#bruh i almost posted over 6k words without a read more

[plzu]

cookies and cocoa (and maybe some kisses) - (Peter Parker x Reader)

Summary: Here’s the thing about boys and bruises and living in the city: It is none of your business, and Peter Parker has a smile that can thaw ice caps, and warm cocoa brown eyes, and surely that can’t be a bad or dangerous thing. And you owe Peter some cookies.

A/N: this started out as a holiday fic but then turned into a fic that just so happens to be taking place during the holidays. reader is heavily implied to celebrate christmas but rest assured, there is no actual christmas/holiday celebration occurring. also worth noting that any temperatures used in this fic are measured in fahrenheit

Warnings: mild hurt/comfort (i really gotta learn to dig into the meat of these tropes), fluff, a chase happens with the reader, peter & reader are in their early-mid 20s (pictured a grad school peter the whole time)

Wordcount: 6.4k

The evening sky grows violet by the time you pass through the heavy metal door of your apartment building, escaping the wintry, late autumn chill for the slightly-less cold lobby. You absently -- though, fittingly -- hum Baby, It’s Cold Outside under your breath, gripping the plastic bag of Chinese takeout in your right hand while shopping bag handles dig into the coat-sleeved arm of your left.

You make your way towards the dull silver wall of cluster mailboxes, greeted by the familiar scents of cigarette smoke and old metal and the lingering waft of paint that never seems to dry. You’re focused on attempting to find the key for your own mailbox when you pause. There’s an unfamiliar figure idling on the other end of the narrow lobby, shifting restlessly from foot to foot.

It’s not that you know everyone that lives in the building. Even before moving into the city, you’ve always kept to yourself. But live somewhere long enough and you recognize the patterns of your surroundings. You start to expect to run into certain people at specific times of the day. People’s perfumes make them recognizable, or the specific cologne failing to mask the earthy stench of pot. Even the way someone moves, the way they walk, the very way they stand when sorting through their mail in the lobby, or waiting for the elevator. Children stick out like sore thumbs, even the shy ones. Silhouettes of your neighbors that live on your floor become comforting in their familiarness, particularly one that’s gangly with perpetually-tousled brown hair and warm eyes, but sadly distant smiles.

And the one thing everyone who lives here has in common is that their unguarded postures denote that they’re home. 

And this stranger in the lobby is very much not home. 

The keys tighten in the grip of your left hand. With forced aloofness, you attempt to make eye contact with the stranger to greet him with a head nod. The head nod. An upward jut of your chin signaling, I see you. When he fails to properly return it -- a slight jerk of his head before his gaze slides uncomfortably away from yours -- you decide checking the mail can wait. Even if he’s harmless, opening up your mailbox would unwisely shine a beacon on your apartment number. 

You back up, turn away from the mailboxes, and hastily make your way past the old elevator door in favor of the granite, off-white staircase. Having the option and space to run felt much more comforting than taking the elevator up ten floors.

Your booted feet stomp with each step, quick and loud and deliberate, the sound echoing in the dim stairwell. Panic starts to set in when you hear, when you feel, the other presence behind you; he’s following you, now. This panic propels you forward, even with the several bags you carry, you manage to take the steps two at a time, until you can no longer distinguish the rustling sounds of paper and plastic with your own, quick breaths. Whatever soreness was beginning to settle in your legs from shopping all day is subdued by the adrenaline that starts pumping in your veins.

There is the phantom feeling of hands on your back. You don’t think it’s real, that he’s entirely caught up to you, and, yet, shouldn’t he be? You are weighted down by the bags in your arms and you want to cry but there is something keeping your mouth shut, an impending scream unable to erupt from your throat. Like you’re subconsciously trying to preserve your breath for the run. 

It is a wonder you do not trip by the time you make it to your floor. There’s no time to count this blessing, however, as you make the split-second decision to make a sharp right turn, the exact opposite of where your apartment is. You march determinedly up to the door at the end of the hall, ring the doorbell, and hope with all your rapidly beating heart that your friendly neighbor is home. 

You hear the door unlock, the chain coming off, and you swear there is no sweeter sound. When the door opens, your brown-eyed savior -- Peter -- greets you with curiosity written across his features, left shoulder settled up against the doorframe while his right hand holds open the door.

“H-hey, babe,” you breathlessly announce, with wide, beseeching eyes. “I picked up dinner for tonight!”

He searches your face, curiosity giving way to confusion until he glances behind you, and confusion turns, blessedly, to understanding. He opens the door wider to let you in, guarded stare remaining above your head as you scurry past him. 

The apartment is quaint, like yours. Scattered papers on the kitchen counters and tabletop, a camera, a skateboard that has seen better days propped up against the side of the sofa. More things you do not have time to take in as you spin around to face him, and immediately begin apologizing as he shuts and locks the door.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to lead him to your door but I just- I freaked out, I didn’t want him knowing where I lived and I- I couldn’t think of anything else. You’re just- you’ve always been so nice but now- oh, I’m such a dumbass, I’m so selfish, I shouldn’t’ve-”

“Hey hey hey,” he steps closer, shushes you, “it’s okay, it’s alright.” His smile has not left his face since opening the door, a pretty quirk of his lips that’s both amiable and amused. 

P-pretty? 

It’s only once his hands gently encircle your wrists that you realize you’re shaking.

“You did the right thing,” he assures. Your vision is swimming with his kind face. His scent washes over you, a warm and comforting musk. “I mean, you could have knocked on Carmen’s door and she would’ve given that guy hell.”

This relaxes a laugh out of you. Carmen is your five-foot-three Colombian neighbor, whose take-no-shit personality makes up for her height. She is fiercely protective and, quite frankly, terrifying. She reminds you of your mother.  

“There we go, that’s it!” he chuckles. “Now, will you do me a favor? Can you let me take these bags for you?”

You remember the food that you actually did buy, and the bags of Christmas decorations for your apartment, and the weight of it all makes it feel like your arms are about to fall off. Gratefully, you let Peter take the bags from your hands, immediately bogged down by the sudden lightness. 

The adrenaline from playing the most wound-up game of tag in your life finally ebbs, and you are overcome by how overwhelmingly warm it suddenly is. You're sweating underneath your coat and beanie. You trekked up ten flights of stairs without falling even once and your legs have now turned into jelly. 

“I need’ta- can I sit?” you ask, breathless, ripping off the hat from your head.

“Of course,” he responds from the kitchen, taking a glass from a cabinet and running it under water in the kitchen sink.

You plop down onto the sofa, immediately sinking into its wornness. You absentmindedly shrug out of your coat so it falls in a heap around your hips. Your body needs a minute to adjust to feeling safe. 

Peter returns and offers you the glass of water, which you take and chug before you can remember to thank him. Peter (trying very politely to not look entertained by your obvious disarray) quickly shuffles some stuff around on the coffee table -- a newspaper, a couple of manila folders -- clearing it out so there's space for you to put down the glass. Meanwhile, you tell him about the shady guy that followed you, how you noticed him hanging around the lobby. How a rat would have been a more welcoming sight. 

“Y’know, like, at least the rats live here.” 

This shocks a genuine laugh out of him. One that you pause to admire before adding, with a shrug, “I’m probably overreacting, anyway.”

“A strange man you’ve never seen before follows you up ten flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator, and you think you’re overreacting?” Peter crosses his arms from where he’s standing on the other side of the coffee table, giving you a dubious look.

Well, when he puts it like that. 

You chuckle. “Whatever, it’s Christmas. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Christmas? It’s November 30th.”

Laughing again, you’re just grateful that Peter keeps it light and doesn’t say the quiet part out loud. How this guy was probably waiting for an easy, single target to lead him to their apartment to, at best, rob them. You think, grimly, that he should choke on the lumps of coal he’ll undoubtedly be getting this year.

Peter asks if you’re feeling better. You assess yourself. Your surroundings. The frayed blue couch you’re sitting on. The way the navy blue collar of Peter’s sweater looks just as worn as the couch, stretched out all loose around his neck. It makes you smile, until you notice you did not take your boots off at the door like you should have, and then your smile turns into a grimace. “Yeah, I’m good. I’ll get out of your hair in a second, promise.”

“Nah, no rush.” The grin on his face is disarming. Infectious. You feel gooey inside, looking at him, like the chocolate chip cookies your sister likes to bake around this time of year. You can almost forget what brought you here.

“I don’t have anything to give you right now-”

“Whoa, whoa-” he raises his palms up, stopping you- “you don’t owe me anything. We have to look out for each other, right?”

You wring your hands in your lap, uncomfortable with the idea of intruding in Peter’s space -- a man whom you’ve only shared a handful of conversation and friendly smiles in passing -- without giving him something for the trouble. “Sure, but- well, how ‘bout dinner?”

He quirks an eyebrow at you. “Dinner? You asking me out?” he teases.

Heat floods your face but you smile, try to play it cool. “I’m asking if you like Chinese food.”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “Who doesn’t?” But then he glances at the bag of takeout. “Oh, no, no, I can’t take your food.”

But you’re already pulling the containers out from the bag and placing them on the table in front of you, releasing the pungent, mouthwatering whiff of soy sauce and garlic. “Well, you wouldn’t be taking my food. Believe me, after all the walking I’ve done today, I won’t just be giving away my hard-earned dinner.” You look up at him, so he can see the lightheartedness playing on your face. It makes his shoulders relax and an easy laugh spills softly from his lips. 

It is astonishingly effortless, being in the same room as Peter. Like you’re old friends. He grabs some plates and utensils from the kitchen and brings them to the table. He sinks easily into the space beside you on his couch, right knee just barely touching your left. You refrain from looking at his face too long, his eyes, or you might lose the confidence that’s enabling you to scoop lo mein onto his plate as though you’ve done this dozens of times before. 

And so you share your food with Peter, in his home, in his warmth. There’s laughter, and a can of soda that he stops you from opening. 

(“Didn’t you just sprint up the stairs? Don’t open that, sweetheart.”)

(Sweetheart. The sobriquet falls from his lips so easily, it lights you up like the Rockerfeller tree. You hope he takes no notice.)

Once you’re done eating, Peter offers to walk you across the hall. You say he doesn’t have to, that’s silly, you’re just across the way. But he insists. Even carries your bags of garlands and knick knacks for you. He walks on your left, keeping his body between you and the mouth of the stairs.

“Prepping for the holidays?” he asks, peering into one of the bags as you both amble across the hall. Neither of you in any hurry to part ways.

“Oh, yeah, it’s my favorite time of year!” you gush, eyes lighting up with sincerity as you glance up at him from trying to find the right key. “I know we’re adults now, but I never wanted growing up to take away the magic.”

You got so caught up in your newfound comfort with your cute neighbor that you forget to feel embarrassed by this admittance. Your smile falters, and you look back down, focusing once again on your keys. “Which- I mean, I know it’s silly. Sorry.”

“I don’t think it’s silly at all.” 

You’ve both stopped right outside your door, and you’re startled to see the earnestness in his features. You quickly look away to unlock your door, gulping through some emotion that comes crawling up your throat.

Door unlocked and partially opened, you turn to take the bags from his grasp. “Thank you, Peter,” you murmur. Heartfelt and, suddenly, shy.

“Hey, you know my name,” he notes, voice pleasantly soft. He leans against the outside of your doorway, hands shoved casually into the pockets of his gray sweatpants. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes your tummy do somersaults.

You decide to be brave and look up into his eyes again, hold his gaze, and fully recognize that despite the tiredness in them, Peter is unbelievably good, and kind, and sweet. “Of course I know your name.” You smirk, teasing. “Does this mean you don’t know my name?”

His smile broadens, adds lovely crinkles at the corner of his eyes. There’s a bashfulness in the way his head ducks, gaze slipping away from your own before he looks back up at you. “Yeah, I know your name.”

He wishes you a good night, with a demulcent whisper of your name as he slowly backs away from the threshold of your apartment. 

You watch him leave with a giddy feeling in your gut as you slowly, quietly shut the door. You lean your forehead against the cool back of it, cheeks aching with cheer.

Heart thumping in your chest for brand new, pleasant reasons, you decide: you are going to bake Thank-You cookies for Peter.

The first time you ran into Peter in your building was a wonderful, breath-taking accident. You were bringing more things over from your parent’s house, a box of decorations to liven up the new living space. Unfortunately, the elevator in your building had, rather inconsiderately, decided to stop working, so you were forced to take the stairs.

The box was more cumbersome than heavy, cradled in your forearms as your fingers gripped painfully at the bottom edge of it. It didn’t help that you could barely see over it, unable to quickly find your footing as you traversed each step. 

Despite your trembling arms and gelatin legs, you were doing quite well! Sure, the whole of you was warm from exertion and you were grunting, out of breath, by the time you made it to the top of the second floor, but you were impressed by the amount of steps you managed to clear so far without wiping out. A feeling that was short-lived mid-way up the third flight of stairs as you overestimated your wobbly knees’ ability to keep you upright--

A sudden loss of balance. Gravity worked against you as your hovering foot was unable to find purchase forwards. Careening backwards, heart in your throat, grip tightening on the box in your arms. And before you could properly scream, a steadying hand met the small of your back, a gentle whoa, I gotcha- barely audible amidst the thundering in your ears. 

Once both feet were planted securely on the granite, you looked to your savior, whose hand was still firm and gentle on your back, and found honey-warm eyes.

Funny, how you had stopped falling, but still couldn’t shake the feeling of lurching in your heart. Unfettered butterfly wings. 

He offered to help you the rest of the way, and insisted on carrying your stuff. You did your best to dissuade him, except he had already taken the box from your hands and started waking up the rest of the steps with an effortless gait, looking back at you with an amused half-smile that you tried your damndest not to find charming.

What floor?

Tenth.

Perfect! That’s my floor, too.

A heartbeat. A slow, shy grin at his back as you attempted to keep up with his longer strides.

Lucky me.

When you run into Peter now, it is no longer with the passing friendliness of neighbors. There’s more chatter, and his charm flusters you something silly, schoolgirl giggling until you part ways and you have the mind to chastise yourself for being so damned smitten.

Twice, he leaves his apartment at the same time you are coming back home, and the way you both linger in the hallways makes your neighbors roll their eyes. Carmen is especially good at making you feel embarrassed about it, like you’ve been caught past curfew. It will break you out of your reverie, one that Peter so seamlessly traps you in. It’s not your fault, really; there’s something about the way he looks at you, his smile gluing you to the chipped mosaic tiles of the hall.

Today is one of those days. It is early afternoon on a Saturday, and you’re eager to bake with the ingredients you’ve just purchased. Peter is just locking up, and you both pause where you stand, slow smiles mirroring each other. Peter takes a few steps towards the stairs, but checks in on you, asks how you’re doing after everything that happened the other night. 

You do not want to tell him that you’ve timed your mornings with everyone else on this floor since then so that when you leave for work, you won’t be alone in the hall (and how you always hope he’ll leave at the same time you do). Or how, when you’ve come back home, you take a quick peek through the glass panel of the lobby door to make sure there’s no idling stranger. 

Instead, you make a lighthearted joke about being too overwhelmed with holiday shopping to even remember it ever happened. He does not miss the uncomfortable flick of your gaze to the mouth of the stairwell.

“Hey, you don’t gotta worry about that guy anymore. Haven’t seen him around.”

You try searching his eyes from where you stand, halfway to your apartment door. The thing about Peter is that there is a curious pull to him. The urge to reach your hands into the too-big jacket he wears, snake your hands against the soft worn hoodie underneath. This is a feeling that has existed since the first time you properly laid eyes on him, after moving in, and that feeling has only become overwhelmingly maximized since sitting on his couch a week ago, with only a breath of space between you, and an aching lack of touch.

Peter ducks his head, like he’s trying to hide from your searching gaze. You squeeze your keys in your hand so that they dig into the fleshy meat of your palm and grounds you. Keeps you from stepping towards him. Instead, you change the subject, wanting to bring his face back to you. “Do you wanna come over for hot chocolate later?”

There’s a rise in his cheekbones. He lifts his head back up, but away from you. The grin is still unmistakable from the side. 

“That is, if you’re not busy,” you quickly tack on, courage chased away by the sudden abashed warming in your cheeks.

“No, no, ‘m not busy. I think I can make it.” Peter casts a quick, reassuring glance your way, so you know he means it.

When he disappears down the stairs, someone clears their throat. You spin to find Carmen standing in her open doorway, her eyes on you weighted with warning. 

Feeling suddenly small and twelve, you blink at her. “What?”

“Be careful with that one, mija.”

You snort like she just told a joke, but her full, wide lips remain a concerned frown. “Who, Peter? He’s the sweetest guy, Carmen, you know that.”

“Sure, he's a good kid,” she says, her voice a warm nicotine rasp. “I can knock on his door and ask for sugar. But I’ve seen him with bruises more times than I can count. Someone with bloody knuckles every other day can’t be up to no good.”

She shuts the door, leaving you alone with your grocery bags and your thoughts.

You suppose you have noticed bruises on Peter, in the past. There are days when his face had been hidden behind his hood but you’d notice a smidge of discoloration on his jaw while in the elevator together. Even now, there was a slight darkening on the cusp of his cheekbone that you thought was just the hallway light fixture casting a strange shadow. But after Carmen’s words, it could have been the healing of a bruise. And you consider his words, how he mentioned you don’t have to worry about the lobby stranger anymore in an oddly confident declaration.

Here’s the thing about boys and bruises and living in the city: It is none of your business, you think, as you unlock your door and step into your apartment. It is none of your business, and Peter Parker has a smile that can thaw ice caps, and warm cocoa brown eyes, and surely that can’t be a bad or dangerous thing. And, anyway, it’s the holidays! A time of joy, not a time to be suspicious about handsome near-strangers that have been nothing but kind to you. 

And, most importantly: you owe that near-stranger some cookies.

Holiday music drifts with mellow merriment from your bluetooth speakers. Your apartment twinkles with the phosphorescent glow of string-lights strung about the space. The air is warmed by the cinnamon sugar scent of snickerdoodle cookies currently baking in the oven, and the bouquet of balsam from the 3-wick candle you’ve lit to replicate the tree you cannot put up. (And you wouldn’t, even if you could, because it’d feel silly to put up a tree when you live alone.)

Waiting for Peter makes you antsy. Nerves make your hands fidget restlessly when you run out of things to do. You wiped down the smattering of flour and cinnamon sugar residue from the countertops, and when that was clean (twice over), you kept going. Fluffed the couch pillows, vacuumed the area rug, dusted your cramped and tiny bookshelf. 

You hop over to the door and peer out the peephole, checking for Peter’s return, more times than you care to admit.

You feel silly about it. You feel giddy about it. 

When the timer dings, it is a brief but welcome distraction. You pull the cookies out of the oven and let them cool on the stovetop. 

You scurry back to the door. Peep for Peter. 

It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year croons from the speaker.

As it darkens, fat, lazy snowflakes begin to drift outside your window. It is almost ridiculously picturesque. You cannot believe you are going to have a cozy evening of cookies and hot cocoa with the boy next door (so-to-speak), on your couch, a flurry of snow at the window. A scene befitting a snow globe--

The cookies have been plated. A small saucepan sits ready and waiting on the front left burner, the packets of cocoa powder on the counter beside the stovetop. The milk in your fridge far from expired. 

The snow starts to stick outside. There are sounds of people coming home on your floor, keys jingling, doors unlocking. Stomping the snow from their shoes before entering their homes. None of them are Peter.

When the only thing left to do is wait, you browse social media. There is chatter online about Spider-Man sightings today. A truck that had slid and keeled over while turning onto a main road, the web-slinger swooping in just in time to rescue pedestrians crossing the street. A police chase he gets involved in. A disappointing reminder that crime still persists even during the holidays.

Well. You are in the city.

Something endearing, which serves as a momentary distraction as you wait for Peter to show, is that the circulating pictures and videos of Spider-Man tonight show him swinging around with a navy blue scarf wrapped around his neck, and a cute matching knit hat -- one with a little fuzzball at the top. Even superheroes need to keep warm, you suppose. It makes you grin.

But it gets late. The snow has not relented. Looking through the window, you see the snow is starting to pile up on the street. Covering parked cars. Blanketing garbage bags left out on the sidewalk. Fresh footprints getting dusted over within minutes.

It makes you worry. Is Peter stuck somewhere? Is he safe? If you fret over his safety, pacing back and forth in your living room, then you have no time to focus on the disappointment currently breaking your heart.

Not like it’s his to break.

When it gets well past the time for it to be appropriate for visitors to come knocking on your door, your shoulders have fully slumped. There is a kindness embedded in you, though -- one you hope will not be mistaken for desperation -- that has you taking a saran-wrapped plate of cookies to leave at his door. 

The floor outside of everyone else’s door is wet with snow-turned-to-slush, with the exception of Peter’s. When you bend down to carefully place the plate on the ground, you think you catch the faintest scuffling of sound coming from the other side of the door. It makes you pause. Turn your head a bit, nearly press your ear against it. 

You catch it again, a definite sign that someone is home. As you stand back up to your full height, you frown, glancing down. There’s no light streaming from the cracks of the door. 

Peter? When could he have gotten home? There’s no wet footsteps leading to his apartment, so it would have been hours ago. 

Have you been stood up?

Maybe he just forgot, you think, even through the glumness enveloping your heart.

But because you are still kind -- and not desperate! -- you square your shoulders and knock, determined to get these gratitude cookies to their recipient so that he can enjoy them as fresh as possible. You can deal with a little heartbreak, but you’d be downright upset with yourself if Peter didn’t get to properly enjoy your cookies before they got cold and hard and possibly rat-nibbled overnight.

“Peter?” you call out, and are met with silence. Whatever shuffling was going on in there quieted.

You clear your throat, resolute. “Peter, I left you some cookies. You don’t have to open the door right now but please don’t leave them out here.”

The silence persists.

With a great big sigh, you trudge back to your end of the hallway. You’ve just barely clicked shut the door when you hear the echoing of another door closing out in the hall. You peer with a curious eye through the peephole and find the plate of cookies gone. 

In spite of it all, you smile.

A knock at the door rouses you from a stiff sleep. Just three gentle raps, as though worried they’d disturb you. You blink bleary eyes to the bright daylight that pours in through your living room window, emboldened by the snowfall; you had fallen asleep on the couch, curled uncomfortably into yourself, desiring the solace of blinking string lights to chase away dark and unwelcome thoughts. Those same lights still on, but barely detectable in the effulgence of morning swathing your living room.

“I’m comin,” you call out in what you hope is loud enough, voice raspy with sleep. You throw off the old blanket that became a tangle about your legs, only to realize in disgruntlement that you had fallen asleep in the clothes you were waiting for Peter in. Not exactly lounge clothes -- a pair of black leggings and an oversized knit sweater and only one, chunky knit sock (the other had been kicked off in sleep).

With a yawn and a stretch and a crack in your neck, you shuffle towards the door, the cold a shock to your single bare foot. Keeping the deadbolt secured, you open the door just a crack. Peter stands on the other side, contrite; boyish with his puppy-dog eyes. Maybe even a touch miserable.

You remove the deadbolt and swing open the door. The sight of Peter fills you with such immediate joy, a tide of sunshine filling up your lungs. But then you remember last night, and how he didn’t show, and another emotion lodges itself in your throat altogether. A calamity of mixed feelings that distorts your face, stretches your mouth into a grimace instead of the smile that usually blooms for him.

“I know, I know,” he says, reading your expression. “I’m sorry. I messed up.”

You think about the saucepan still sitting clean and empty on the stovetop. A forlorn reminder of what didn’t happen.

“Yeah,” you automatically agree. “I mean, no-”

“I did,” he interrupts your backpedaling, eyes big and insistent. “You invited me over, and I didn’t show. That’s messed up. I’m sorry.”

You blink back a well of tears that spring up, sudden and unwanted. “Okay,” you say, because what else is there to say? He’s just your neighbor. He doesn’t owe you anything. He’s not yours. 

“They were good, by the way.”

You stare at him. Is sleep still clouding your brain? It’s so bright. “Huh?”

“Your cookies. They were delicious. Best damn cookies I ever had. Swear it.”

As he talks, radiating apology and praise, his body comes to rest on the frame of your door. A familiar motion. But it lacks the usual air of comfort, laid-backness. It was more a lackadaisical slump of his shoulder. Still charming, and yet… you notice the pink of his nose, the puffy bruising under his eyes a stark contrast against the unusual pallor of his cheeks, and a navy blue scarf draped halfheartedly about his neck. The scarf elicits a foggy memory in the back of your mind, like it’s familiar somehow, but before you can work out where you’ve seen it before, a sniffle interrupts your train of thought and brings you back to the present.

“Oh, Peter. You’re sick!”

“Jus’ a little cold.” He shrugs, not without some effort, before lifting his hands. He’s holding two disposable cups. “Brought you hot chocolate to make up for last night.”

Relief is a palpable flutter in your chest when you realize that you weren’t stood up last night. Peter just wasn’t feeling well, but he ate your cookies and stepped out this morning to get you hot chocolate because he is terribly kind and sweet and good. Like you suspected.

A bubble of laughter bursts forth from your lips, and you step aside to invite Peter into your luminous little home.

“Wait, you believe in Santa?”

Peter’s shoulder knocks against yours as you walk in the cold, twinkling evening. December’s early nights are meaningless to the incandescent New York City skyline. 

After hearing how your family had booked a trip for the holidays that you couldn’t afford to join them on, Peter had lured you out of the apartment with the promise of a hot ramen dinner (and dessert, if you behaved. Whatever that meant). You’d been spending more time together since the Hot Chocolate incident, and have learned that Peter Parker is very difficult to say no to. Which is how you find yourself on a frigid evening stroll in Midtown.

An aggrieved huff forms a visible cloud in front of your face. “Of course I believe in Santa. Remember what I told you about not wanting to lose the magic?”

Peter laughs, and it shimmers in the air. “Sure, but- Santa? When was the last time you got a gift from jolly ol’ Saint Nick?”

You roll your eyes, goodnaturedly, at his ignorance. “Obviously he only delivers presents to the kids. Children are the priority, Peter. Adults have money and can get their own gifts.”

He is absolutely enthralled by your insistence, and your logic. 

“I’m just saying,” you continue, “if Spider-Man exists, I don’t see why Santa can’t-”

“Whoa, whoa- are you seriously comparing Santa -- an immortal man that supposedly uses flying reindeer to travel the world in one night -- to Spider-Man right now? What, because they both wear red? C’mon, sweetheart.”

“Oh, like crawling up buildings and shooting webs out of your butt is so much more believable,” you deadpan.

“It doesn’t- the webs don’t come out of-” Peter splutters, stopping to fully turn towards you. “There’s a scientific explanation for Spider-Man.”

Pausing alongside him, you scrunch your nose at Peter and his science, once again being reminded that he isn’t just awfully cute, but brilliant, too. You’ve both stopped beneath the wide awning of some gourmet cookie shop, profiles illuminated by the light spilling out from the glass plane of the store. There’s a heady aroma of chocolate blanketing the surrounding air between you both. 

“Why won’t you believe in Santa with me?”

“Well, for starters, I’m Jewish.”

“Oh my gosh I’m so sorry-” the apology comes out shaky with a kind of startled mirth. A tittering of giggles shake your shoulders as you hide your face behind cold, gloveless hands. For a moment, you were so caught up in defending Santa Claus that you forgot to consider his existence (or lack thereof) outside of magic, or science; you forgot faith. 

“Why’re you apologizing?” Peter chuckles, no bite in his tone despite your own ignorance.

“Embarrassed,” you whine, voice muffled behind your open palms. 

“S’alright, sweetheart,” he insists, and his hands engulf your wrists to gently tug your hands away from your face. “C’mon, don’t hide that pretty face from me.”

The compliment makes you freeze. For a second, there is nothing but the windchill caressing your cheeks and the burning feeling of Peter’s hands still touching you, scalding. Branding. Tethering. Air gets stuck in your chest, lungs forgetting to deflate, oxygen trapped within the balloon of the constricting organ.

You didn’t realize just how close you were standing to each other. Dark, coffee ground flecks in warm brown irises. Stubble dotting his jaw, framing his mouth, a sight that makes your heart twist. It’s a recent development this month. His mouth, pink, slightly chapped from the cold. Your gaze lingers on that mouth for a second too long, so you tear your eyes up and away and-

“Mistletoe.”

You blink. Your lashes are a frosted feather against the cusp of your cheeks. “Huh?”

Peter’s hands leave yours, leaving you momentarily weightless. But then his knuckle brushes against the underside of your chin, lifting your face up incrementally towards his.

There are a thousand, wordless thoughts running through your head that you’re worried are going to cascade from your parted lips in an inelegant tumble. 

“I won’t kiss you if you don’t want me to,” Peter murmurs, voice alluringly low, his breath skimming your lips like a partially answered prayer. 

“I want you to,” you breathe, barely audible.

As his face inches closer to yours, your eyes flutter shut, and your heart squeezes in painful anticipation behind your ribs. 

The press of his mouth against yours is cold and light, a snowflake of a kiss. His bottom lip slots itself between your own parted ones, a timid touch. Your hands, trembling, come to rest delicately against his chest, feeling it expand beneath his jacket. Staccato thrumming of his heart revealing he’s just as nervous as you are. 

He pulls away much too soon. Chaste and fleeting. Your fingers instinctively curl around the fabric of his jacket, clutching, not wanting him to go far. Something you didn’t have to worry about, as his face still hovers close enough that the tip of his nose bumps against yours.

“I’m probably not good for you,” Peter says, his confession fanning against your wanting lips. It goes through you, sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the fact that it was currently 32 degrees.  

You close your eyes to it, and because you are kind (not desperate, never desperate), you respond: “I don’t believe you.” And then: “I don’t even think I care.”

It is uncertain who closes the gap between you once again, but this time the kiss is more firm, and his hands come up to cradle your face, cold and grounding. The scratch of his five o’clock shadow creates a flurry of emotion in your breast that you don’t think you’ll ever be able to come back from. 

You sigh into his open mouth, and something guttural hums in his throat in response. Like a desperate ache, undoing him. He works your jaw open with a slight tilt of his head until he’s delving into the warm cup of your mouth, cloying taste of garlic and chili oil still residing on his tongue. 

It is thawing. Heat erupts from where you are connected, blooming dizzyingly until it brings a sweet sting to the apples of your cheeks, still clasped between the cooling caress of his thumbs. 

When the kiss breaks this time, you’re afraid of opening your eyes. You’re worried you’re going to wake up, alone, to your dark bedroom, and this will all have been a terribly wonderful dream. But when your eyes flutter open, you see Peter’s very real kiss-swollen lips and flushed face and an enigmatic flickering in his dark eyes.

You melt into his hands, still framing your face, releasing tension you hadn’t realized had been building in your shoulders. You feel too malleable too soon in his arms, like you gave something away about yourself that should have been withheld a little longer. 

But it is the season of giving, after all.

“So…” you clear your throat, breaking the spell before Peter can somehow take it all back. “Was that the dessert you promised me?”

Peter laughs, head thrown back to reveal his adam’s apple, and his hands slip free of your face to come to rest, pleasantly, at your waist. This thrills you, lightens you, and you grin in unrestrained joy.

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