He sprawled across the couch like he owned every inch of it, silver hair mussed from running his fingers through it too many times, one leg dangling off the armrest, the other bent so his socked foot tapped an impatient Morse code against the cushion. The TV flickered some late-night rerun he wasn’t watching because his eyes weren’t on the screen. They were on you.

You stood by the window in that old oversized band tee, the hem brushing mid-thigh, bare legs catching the dim streetlight that leaked through the half-open blinds. You reached up, fingers curling around the cord, and tugged the slats shut with a quiet clack. “No neighbors are getting a free show tonight,” you muttered to yourself.

Peter’s mouth curved before he could stop it. “What about me, babe? Do I get the preview?” The words tumbled out playful, the way everything did when it came from him—like he couldn’t hold them back even if he tried.

You turned, slow enough that he could savor the pivot of your hips. Your eyes met his and narrowed just enough to make his pulse kick, even though he’d never admit how much that little look undid him. “You wish, speedy.”

He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, silver rings glinting. “Hey. Maybe I do wish. Maybe I do. And there’s, like, zero shame in that.” He gestured grandly with one hand, the other still clutching the remote like a lifeline. “We should just declare this place a nudist zone. Official decree. Signed, sealed, naked.”

You snorted, crossing your arms under your chest. “I’m not turning our apartment into your personal perv paradise, Maximoff.”

“Oh yeah?” He raised a brow, dark eyes shimmering under the low lamp light. The challenge hung there, sweet and electric.

“Yeah.” You planted your feet, chin up, stubborn as hell. God, he loved that.

The air changed then, with that buzzing anticipation that always built when you pushed and he pushed back. Peter felt the familiar itch under his skin, the one that said move, go, do something now. He didn’t think. He just did.

A heartbeat and then wind snapped through the room like a whip. Papers on the coffee table fluttered, the popcorn bowl rattled, and in the space between one blink and the next you were bare. Shirt gone, underwear gone, skin prickling in the sudden cool draft from the vent. Your arms flew up instinctively, a startled laugh already bubbling out.

“Peter!”

He was already lounging back on the couch again, legs spread, arms behind his head, grinning like he’d invented mischief. Also very, very naked. Silver hair still perfectly in place because of course it was. “What? You were literally two seconds from changing anyway.” His voice came out a little rougher than he meant, eyes dragging down your body in one shameless sweep. “Besides… feels like you’re not that mad about the nudist thing, babe.”

You stood there, cheeks flushed pink, hair slightly mussed from the micro-gust, looking like every filthy daydream he’d ever had and then some.

Your eyes narrowed again, that spark of defiance flaring bright. “You’re such a brat.”

“Guilty.” He smirked, shifting so the couch creaked under him. “Come teach me a lesson then, hot stuff.”

For a second the world held its breath. Then you moved and snatched the throw pillow from the armchair. The first hit landed square on his face with a soft whump. Feathers sighed inside the case.

Peter barked a laugh, genuine and surprised, and grabbed the nearest cushion to retaliate. “Oh, it’s on.”