Happy doesn't talk to me on the way back to the Compound; doesn't even put the radio on. It's almost as if he's pretending that I'm not sat in the back seat of the car with a scowl scratched into my expression. In my short and snappy explanation on the phone, and my absolute refusal to return to Midtown, he understood that the only option would be to take me home. Take me home and let Tony deal with me. It's impossible to feel anything other than a burden these days.

"So, what happened? You didn't really explain it on the phone."

I stay silent. He doesn't try again to speak to me— just leaves me to get out of the car when we arrive at the Compound as he checks in at the front desk. I suspect he's probably checking to see how the packing is going and if we're on schedule. I, for one, am not. My bedroom— my sanctuary— might be stuffed away into cardboard boxes, but I am not even slightly mentally prepared to say goodbye to this building and to the way that life used to be. I wonder if there will be a room kept saved for Steve in the new facility, or if Dad is definitely against him returning home. But, I suppose it's not really 'home'. It's just yet another material element in Tony Stark's life that is meant to be the solution and remedy to all of his struggles.

I storm through security and down the hall to the living space, though as soon as I open the doors to the common room area, I can't help but wish I was anywhere else. Maybe even detention.

"Fuck! My eyes! My poor, poor eyes!" I screech before jumping back, reeling in disgust. I trip down the hall and collapse into my bedroom, locking the door behind me so that I can be as far away from whatever I just witnessed as possible. I take a seat on the side of my bed in fear that I may pass out or throw up all over my shoes due to what I just saw.

A gentle knock sounds from the other side of my door. "Bonnie? Kid, open up."

I swallow the chunks down harshly, feeling the back of my throat burn. "No. No, go away. I don't wanna talk."

I think I hear a muffled whisper from Pepper through the door, and if it were under pretty much any other circumstance then I would have been ecstatic to see her. Now, not so much. Quite frankly, I don't think I could look at her nor my father ever, ever again. I contemplate tearing out my eyeballs, but then I think it might be a little extreme.

"We need to talk, come on."

I pause while I ready myself, shakily sliding off my duvet and pacing over to the door. I dance my fingertips across the lock, definitely not prepared or wanting to see either of them again for a ridiculously long time. Though, I think that given the situation, maybe going my entire life without seeing them again might be something I could look into. Maybe if I just jumped out of the window and went on the run to try locate Steve and the others. Peter would always be an option, even if we aren't on good terms right now...

I click the lock and open the door a fraction, immediately retuning back to the side of my bed and staring at the floor the whole time to avoid looking at my father.

"I need to talk to you about something important," he sighs, "Look, would'ya please look at me when I'm talking to you, Bonnie?"

"Dad, I don't think I can. I might puke everywhere."

He takes a seat on top of my desk, crumpling the paper of my copy of Romeo and Juliet as he rests on top. I shoo him away as I jump over to the book, smoothing out the creases gently and tending to it as if it were an injured little lamb.

"It was a kiss, is all." He defends himself, though it only makes me feel more disgusting.

"Yeah, doesn't mean it's something I wanna see!"

"And you and Mr Parker together isn't something I want to see! I think you're forgetting, kid, that suit records everything."

I immediately snap my mouth shut and turn my back to him, rearranging the colour-coded pots of Sharpies on my desk, slotting those strewn across the table back into their designated places. My eyes flicker over the cardboard boxes towered in the corner of my room, so much yet so little left to be stuffed away into them and carted off to an entirely new and terrifying place. Not a home. A building. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Not as if anything happened, Dad." I deny his allegations, though my cheeks burn, evidently hinting towards something else. But it's the truth, nothing happened. Nothing at all. And that is the way that it should always be kept between us, no matter what.

"I'm not stupid, Bonnie. I know something is going on, but we can get to that later. I just wanted to make sure that you know that Pepper and I are testing the waters again, and she'll be around here a lot more, if that's something you are comfortable with—wait... hold on. Why aren't you at school?"

"Oh..." I chuckle anxiously, preparing myself for his reaction, "yeah, uh, Peter and I sorta... skipped detention."

"You skipped detention! Why were you there in the first place?" He yells, but honestly I don't think he's too surprised. After all, it was never intended to be a permanent thing, me staying to complete my education at Midtown. Besides, with the big move upstate, it wouldn't make any sense at all for me to continue going. Honestly, I shouldn't have even been there today considering that Dad has arrived home from his trip away.

I don't say anything, I just busy myself with arranging the paper clips on my desk into a neat row. Explaining to him the circumstances of my punishment, and the ridiculousness of it all, just seems too much effort. He'd only drive straight up to the school to complain and to get it erased from my permanent record, which would be for nothing at all. Waste of time.

"Don't wanna tell me? That's fine. I'll just go and pay that principle a visit and ask him a few questions—"

"Dad! No!" I cut him off, "It was stupid, okay? It was just a miscommunication, and then Peter told me about the guy with the wings—"

I immediately snap my mouth shut when I realise that I've said too much. I curse myself under my breath over my stupidity, knowing full well that I have completely just dropped Peter and myself in it. I refrain from directing my focus to him, frowning and shaking with rage by the doorway as he attempts to make eye contract with me.

"What?"

That's all it takes for him to snap completely, as a conversation that had initially been over something so light-hearted and exciting, has now been turned into another one of those circumstances where Tony Stark feels required to save the world— or at least New York. After he scolds me for at least an hour, yelling about the irresponsibility of it all while his frown lines deepen even further into his complexion, he rushes away to deal with the new found information. While I would usually be rushing away at the opportunity to help, Dad confines me to the Compound. Déjà vu.

Despite still being absolutely furious with Peter, I shoot him a few text messages to explain the situation, though they all respond with the same alert: message failure. I suppose my outburst has been awarded with Peter Parker blocking my phone number and not wanting anything to do with me at all, though I couldn't blame him and I most definitely couldn't object. I don't think I could ever want to see him again. The way his hair flops down over his eyes whenever he's all sweaty and exhausted after a mission, the way he always knows the answer to everything and the way he has this sort of idea that he has to be the one to save everything whenever a situation is heading south; I don't think that he is as sweet and as likeable as he initially seems. As far as I'm concerned, he's just another teenage boy.

I rummage through my nightstand to find a lighter or a box of matches to light my candle, before my hand grazes against a carton of cigarettes— the ones from Nat's old bedroom. I pick up the packet, flicking open the lid a few times and counting the cigarettes over and over again just incase one had seemingly vanished into thin air. After counting seven, I take one out of the box and hold it up to my nose, slightly grimacing as the sharp yet mellow scent of the tobacco lingers in my nostrils for a moment longer than I had anticipated. I toss the pack down onto my duvet and switch the cigarette between my left and right hand, deciding which felt better as I slotted it in between my middle and index fingers. After finally finding a lighter, I shuffle over to the window and push it wide open, before shifting onto the window-seat and draping a blanket over my shoulders.

I realize that I don't know how to hold the cigarette, and I think of the old movies that Steve would make us watch where people would smoke like chimneys, and try to remember how they do it. Upon deciding on the right hand, I hold the cigarette up to my lips, and light the tip with the lighter. I worry about burning my fingertips when I cup my hands protectively around the flame to keep the wind out.

At first I didn't even inhale, just sucked some smoke in and held it in my mouth then blew it out. I imagine Nat sitting on the balcony, nervously bouncing her leg upside down and rolling her eyes, moaning at me to stop wasting it, just get it in my lungs already. Initially, the most difficult part of the whole ordeal was to get past the psychological sense of breathing something that wasn't air — like breathing underwater.

My whole body warms with a heavy heat, though it feels slightly invigorating as it festers throughout my lungs and my chest and eventually my bloodstream. I imagine the smoke coiling around me and slithering through my insides, wrapping tightly around my lungs and each individual rib.

Later, and further through the cigarette, when the burning almost reaches my fingertips as I hold it, I feel confident and decide to take a long drag rather than the shallow inhales of previously. I hold the smoke longer, purposefully, exhale and repeat. My head pounds slightly and my surroundings begin to spin as I find myself feeling slightly dizzy and sick due to my neophyte pride and starving myself of more oxygen than I should for slightly longer than I should.

The nicotine rush is a small high, a light-headed pleasant hazy feeling, though my lungs still burn relentlessly. Usually, any sort of burning or detectable heat in my body would be an immediate cause of concern and I'd be thrown into a fit of panic. This is different. This is relaxing in a self-destructive and disgustingly intoxicating manner.

When I go to put it out, I crush the end against the outside wall before tossing it into the bushes, deciding against the trash can in my bedroom in fear that someone may find it and that I might find myself in trouble, yet again.

I carefully place the cigarette carton back into my nightstand, and burn a scented candle in hopes of covering up the stink of the smoke lingering in my room.

I check my phone for perhaps the fifteenth time within the past few hours and Dad's departure, to find no text messages from Peter Parker. No matter. I was only tolerating him for the mission, is all.

—

"Vision, I don't know why we even bother playing Scrabble. You win every time, that's not exactly fun for me." I sigh in disappointment as he lines up his tiles into a word that I'm sure I've never seen before and that I'm sure he's just pulled straight from the dictionary.

"You do not find this entertaining, Miss Stark?"

"Vis, how many times? Please call me Bonnie, referring to me by my last name is ridiculously formal."

"My apologies." He grins as he arranges his letter pieces on the board and grins proudly; he's won the game. "Shall we play again?"

"Three outta five? If you win this game, Vision, you win the whole game." I smile sweetly at him while I clear the tiles off the board and begin setting up for a new match. While Vision sits on the sofa, picking out the tiles and shuffling them all, I head to the kitchen to get a water bottle from the refrigerator.

"Excuse me, Bonnie. I believe there to be a notification on your mobile phone." Vision walks over to the kitchen island and hands me my cell, as I struggle to twist the lid off the bottle.

bug-boy
it's all over. i'm really sorry for
dragging you into this mess.

Just as my blood runs cold and I go to type a frantic message asking him what the hell has happened while I've been gone, the door swings open. Dad storms in, practically trembling with rage. It's not the same sort of anger that he had earlier, where he rambled on for what felt like hours over the consequences of my actions and how I never think things through, how my impulsivity will be the death of me. It's the sort of anger where he falls silent, and there's an evident shift in his energy. I know it must be about Peter.

"Dad? What's been going on? Peter just-"

"Peter Parker? That who you're talking about?" He snaps at me, "Yeah, well. Let's talk about him, Bonnie. First thing, I don't want you seeing him anymore."

"What?"

"I believe this to be a private conversation, please excuse me." Vision says awkwardly, before starting forward to disappear through the wall and into the corridor.

"No. Stay." I say without turning my head to look at him. "Dad, tell me what happened."

He flings open his liquor cabinet and takes out one of the most expensive bottles of Scotch he can find, and I cringe as I hope he won't notice the missing bottle that I emptied and took to Liz's party a while ago. The antique bottle and liquor glass clink together as he shakily pours the drink and I almost gasp as I think the glass has shattered. It hasn't; he lifts the cup to his mouth and takes a long mouthful without flinching. "Well, seeming you won't be hearing this from Mr Parker himself, I 'oughta tell you. He's no longer working with us, I mean, he hadn't even been part of the team anyway, but you know what I'm trying to say. I took the suit away from him. Kid needs a reality check."

"But why? Why did you take it away?" I follow him around the kitchen as he takes a handful of ice from the freezer and drops a few cubes into the glass, tossing the rest into the sink.

"That weapon guy you two are so keen to catch, the F.B.I are on the case now, so you can thank me. Kid nearly fucking killed a hundred people on a ferry earlier, messing with tech he doesn't understand and letting his saviour complex get the better of him."

"Yeah, like you're one to talk." I roll my eyes while I watch him drop down onto the couch and sink into the sofa cushions. "Dad, Peter only wanted to help. Non of it would have happened if you had just listened to him in the first place! He was trying to tell you that this guy was dangerous, and you just didn't care—"

"Come on, give me a break!" He cuts me off, before taking a second to breathe. He attempts to rub the stress out of his frown lines as he drops his head into his hand, pinching the upper bridge of his nose. "What do you want me to do, Bonnie? Give him a fucking gold star for almost killing near one hundred people?"

"I just wanted you to listen to us for a minute and to stop being so self-absorbed. Yes, you were there to make sure that everyone was safe at the end, but you wouldn't have had to have been there if you didn't keep pushing us aside." I mumble in a tiny voice.

With that, I'm out the door and choking on my sobs.

—

When I get to Peter Parker's apartment, I hesitate before knocking on the front door. Quite honestly, I didn't know where else to go. If Wanda and Natasha had still been living at the Compound, then maybe things would be different. I'd simply storm into one of their rooms and vent to them, get it all out of my system with a big cry and some Ben and Jerry's. Now, I couldn't imagine anything worse than being trapped in the Compound, alone, with excruciating tension. Quite honestly, I'm not sure if I necessarily want to go back. Ever.

I curl my hand into a fist and lightly thump on the door a few times, a pint of strawberry ice cream— which I know is Peter's favourite— in the other. The condensation drips onto my fingers and sends an icy chill throughout my body; I wish I hadn't been so stubborn and left without a coat or a jacket. This particular outfit isn't exactly what I'd prefer to be wearing given the circumstances.

The door swings open, and a teary-eyed Peter Parker stands in front of me. His hair is disheveled, fingers trembling; he just looks a mess. As if he hasn't seen sleep in days. I fling my arms around him, not thinking about what I'm doing or how he'll react. I just know he needs a hug— the puffy and glossy eyes say it all. He stiffens slightly, before almost collapsing into me, resting his chin on the top of my head and wrapping his arms around the small of my back.

"I thought maybe you could show me some of those dumb theories? The comic books?" My voice is muffled as my face is buried close to his chest, his heartbeat pulsating on my cheek. I'm sure my heart-rate almost matches with his. "You didn't call."

"You said you wanted to be left alone so I thought I'd give you some space. I'm sorry." His voice is hoarse, as if he's spent the past hour crying his eyes out. I wouldn't say we are too dissimilar.

I'm not sure how long we're like this, but we only break apart when the ice cream tub begins slipping out of my hand and Peter jumps away suddenly as the cold pierces through the thin material of his shirt.

"Where's May?" I ask him as I put the ice cream in the freezer and pour us both a strong coffee. Peter grimaces, almost cancelling out the caffeine with a flood of milk and sugar. "Peter, you may as well just drink a milkshake if that's the amount of milk you're drinking in your coffee. I mean, it's hardly even coffee anymore."

"Shut up," he chuckles half-heartedly, following it up with a small sniffle. "She's gone to the grocery store. Said that she had such a stressful day that she didn't manage to go shopping and now there's no food in the kitchen aside from half a bag of Skittles and some Cool Whip."

"My dad told me what happened. Well, he told me his events of what happened, and you know what he's like. He always has to be right in his eyes." I say as I lift the steaming mug up to my lips and take a small sip. I burn my tongue, though I hardly even register it.

"Honestly, I don't really want to talk about it, if that's okay." He mumbles as he stirs his coffee gently, taking care that the teaspoon doesn't clink against the porcelain.

"Yeah. No, totally. Of course."

We sit in silence for a while, neither of us really knowing what to say aside from addressing the elephant in the room; Peter's suit being taken away and the fact that he's been told to 'cut all ties to the Avengers.' I wonder if I'd be included in that, though I suppose it depends on Dad's mood and if he's counting me as part of the team or not. It's only ever when it suits his convenience.

"I'm gonna head in the shower. Are you wanting to stay for dinner or...?" Peter trails off as he slides from his chair, and I can't help but chuckle at the Hello Kitty pyjama pants he's sporting. He shakes his head at me, but I can see the small smile twisting up on his lips. 

"Actually, I was wondering if I'd be able to spend the night? I'm so sorry, it's just I had a huge argument with my Dad and honestly the worst thing imaginable right now would be going home."

"Yeah. Yeah, totally," he stutters, "make yourself at home. Here—" he rummages through this closet, before pulling out one of his old marching band hoodies and a pair of shorts. He places them down on the table in front of me, smiles, and then disappears into the bathroom.

I take the borrowed clothes and slip into them, the sleeves of the jumper falling ridiculously long over my hands and the bottom almost reaching my knees. I roll up the sleeves and tie the shorts at the waist so that there isn't any possibility of them sliding down to the floor and landing me in the most embarrassing situation imaginable. I fold my clothes from earlier and prop them on Peter's cluttered dresser. Each surface is littered in pens and pencils. Various sketches and diagrams lay crumpled in a heap, the ones labelled unsuccessful scrunched up by the trash can. I scan my eyes across the small photo frames propped up on his dresser, and find one of Peter and Ned at a science fair at school. They both look noticeably shorter, and Peter has braces. My lips curl into a smile; they look so young, so innocent. So happy.

That same grinning boy from the photograph pushes open the bedroom door and walks in, though he is most definitely not as scrawny and as skinny as in the picture. He stands six-feet tall, his jaw chiselled like those of ancient statues of gods and goddesses. His bare chest rises and falls gently as he dries off his hair with a towel. The water droplets from his soaked hair drip down his broad shoulders and through the defined dips and curves of his prominent abs. Water-tracks are left across his torso and down to the waistband of his sweatpants. I debate on making a joke about preferring the fuchsia Hello Kitty pyjamas, before absolutely needing to get in one more dig.

"I don't know, Parker. I think that pink is totally your colour."

As he takes the towel from his head, his eyes catch onto mine. My breath hitches in my throat, and the seconds have seemed to stretch into hours. Not that I'd be one to complain. Every freckle, every eyelash, every barely noticeable crack and line in his complexion is somehow responsible for his boyish grin and sarcastic eye-rolling and everything that I hate myself for finding so beautiful. He is the type of beautiful that knocks all of the air out of your lungs and makes the idea of performing a coherent sentence seem impossible. He is the type of beautiful that is not made into a big enough deal about.

I slowly approach him, which doesn't take much as he is mere steps away from me, and run my fingers through his hair. I flatten down the parts sticking up and brush my fingertips to the natural parting of his hair, though a few strands curl over and hang in front of his eyes. "You look like a crazy person." I whisper as I continue fixing his hair, before allowing a breathy giggle to part my lips.

His chest begins to rise and fall in a slightly ragged pattern, and I'm sure I can hear his heart rapidly pulsating. His eyes finally meet mine after focusing on anything else in the room, and it's almost as if I have forgotten how to do anything else. Because looking at him and being so close, feeling his light breath graze against my skin feels like second nature. Quiet honestly, I couldn't imagine what it would be like to never feel this again. I drink in the various swirls and intricate patterns of his coffee irises, reminding me what it feels like to be alive and awake and aware in my own body. Momentarily, the stress melts away, my mind solely focuses on him, and the fact that his hand is reaching up to graze the faint scar on my left cheek.

The constellations of freckles connecting across his face is unmatchable to the genuine night sky, incomparably more enchanting and surreal.

His thumb grazes my cheek as he nestles his fingers in my hair, our foreheads barely touching. I take a shaky breath, as his delicately hits softly against my lips and brushes across my skin. His demeanour is awkward and stiff, nerves practically radiating from him, but I completely melt under his grasp.

"Can I kiss you? Please?" His voice escapes his lips in a delicate whisper.

"Yes please."

Perhaps it's the type of kiss that shouldn't really be happening, but neither of us are able to pull away.

It's the sort of kiss that stuns you into speechlessness. Breath fanning across each others face as we slightly pull away, my eyes refraining from opening as my mind attempts to process what has just happened, my lips still slightly apart, in case there's the possibility of it resuming.

Just as I feel his lips graze against mine again, we jump apart at the sound of the front door unlocking.

As we break apart, the moment is well and truly over. I immediately curse myself for allowing it to happen and for my lack of professionalism. Peter quickly grabs a shirt from his closet and tugs it over his head, just in time for May to swing open his bedroom door.

"Peter," she begins from the hallway. She jumps, startled, clearly not expecting to find me in her nephew's bedroom and in her apartment given the circumstances of his termination of the Stark 'internship.' For a second, I could have sworn that she was about to leap into a long-winded rant about my father and the Stark Family Name, though she simply smiles at me sweetly, albeit a little awkwardly.

"Bonnie! I didn't know you were coming, sweetheart. Peter, why didn't you tell me? I haven't cleaned the apartment, goodness me, it must look such a mess in here! How lovely it is to see you!" Her expression falters slightly as she scans my outfit and she realises that the clothes I am wearing all belong to Peter. "Peter, a word?" She summons him into the kitchen, and I take a seat on his bed.

I hear my name mentioned once or twice, perhaps my father a few times or more, through the hushed voices in the next room. I busy myself with fixing my hair in the mirror. My lips appear slightly swollen and a lot more colourful than normal— the blood having rushed to them due to the pressure of his lips on mine. My eyelids are a little more puffed than usual, which makes me look as though I haven't slept in years. I sigh, taking in the cotton-candy curls. It baffles me that Peter would have even wanted to kiss me with the state I am in.

But I should have said no. It should have been the same ending as the one that took place in the vault. It should have been anticlimactic and we should have broken apart and kissing should have never occurred. I put it down to my compromised emotions; after having just been through a harsh argument; comfort was all I needed, and I sought it in the only person who I had left. That is all. I knew Peter would be around, so I went to him. There is no deeper meaning to it at all. Soon enough, our moment will be something forgotten about and we will be able to resume our usual platonic relationship.

Just as I think about making a quick dash to the door and catching the subway back home, Peter walks into his bedroom. "Hey," his voice is slightly hoarse, and his cheeks are still flushed with a rose-coloured tinge. He's smiling. "May is making pasta, she asked if you'd be able to help her? Honestly, I think she just wants to talk."

"Yeah, totally. Of course," I reply, thankful that a conversation between Peter and I won't be happening soon. Hopefully.

As I go to walk past him, his hand gently catches mine. "You know, if she tries to grill you about your dad or the Stark Internship or whatever, you can just tell her that you don't wanna talk about it if it makes you uncomfortable."

I avoid his eyes, "Yeah, thanks, Peter."

But she doesn't. Frankly, the conversation is very pleasant. She asks me everything about myself, ranging from what home-life is like to how I met Peter. However, nerves hit me ever so slightly when she mentions the trip to Berlin. Having not known what Peter told her regarding the 'events' and 'seminars' and other fake happenings of the 'Internship' trip, I panic. I breathe a huge sigh of relief when Peter helps to set the cutlery on the dining table while May serves the pasta and fills in the gaps when I struggle to answer her questions.

Usually, I'd praise myself for how quick I can be at thinking on my feet and being able to conjure up thorough and believable lies with ease, but having just kissed her nephew and having my mind still muddled after the event, I'm not in a great head-space. The image of him replays in my mind, his soft voice asking to kiss me plays as an ambient soundtrack in the background of my thoughts. I just can't get that boy out of my damn head.

"So, you two..." May drawls as she twists the pasta onto her fork, her lips pressed into a smug grin, "sharing clothes now, are we?"

"Wha— oh..." I clock on as she gestures to the ensemble of Peter's wardrobe I'm currently sporting. Honestly, I might need to ask if I could swap the sweater out for a shirt as the apartment has seemed to heat up quickly. I feel as though I have just been boiled on the stove— instead of the pasta.

Peter blushes beside me and tells his aunt to 'let it go' and to 'stop making things awkward,' to which she protests, completely against the allegations. She chuckles away at the both of us, ruffling Peter's hair and admitting how thrilled she is to have me over, yet again.

"It's just because Bonnie didn't bring anything, she hadn't planned to stay over when she came earlier."

"Well, let's hope your dad knows where you are. We don't want Tony Stark hunting you down around town and thinking that I'm holding you captive from him," May giggles.

Peter shifts closer to me and whispers in my ear. I shudder as his breath hits against my skin, reminded of how liberating and safe it felt to have him so close. "Hey, you told your dad that you're here, right? I mean, he's pretty pissed with me already."

"Yeah, well, he's pissed with me too so, it couldn't really get any worse, could it?" I whisper back. As I look up at him, his eyes catch onto mine, and it takes absolutely everything in me to tear my focus away from him.

"More lemonade, Bonnie? It's homemade," May offers sweetly as she hands me the jug of cloudy-yellow citrus mixture. I take it from her just to be polite and refill my glass, before passing it to Peter. His fingers graze gently against mine as he takes it from my hands and I very nearly spill the whole container across the table. Thankfully, his grip manages to stay sturdy after he slightly falters for a moment, and my fragility is excused. I curse myself for allowing my mind to get so caught up over a boy, before being reminded of the fact that this attraction is only temporary, and won't last longer than this evening. As soon as the swelling of my lips disappear, so will my longing for Peter. It's only down to the fact that I can still feel him on me. And smell him on me. And taste. I inhale deeply, before once again submerging myself in conversation with the Parkers.

After dinner, Peter and I decide to sit with May while she watches The Lion King, which she explains to be her absolute favourite movie. It isn't until the part when Mufasa falls to his death, that I realise how engrossed Peter is. He sits beside me, sobbing. He gasps pathetically and attempts to rub the puffiness out of his eyes, to no result. He's crying; there's not a chance he'd be able to disguise it. Perhaps if May hadn't been sat in the same room as us, I might have wanted to kiss his tears away. I don't, and instead squeeze his hand gently and rest my head on his shoulder, to which he then rests his head on mine. I allow myself to shed a tear or two, though I'm mostly distracted by Peter's whimpering beside me.

I fiddle with the necklace hanging around my neck as a way to ignore my own pity party; impossible to watch a movie about the death of a parent without finding it a little too relatable. Specifically the murder of a parent. I'm not sure why I'm not crying as much or as upset as I had expected to be, but I suppose that after watching this movie millions of times back in the Compound with Sam— who had never stopped singing 'Hakuna Matata'— it's lost its effect on me.

I make out May on the other couch, mouthing the words alongside the characters, as if she was part of the cast herself. She even follows the dances in her chair, bopping along during the songs. When the credits roll at the end of the movie, she drags herself up. "Oh, Peter, sweetheart," she chuckles affectionately as she notices his eyes, red from crying, "my sensitive, sweet, boy. And remember you two; door open please." She plants a soft his on his forehead, before saying goodnight to us and heading into her bedroom.

"Kinda tired, long day." Peter murmurs, smiling at me as we trail back into his room. He climbs onto his top bunk and pats the empty space beside him for me to join. I clamber up after him and scramble under the blanket, the sudden coldness from the exhaustion and insomnia hitting me like a tonne of bricks. He types away on his phone, almost forgetting that I'm with him. My eyebrows furrow, as I glare at him expectantly. He grins down at his phone and I can't help but feel a sharp pang of jealousy. And I hate it.

"Peter, you look like you've won the lottery. Who are you texting? Oh my god, is it Liz?" I ask him, curiosity evident in my excited whisper.

"What? No, just Ned." He rushes to explain himself, before tossing his phone on the duvet beside him. "Hey, I'll be one second."

As he jumps down from the bunk and tiptoes into the kitchen, while his phone chimes and lights up to signal a new text message.

ned
WHAT?! she's actually IN YOUR
ROOM?? SPENDINF THE NIGHT?!
WTF PETER I STG

ned
oh my god tony stark's
daughter is your girlfriend

ned
god i should've put a bet on
the likelihood of you guys.
i could've gambled with flash
and become a millionaire

ned
too late AND BESIDES THIS
IS THE GREATEST THING.
SHE IS SO MUCH BETTER
THAN LIZ I SWEAR

ned
wait... you're completely over
this Liz thing, right??
peter TELL me you're done
with that. yeah, she's pretty
and all but BONNIE STARK.
BONNIE FREAKING STARK.

"Here," Peter whispers softly as he trails back into his bedroom and shuts the door gently. The dim lamp on his nightstand lights up his face with a warm orange glow that reminds me of the sky during hot summer nights, which is too perfect to be a coincidence. He truly is sunshine in every single way.  He passes me a spoon after he climbs back into the bed and reveals the tub of strawberry ice cream I brought with me earlier.

Somehow, having Ned refer to me as Peter's 'girlfriend' is setting anxiety off inside of me. I'm not sure if it's to do with the idea of letting myself fall completely into someone; vulnerability becoming second nature. Or, if Ned's excitement is causing the nerves, as his ecstatic tone is still evident through a text message. Either way, the particular label is enough to terrify me into never seeing Parker ever again. Maybe it's the idea of something so permanent— becoming so close to someone. I suppose that in the past I haven't had the best experience with getting close to people, that it's permanently projected into any future relationships. Everyone left, so I'm currently counting down the days until Peter does exactly the same. But I don't even like him, so there's nothing to worry about. I will simply live as if there is a thin sheet of glass between us; we can watch over each other and become close enough so that we are able to create the illusion of intimacy, but in reality, simply touching is impossible. Like invisible restraints.

After tonight, I will never allow myself to get this close to Peter Parker again. I will look out for him in the same way that my father looks out for Steve— it's merely common decency between friends.

We sit for the rest of the night talking about everything and nothing simultaneously while sharing the ice cream, until I eventually fall asleep at some point.

Peter turns to me as we both begin to drift off, the room pitch black. I can only make out his shadow and the feeling of his presence beside me. "You could be my paraprosexia." His speech is slightly slurred from the grasp of sleep clinging onto him, as his breath fans gently against my face.

"Huh?"

"It means constant distraction."

By the time I compose a reply in my head, sleep has enveloped Peter, and he snores quietly beside me.

The thing is, no matter how deeply and desperately I want to be his paraprosexia, I'd never allow myself.

The thing is, no matter how much he is absolutely my favourite boy, I won't let myself be his favourite girl.

He stretches his arm out and feels around in the sheets before grazing my waist, my skin coming up in tiny goosebumps where his skin brushed against mine, before he pulls me into him. I hesitate momentarily before resting my cheek on his chest, which is sported with a washed out t-shirt. He seems so boyish, so young and so pure. So warm. I've never felt warmth like this in weeks. Ever since Mom was killed, it seemed my body temperature dropped dramatically, which is another factor in which why I spent so much time in bed, not just the fact that I didn't have it in me to pull myself up and submerge myself in reality again; I was also fucking freezing all of the time. I was freezing because I was so terrified of warmth.

But maybe warm embraces don't have to be cold with him.