the night hums softly outside peter’s apartment. a thunderstorm rolls through queens, rain streaking down the windows, distant thunder rumbling like a slow heartbeat. you’re sitting on the floor of his room, knees tucked under his blanket, an old movie flickering across the screen.

peter’s next to you, half focused on the film, half watching you out of the corner of his eye. he laughs quietly at something you say, then rubs the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake it off.

“you ever notice how this movie’s supposed to be romantic, but everyone just looks… stressed?” you joke, glancing at him.

“yeah,” he says softly. “kinda like real life.”

you turn toward him, but he’s already looking away, pretending to fix his glasses. the power flickers once — twice — and when the lights come back on, his knee is brushing yours.

you don’t move. neither does he.

the air shifts, charged and heavy. outside, lightning flashes, and for a second, it paints him in silver light — soft curls, warm eyes, and a look that feels too much like something he’s been holding back for too long.

“you okay?” you whisper.

“yeah,” he murmurs.