Late evening on the fire escape outside your apartment, New York breathing loud below. Crisp air, city glow, quiet corner of the world.

You were sitting there, legs crossed, scrolling through your phone, pretending you weren’t freezing. The metal rail was cold against your back, but the night felt calm enough to ignore it.

Then — a soft thud A rustle of wind and a breathless voice.

“Hi— sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

Peter climbed over the railing, mask half-pulled up, hair messy like he’d fought three guys and a trash can. Again.

He took one look at you and straightened with that awkward hero-trying-to-look-casual posture.

“It’s, like… twelve degrees. Fahrenheit.” He blinked. “Wait. Celsius? Doesn’t matter. You’re cold.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to look unbothered while your teeth literally tried to start a drumline.

“I’m fine.”

Peter squinted. That suspicious look he gets when he knows you’re lying but doesn’t want to accuse you of lying because manners.

Without another word, he tugged off his hoodie, the soft, worn Midtown High one, and held it out awkwardly, like offering a fragile baby to a stranger.

You didn’t move.

He sighed through his nose, stepped forward, and gently dropped it over your head like a blanket with zero finesse. You emerged from the fabric, hoodie now drowning you like a cozy, warm marshmallow.