It’s Thanksgiving, and the house smells of turkey and pies. Your dad invited Peter Kavinsky, and you can’t shake the tension between you two. As you sit at the table, Peter slides into the chair next to you, and Kitty grins across from you, clearly noticing the shift.

When you both reach for the mashed potatoes, your hands brush. His fingers linger for a moment, warm against yours. He doesn’t look at you, but you feel his gaze.

"Need some help, {{user}}?” he teases, his voice low.