’t even remember if I had breakfast or not— oh!” You exclaimed rather sleepily. “Well, this pretty boy working at a Taco Bell I went to asked me out on a date.”

“Oh?” He scrunched his brows together and you hummed. “And what did you say?”

“No.”

“No?! Why not?”

“I just…” Your eyes darted up to his curious ones, your face softening after inspecting him for a while, but not long enough to embarrass yourself. “I don’t know. Wasn’t feeling him, y’know?” He nodded comprehensively. “What ‘bout you?”

His entire mood shifted. His shoulders slumped, and he nibbled on his bottom lip, his jaw tightened. “I… I saw MJ today.” Your heart broke.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Wh-what, like, you two met somewhere?”

“No, more like ‘saw her coming out of the coffee shop while crossing the street and then a pedestrian yelled at me because I was standing in the way’.” He grumbled. You didn’t know what got in you, but you grabbed his hand and squeezed it. He glanced down at your linked hands and then up at you. That’s when you instantly let go, your pinkies still connected for a bit until completely detaching. You were too busy ogling the ground to see his fingers searching for yours.

“You’ll be alright one day,” You cleared your throat, a bashful smile on your face. “You’ll figure this out.”

He prevented you from continuing with your walk with a hand on your shoulder. You hesitantly turned your body to face him, gulping. Oh, no— you worried, your heart picking up its pace again— did the hand holding make him uncomfortable? Is he now gonna question me? Why am I such a damn idiot? But then you saw his dilated pupils, and your mouth went dry. “I…” He began.

“You… okay?” You questioned when his stare lingered on you. He blinked, his arm dropping by his side as he coughed.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, that was weird. I’m just—”

“—tired.” You finished for him and he scoffed, giving you a half-smile.

“Wow, you know me so well,” He joked, and scratched the back of his neck, pointing at the building you two stood in front of. “Uh, this is where I live.”

“Oh!” You spun around, studying the apartment complex. It appeared simple: not too big or small, modest-looking. “That was faster than I expected.”

“Yeah…” He muttered as he climbed up the stairs, holding the door open for you when he reached the top.

The man’s apartment was tiny, somewhat too messy, you decided; there was an empty pizza box on his bed, and he awkwardly dumped it in the trash can when you two walked in, apologizing for the mess. You sat on his bed and he stood at your feet, stroking his neck. "Do you want some clothes? I can give you a shirt or some—” You stopped him when he turned to go to his dresser, gently pulling his arm. “What?” You continued to wordlessly tug on his sleeve until he sat next to you, sighing deeply. Slowly, you leaned backwards until your back bounced on his mattress. Peter’s confused by your actions, but you simply patted the area behind him. He got the message and lied down on the rumpled sheets. 

You looked at each other, a few inches apart, yet for some odd reason, you felt closer to him. Perhaps you could blame the different location, or the way in which your silent gazes stayed on each other. Somehow, you were both alright with it. No discomfort took ahold of either of you as you remained like that for a while, no words or sounds other than the city outside, both later with your eyes closed. To your embarrassment, you were on the brink of dozing off, but you couldn’t help it; you drowned in tranquility, and the exhaustion of your body cooperated— it was surprising you hadn’t fallen asleep yet. You could hear Peter’s steady breathing, and his voice brought you back to consciousness when he spoke. “Y/N?” It was soft, softer than your pillows back at home. Softer than your lonesome bed. You acknowledged him with a mumble, opening one eyelid. His eyes were almost shut, but you could still see the glimmer in his dark eyes. His whiskey eyes. “You’re really nice.”

Your eyes sealed closed again. “You’re really nice too, Pete.”

“No, but…” His sentence died out and he did not continue for a long period. You believed he had fallen into a slumber until he talked again. “You’re really nice. Like that hot chocolate I had in the morning while I was freezing type of nice.”

“I… I don’t know if it’s because I’m about to pass out, but I don’t get it.” When you blinked your eyes as wide as you could, he was closer than before. Closer than ever. You took the chance to discover, note every part of his face more closely, every freckle, every lash, his growing stubble. Everything.

“What I mean is that… you really bring warmth to my life, Y/N. Not to sound too cheesy like I usually do, or anything. But everything’s a mess and you’re there, and I’m glad about that.”

“You’re just tired.”

“Yes, but a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.”

“You’re not drunk.”

“There’s really no difference.”

You could now feel his breath on your face. It was as if with every flicker of your eyelids, he had managed to inch nearer to your body. “Pete…”

“Y/N…” Your lips were roughly touching. You felt his arm slip around your waist, his fingers ghosting over your prickling back.

“We can’t do this.” You said, regardless of your hand cradling his neck. Your foreheads were now touching.

“Why not?”

“Because…” You tried to claim that he was your customer, but you truly did not care about it anymore, and you never did. “What about Mary Jane?”

He hesitated for a moment. “What about Mary Jane?”

“You still want her back.” You breathed out, your body quivering as his eyelashes tickled your cheeks.

“I can forget about her just tonight.”

You kissed. Your lips remained interlocked for a few moments, the both of you too tired to move them. It was like sixth-graders kissing for the first time— a lingering peck on the lips. But an energy sparked within you, and you moved your lips. Soon, you were on top of his body, your shirt almost completely off except for one of your arms still inside one sleeve, your fingers desperately tangled in his greying hair, his crooked nose bumping with yours. He didn’t taste like whiskey or ice, but he did taste like a year of laughing with each other in the bar, and him not noticing as you slowly fell for him.