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Brooklyn, 3:17 a.m.
Peter’s brain is loud tonight. Not the kind of loud that screams—more like a thousand sticky notes fluttering in a wind tunnel. Thoughts half-formed, half-erased. He’s out of meds. Again. The pharmacy wants $600. His bank account says $14.23 and a warning about overdraft fees.
He’s been trying to stay in the middle. Not too high, not too low. But the middle is slippery, and Wade’s voice keeps tugging him sideways.
The sticky notes on Peter’s wall are color-coded:
• Blue for things he’s supposed to feel.
• Yellow for things he actually feels.
• Red for Wade.
There are too many yellows. And the reds are starting to bleed.
Peter hasn’t seen Wade in weeks. But he’s everywhere. In the cracked mirror. In the way the rain hits the fire escape like footsteps. In the pin Peter found in his boot this morning—rusted, sharp, familiar.
He texts:
I’m not your doll.
I’m not even mine.
No reply. Just the hum of the fridge he forgot to unplug. The sound of his own heartbeat, too fast, too loud.
He tries to sleep. He tries to breathe. He tries not to remember Wade’s hands—how they trembled when he said, “You make me want to be better. But I don’t know how.”
Peter had kissed him then. Out of pity. Out of hope. Out of something Wade called love and Peter called a mistake.
Now, Wade’s nowhere and everywhere. Peter turns on the radio. Static. Then a voice—Wade’s voice—singing Voodoo, off-key and too close.
“Whenever I wake up with pain in my stomach / Least I know that you’re up late and thinking of us.”
Peter throws the radio. It doesn’t break. Of course it doesn’t.
He stares at the wall. One red sticky note flutters loose and lands on his chest.
It reads:
You’re mine even when you unravel.
Peter folds it into a paper star and drops it into the jar labeled Don’t Look Back. The jar is full. Overflowing.
He suits up. Because Wade’s coming.
And Peter’s tired of pretending he doesn’t want him to.
Brooklyn, 4:42 a.m.
Peter hasn’t stopped moving. He’s reorganized the sticky notes three times. Alphabetically. Then by emotional weight. Then by how much they hurt to read. He’s cleaned the fridge, repainted the bathroom mirror with dry-erase markers, and tried to fix the broken watch Wade left behind.
It ticks now. Loudly. Wrongly.
His thoughts are a kaleidoscope—bright, sharp, spinning too fast. He’s brilliant. He’s broken. He’s invincible. He’s unraveling.
He texts Wade seventeen times.
I’m fine.
I’m not fine.
I can’t breathe.
I’m flying.
I miss you.
I hate you.
Come over.
Don’t.
No reply. Just the echo of his own voice talking to no one. He’s narrating his life out loud now, like a documentary no one asked for.
“Peter Parker, age twenty-something, currently experiencing a full-blown manic episode. Watch as he attempts to rewire a toaster using dental floss and grief.”
He laughs. Too loud. Too long. Then he cries. Then he laughs again.
The jar labeled Don’t Look Back is shattered. He stepped on it. Didn’t feel it. There’s blood on the floor. He writes Wade in it. Then wipes it away.
He suits up. Not because there’s danger. Because the suit feels like control. Like armor. Like silence.
But Wade’s voice is in his head again. Not real. Not yet.
“You’re beautiful when you break things.”
“You make chaos look holy.”
Peter climbs to the roof. The city hums beneath him. He hums back. He’s vibrating. He’s electric. He’s terrified.
He whispers:
“I’m not your doll.”
“I’m not your doll.”
“I’m not your doll.”
But he wants to be. Just for a minute. Just until the spinning stops.
Brooklyn, 5:09 a.m.
Peter’s pacing the rooftop like it owes him answers. His suit’s half-zipped, his hands won’t stop twitching, and his thoughts are ricocheting off the skyline. He’s tried breathing. He’s tried counting. He’s tried punching a brick wall until it cracked. It didn’t help.
Then Wade’s there.
Not with fanfare. Not with explosions. Just… leaning against the rusted railing like he’s been waiting for Peter to notice him.
Peter freezes. His brain doesn’t.
He’s real.
He’s not real.
He’s here.
He’s going to leave.
Don’t let him.
Wade’s wearing a hoodie that used to be Peter’s. It’s too small. It smells like gunpowder and rain. His mask is off. His face is a map of old wars and new regrets.
“You look like a Jackson Pollock painting,” Wade says. “If Pollock had a breakdown and painted with espresso and unresolved trauma.”
Peter laughs. It’s a bark. It’s a sob. It’s both.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“You texted me seventeen times.”
“That wasn’t an invitation.”
“It was a scream.”
Peter’s knees buckle. Wade doesn’t catch him. He just sits beside him, cross-legged, like they’re kids at summer camp and not two men stitched together by grief and bad decisions.
Peter’s voice is a whisper now.
“I can’t slow down.”
Wade nods.
“Then I’ll spin with you.”
Peter looks at him. Really looks. Wade’s eyes are bloodshot. His knuckles are bruised. There’s a pin tucked behind his ear like a cigarette.
“You’re not good for me.”
“I’m not good for anyone.”
“But you keep coming back.”
“So do you.”
The city hums. Peter’s thoughts don’t. For the first time in hours, they pause. Not because Wade fixed anything. But because Wade showed up.
Peter leans his head on Wade’s shoulder. Just for a second. Just until the spinning starts again.
Brooklyn, 6:03 a.m.
Peter’s heart is a jackhammer. His thoughts are a swarm. He hasn’t eaten. He hasn’t slept. He hasn’t stopped moving since the rooftop. His body is a blur—suit half-on, mask forgotten, fingers bleeding from where he tried to fix the toaster again. It still won’t work. Nothing works.
He’s talking to himself. Loudly. Fast.
“I’m fine. I’m brilliant. I’m burning. I’m God. I’m garbage. I’m—”
He throws a lamp. It shatters. He laughs. Then sobs. Then spins in circles until he collapses.
The sticky notes are everywhere. On the walls. On the ceiling. On his skin.
One on his forehead reads: Don’t trust the quiet.
One on his chest: Wade loves you too much to leave.
One on his wrist: You’re not real.
He claws at them. They won’t come off.
The city outside is too loud. The colors are wrong. The shadows are moving. He’s convinced the moon is watching him. Judging him. Whispering Wade’s name.
Then Wade’s there.
Not with words. Not with weapons. Just… standing in the doorway like he’s afraid to breathe too loud.
Peter sees him and screams. Not in fear. In relief. In rage. In everything.
“You did this!”
“You made me like this!”
“You stuck the pins and now I’m bleeding and you won’t even look at me!”
Wade doesn’t flinch. He steps forward. Slowly. Like Peter’s a bomb. Like Wade’s the fuse.
“I’m here.”
Peter throws a book at him. Then a chair. Then a fist.
Wade catches the fist. Doesn’t let go.
Peter’s shaking. Crying. Laughing.
“I’m not your doll.”
“I’m not your doll.”
“I’m not your doll.”
Wade pulls him in. Doesn’t speak. Just holds him like Peter’s made of glass and fire.
Peter collapses. Fully. Finally.
Wade whispers:
“You’re not my doll. You’re my storm.”
Peter doesn’t respond. He’s too tired. Too raw. Too human.
But he doesn’t pull away.
Brooklyn, 9:47 a.m.
Peter hasn’t moved in hours. The suit’s still on, but it feels like someone else’s skin. His limbs are heavy. His thoughts are slow. The sticky notes are curling at the edges, unreadable. The jar labeled Don’t Look Back is gone. He doesn’t remember throwing it out. He doesn’t remember much.
The crash came fast. One minute he was flying. The next, he was drowning in molasses.
His body aches. Not from fighting. From existing.
The apartment is dim. Not dark. Just… faded. Like someone turned the saturation down on his life.
Wade’s sitting on the floor, back against the wall, mask off, hoodie up. He hasn’t spoken in hours. He’s just there. Like a shadow that chose to stay.
Peter doesn’t look at him. He can’t.
“You hungry?” Wade asks, voice soft.
Peter shakes his head. Barely.
“You want music?”
Peter flinches.
“You want me to leave?”
Peter doesn’t answer.
Wade sighs. Pulls a pin from his pocket. Twirls it between his fingers. Doesn’t offer it. Doesn’t threaten. Just holds it like a memory.
Peter’s voice is a whisper.
“I don’t feel anything.”
Wade nods.
“That’s okay.”
Peter turns his head. Just slightly.
“It’s not.”
Wade crawls closer. Not touching. Just near.
“You don’t have to fix it today.”
Peter closes his eyes.
“I don’t think I can fix it ever.”
Wade doesn’t argue. Doesn’t comfort. Just sits in the silence like it’s sacred.
The rain starts again. Soft. Steady. Like the city’s crying for him.
Peter curls into himself. Not for warmth. For containment.
Wade whispers:
“You’re still here. That’s enough.”
Peter doesn’t reply. But he doesn’t disappear either.
Brooklyn, 10:12 a.m.
Wade’s been sitting in the same spot for forty-seven minutes. He counted. Not because he’s patient. Because he’s terrified that if he moves, Peter will disappear.
Peter hasn’t spoken. Hasn’t blinked much either. He’s curled up on the couch like a broken marionette—strings cut, joints locked, eyes glassy. Wade’s seen bodies like that before. Usually after a job. Never breathing.
But Peter’s breathing. Barely.
Wade wants to crack a joke. Something about how Peter looks like a sad burrito wrapped in trauma and spandex. But the words die in his throat. Humor feels like graffiti on a gravestone.
He watches Peter’s chest rise and fall. Too slow. Too shallow.
Wade’s fingers twitch. He wants to touch him. Shake him. Hold him. Fix him. But Peter’s not a wound Wade can stitch shut. He’s a storm Wade can’t outrun.
“You ever think maybe you’re cursed?” Wade whispers. “Like, cosmically? Like the universe looked at you and said, ‘Let’s see how many times we can break this one before he stops getting back up.’”
Peter doesn’t respond. Doesn’t flinch.
Wade pulls a pin from his hoodie pocket. It’s bent. Useless. He rolls it between his fingers anyway.
“You told me once I make chaos look holy. But you? You make pain look like poetry.”
Peter shifts. Barely. A twitch. A breath.
Wade leans forward.
“I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know how to be gentle. But I can stay. I can sit here and be quiet and not ask you to be okay.”
Peter’s eyes flicker. Just once. Like a dying lightbulb.
Wade doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too loud.
“You’re not my doll,” he says. “You’re my favorite disaster.”
Peter closes his eyes again. But this time, it feels less like giving up. More like letting Wade stay.
Unknown Location, 2:14 a.m.
The call comes in like a ghost. Wade’s phone buzzes once, then goes silent. No caller ID. Just a number Wade doesn’t recognize but feels in his bones.
He answers.
“Hello?”
Static. Breathing. Then Peter’s voice—thin, slurred, barely tethered to reality.
“I don’t know where I am.”
Wade sits up. Fast.
“Pete?”
“I think I’m in a bathroom. Or a closet. Or a dream. I smell like smoke. I taste metal.”
Wade’s heart drops. Peter sounds drunk. High. Lost.
“Okay. Okay. Just breathe. Can you see anything?”
“There’s a mirror. I don’t look like me.”
Wade’s already moving. Grabbing his gear. Not the weapons—just the hoodie, the boots, the keys. He doesn’t need to fight anyone. He needs to find someone.
“You’re Peter. You’re mine. You’re real. I’m coming.”
Peter laughs. It’s hollow.
“I smoked everything. Weed. Cigarettes. Something I didn’t recognize. I wanted to feel something. I think I felt too much.”
Wade’s voice is steady.
“You’re okay. You’re not alone.”
“I don’t remember the last three days. I think I was someone else. I think I liked it.”
“You’re still you. Even when you’re lost.”
Peter sobs. Quiet. Like he’s afraid the sound will break him.
“I don’t know who I am.”
“You’re the guy who leaves sticky notes on my fridge that say ‘Don’t eat my trauma snacks.’ You’re the guy who folds paper stars when he’s scared. You’re the guy who kissed me like it hurt.”
Silence.
Then Peter whispers:
“I’m scared.”
Wade’s already outside. Already tracking the signal. Already ready to burn the city down to find him.
“I’ve got you.”
Queens, 3:02 a.m.
The alley smells like rot and rain. Wade steps over a broken bottle, past a dumpster tagged with something that might be poetry or a threat. He follows the pin trail—literal pins, dropped like breadcrumbs. Peter’s way of saying I’m lost. Come find me.
He does.
Peter’s slumped against a brick wall, hoodie soaked, eyes glassy. A cigarette dangles from his lips. A joint’s tucked behind his ear. There’s an empty vape pen in his lap. He’s shaking. Not from cold. From everything.
Wade crouches. Doesn’t speak.
Peter blinks at him. Slow. Like Wade’s a hallucination he’s not sure he wants.
“You’re real?”
“Unfortunately.”
Peter laughs. It’s a wheeze. Then he starts crying. Then he stops. Then he stares at his hands like they belong to someone else.
“I don’t know who I am.”
Wade nods.
“You’re Peter. You’re mine. You’re a mess. But you’re here.”
Peter leans forward. His breath smells like smoke and vodka and regret.
“I disappeared.”
“I noticed.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
Peter curls into Wade’s chest like he’s trying to disappear again, but slower this time. Wade holds him. Not tightly. Just enough.
“I thought if I smoked enough, drank enough, maybe I’d feel like a person.”
“Did it work?”
Peter shakes his head.
“I feel like a ghost wearing my skin.”
Wade brushes a strand of wet hair from Peter’s forehead.
“Then let’s haunt each other until you feel real again.”
Peter doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t pull away.
Wade lights a cigarette. Not because he needs it. Because Peter does. He hands it over. Peter takes it with trembling fingers.
They sit in silence. Two disasters. One heartbeat.
Brooklyn, 11:42 a.m.
Peter’s awake. Technically. He’s upright, eyes open, mouth moving. But he’s not here. He’s pacing the apartment like it’s a cage, like Wade’s the lock he needs to break.
Wade watches from the kitchen, sipping burnt coffee and pretending it tastes like patience.
Peter’s voice is jagged.
“You need to leave.”
Wade doesn’t move.
“I don’t want you here.”
Still nothing.
Peter grabs a sticky note from the wall—red, frayed, old. He crumples it and throws it at Wade.
“You think you’re helping? You’re not. You’re just another shadow I can’t shake.”
Wade blinks.
“Okay.”
Peter laughs. Bitter.
“You’re not a hero. You’re a parasite. You feed on broken things because it makes you feel whole.”
Wade flinches. Just slightly.
Peter sees it. Goes for the throat.
“You don’t love me. You love the idea of me. The tragic little doll with cracked porcelain and a savior complex.”
Wade sets the mug down. Quietly.
“You done?”
Peter’s breathing hard. His hands are shaking. His eyes are wet.
“I’m poison. I ruin everything. I ruin you.”
Wade steps forward. Not fast. Not angry. Just close enough to be felt.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
Peter doesn’t answer.
“You’re trying to make me hate you. So it’ll hurt less when you disappear again.”
Peter’s lip trembles.
“You think I haven’t done the same thing? Said the worst things I could think of just to make someone run?”
Peter turns away. Wade doesn’t let him.
“I’m not running.”
Peter whispers:
“You should.”
Wade nods.
“Probably. But I won’t.”
Peter collapses onto the couch. Not dramatically. Just… deflated.
Wade sits beside him. Doesn’t touch. Doesn’t speak.
Peter stares at the floor.
“I didn’t mean all of it.”
Wade shrugs.
“I know. But you meant some of it. And that’s okay.”
Peter closes his eyes.
“I don’t know how to be loved.”
Wade leans back.
“Then let me teach you. Slowly. Badly. But real.”
Brooklyn, 2:03 p.m.
Peter’s sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers tangled in the hem of his hoodie. He’s showered. He’s sober. He’s still a mess.
Wade’s across the room, repairing a cracked mug with superglue and silence.
Peter clears his throat.
“I said some things.”
Wade doesn’t look up.
“I didn’t mean all of them.”
Still nothing.
Peter stands. Paces. Sits again.
“I mean—I did. But not like that. Not to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know how else to make you leave.”
Wade sets the mug down.
“You could’ve asked.”
Peter flinches.
“I didn’t think you’d listen.”
“You didn’t give me the chance.”
Peter’s voice cracks.
“I’m sorry.”
Wade nods.
“Okay.”
Peter waits. For forgiveness. For punishment. For something.
Wade walks over. Not close. Just enough.
“I love you, but I’m not your punching bag.”
Peter’s breath catches.
“I’ll sit with you in the dark. I’ll hold you when you shake. I’ll find you when you disappear. But I won’t let you tear me apart just because you’re hurting.”
Peter nods. Slowly. Like it hurts.
“I don’t know how to be safe.”
“Then let’s learn. Together. But I need rules.”
Peter looks up. Eyes wide.
“Rules?”
Wade crouches. Meets his gaze.
“No disappearing without a word. No using me to bleed out your guilt. No weaponizing your pain against me.”
Peter’s lip trembles.
“I don’t know if I can follow all of that.”
“Then tell me when you can’t. Don’t lie. Don’t pretend. Just tell me.”
Peter nods.
“I’ll try.”
Wade smiles. Soft. Sad.
“That’s all I ever wanted.”
Peter reaches out. Wade takes his hand. Not as a fix. As a promise.
MJ’s Apartment, 6:27 p.m.
Peter’s curled up on MJ’s couch, hoodie pulled tight, phone face-down and silenced. The screen lights up every few hours—Wade’s name, Wade’s voice, Wade’s worry. Peter doesn’t answer. He can’t.
MJ brings him tea. Doesn’t ask questions. Just sets it down and sits nearby, close enough to be felt, far enough to be safe.
Peter hasn’t told her everything. Just enough. Just that he needed space. Just that Wade deserves better.
“You’re not a burden,” MJ says softly.
Peter doesn’t respond. He’s too busy rehearsing the lie: Wade will be happier without me.
He’s rewritten it on sticky notes. Burned them. Rewritten them again.
---
Wade’s Apartment, 9:03 p.m.
Wade’s pacing. He’s tried calling. Texting. Leaving voicemails that start with jokes and end with silence. He hasn’t slept. He hasn’t eaten. He’s starting to feel like a ghost in his own home.
Peter’s absence is louder than any fight they’ve had.
Wade stares at the wall. One red sticky note remains:
You’re mine even when you hate me.
He rips it down. Doesn’t crumple it. Just folds it into a paper star and places it in the jar Peter left behind.
---
MJ’s Apartment, 11:42 p.m.
Peter’s staring at the ceiling. He hasn’t spoken in hours. MJ’s asleep in the other room. The silence feels earned. Like punishment.
His phone buzzes again. Wade’s name.
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he whispers:
“I’m sorry.”
To the ceiling. To the air. To Wade.
He doesn’t know if Wade will forgive him.
He doesn’t know if Wade should.
But he knows this:
He misses him.
And that hurts more than staying away.
MJ’s Apartment, 7:42 p.m.
Wade doesn’t knock. He kicks the door open like it insulted his mother. MJ’s halfway to the hallway when she sees his face—tight, red, barely holding together—and she steps aside without a word.
Peter’s on the couch, hoodie up, phone face-down. He looks up. Sees Wade. Freezes.
“You came.”
“No shit, Sherlock. You vanish for days, ignore every call, and shack up with your ex like I’m some disposable sidekick. What did you think I’d do—send flowers?”
Peter stands. Defensive.
“I needed space.”
“You needed space? You needed to ghost me like I’m a bad habit you’re trying to quit?”
“I didn’t want to hurt you!”
“Well, congrats! You nailed it!”
Peter’s voice rises.
“I thought maybe you’d be better off without me!”
“Don’t you dare decide that for me!”
They’re shouting now. MJ’s door clicks shut behind them.
Peter’s fists are clenched.
“I’m toxic, Wade! I disappear, I spiral, I say things I don’t mean—”
“And I stay! I choose to stay! But you keep pushing me like you’re testing how far I’ll go before I break!”
Peter throws a pillow. It hits the wall.
“Because I will break you!”
Wade steps forward, eyes blazing.
“You already have!”
Silence. Thick. Shaking.
Peter’s voice drops.
“I didn’t mean to.”
Wade’s breath catches.
“I know. But it still hurts.”
Peter sits. Collapses, really.
“I hate myself.”
Wade kneels. Not close. Just enough.
“Then let me hate you a little less than you do. Let me stay. But stop making me bleed for it.”
Peter nods. Barely.
Wade stands.
“I’m not leaving. But next time you disappear, I won’t chase. I’ll wait. And if you don’t come back, that’s on you.”
Peter looks up. Eyes wet.
“I’ll come back.”
Wade doesn’t smile.
“Then prove it.”
Brooklyn, 10:14 a.m.
Peter shows up with coffee. Not flowers. Not apologies. Just two cups—one black, one with too much sugar, just how Wade likes it when he’s pretending not to be bitter.
Wade takes the cup. Doesn’t drink it.
Peter sits across from him, hands wrapped around his own cup like it’s a shield.
“I’m trying.”
Wade nods.
“I see that.”
Peter waits. For warmth. For forgiveness. For something.
It doesn’t come.
Wade’s voice is quiet.
“But I don’t trust you.”
Peter flinches.
“I know.”
“You disappeared. You lied. You hurt me. And now you’re here with coffee like that erases the silence.”
Peter’s throat tightens.
“I didn’t know how else to start.”
“You could’ve started by not leaving.”
Peter looks down. The coffee’s gone cold.
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“You weren’t. You were protecting yourself from having to see me hurt.”
Peter’s voice cracks.
“I didn’t want you to hate me.”
“I don’t. But I don’t trust you either. And that’s worse.”
Silence.
Peter stands. Paces. Sits again.
“I’ll earn it back.”
Wade shrugs.
“Maybe. But I’m not going to pretend it’s easy. Or quick. Or guaranteed.”
Peter nods. Slowly.
“I’ll wait.”
Wade finally drinks the coffee. It’s bitter. It’s cold. It’s real.
“Then don’t disappear again. Not even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
Peter reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a sticky note. Blue.
Stay. Even when it hurts.
He places it on the table between them.
Wade doesn’t touch it. But he doesn’t throw it away either.
Brooklyn, 1:03 a.m.
Peter doesn’t text. Doesn’t call. Just sends a link.
Wade opens it. A playlist. Ten songs. No title. Just a timestamp: 1:03 a.m.
He hits play.
Track 1: “Out the Blue” – VOILÀ
A love that feels too good to be true. Wade hears the fear in Peter’s silence. “I’m terrified, I have too much to lose.”
Wade closes his eyes. He remembers the first time Peter kissed him—like it was a mistake he wanted to make twice.
Track 2: “Alley Rose” – VOILÀ
A desperate plea not to be left behind. Wade hears the heartbreak Peter never voiced. “Don’t leave me hangin’ alone again.”
He thinks of the alley where Peter collapsed into his arms, smelling like smoke and shame.
Track 3: “Hearse for Two” – The Funeral Portrait
Love that wants to last past death. Wade hears the devotion Peter’s afraid to claim. “Just to rest in peace with you.”
He wonders if Peter believes they’re doomed. If he’s already mourning them.
Track 4: “Cliché (Sad Version)” – MGK
Stripped-down vulnerability. Wade hears the question Peter’s never asked: “Would you wait for me?”
He doesn’t know the answer anymore.
Track 5: “Zombie” – YUNGBLUD
Shame. Dissociation. The fear of being unlovable. “Would you even want me, looking like a zombie?”
Wade remembers Peter’s voice on the phone, lost and scared, asking who he was.
Track 6: “Catch My Breath” – Alex Warren
A whirlwind love that leaves you breathless. Wade hears the awe Peter still feels. “I forget to catch my breath.”
He wonders if Peter ever felt safe enough to exhale.
Track 7: “Off the Edge” – VOILÀ
Toxic push-pull. Wade hears the fight Peter’s been having with himself. “I don’t wanna let you in my head.”
He’s already there.
Track 8: “Punching Bag” – Set It Off
Anger. Resentment. The breaking point. “So say goodbye to your Mr. Nice Guy.”
Wade flinches. He remembers the screaming. The silence after.
Track 9: “Pull the Plug” – VOILÀ
Escape. Numbness. The desire to disappear. “Give me love until something disconnects.”
Wade sees Peter curled up in MJ’s apartment, trying to vanish.
Track 10: “The Last Laugh?” – VOILÀ
Grief. Regret. The fear it’s already over. “Was that the last laugh I’ll ever have?”
Wade doesn’t know. But he’s still listening.
---
Wade doesn’t reply. Not yet.
He just adds one song to the playlist:
“Stay” – just one word. No artist. No link. Just a message.
Peter sees it. Doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t delete the playlist either.
Brooklyn, 6:36 p.m.
Wade opens the door to find Peter standing there, arms full and eyes down.
A bouquet of half-wilted flowers.
A box of chocolates—cheap, mismatched, probably grabbed last-minute.
A takeout bag that smells like carnitas, cilantro, and apology.
Peter doesn’t speak. Just holds it all out like a peace treaty made of sugar and grease.
Wade stares.
“You trying to bribe me?”
Peter shrugs.
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
Wade steps aside. Peter enters. Slowly. Like the apartment might reject him.
He sets everything down on the counter. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t breathe too loud.
Wade picks up the flowers. One petal falls off.
“These are tragic.”
Peter nods.
“So am I.”
Wade opens the takeout. Carnitas tacos. Extra lime. No onions. Just how he likes it.
Peter finally speaks.
“I know I broke something. I know you don’t trust me. I’m not asking you to forget. I’m just asking you to eat.”
Wade grabs a taco. Takes a bite. Chews slowly.
Peter watches like it’s a test.
Wade swallows.
“You remembered the lime.”
Peter smiles. Barely.
“I remember everything about you.”
Wade sets the taco down. Walks over. Stares at Peter.
“You’re trying. I see that. But I’m still hurt.”
Peter nods.
“I know.”
“I’m still angry.”
“You should be.”
“But I’m still here.”
Peter’s voice cracks.
“Thank you.”
Wade gestures to the couch.
“Sit. Eat. Don’t disappear.”
Peter sits. Opens the chocolates. Offers one to Wade.
Wade takes it. Doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t leave the room either.
Brooklyn, 2:47 a.m.
Wade’s lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling like it owes him answers. Peter’s asleep in the other room—curled up in Wade’s hoodie, breathing too softly, like he’s afraid to take up space.
Wade wants to stay angry.
He should stay angry.
Peter disappeared. Lied. Broke things Wade didn’t know could break. And now he’s back with tacos and playlists and sticky notes like bandages on bullet wounds.
Wade closes his eyes. Tries to remember the reasons. The boundaries. The promises he made to himself.
But all he can think about is Peter’s laugh. The way he folds paper stars when he’s scared. The way he says Wade’s name like it’s a lifeline.
Wade sits up. Walks to the bedroom door. Doesn’t open it. Just stands there, breathing like it hurts.
“You make me weak,” he whispers. “And I hate it.”
Inside, Peter stirs. Doesn’t wake.
Wade leans his forehead against the doorframe.
“I should push you away. I should lock the door and throw away the key and pretend I don’t need you.”
He laughs. Bitter. Quiet.
“But I do. I need you like oxygen. And I hate that too.”
He opens the door.
Peter’s curled up, hoodie pulled tight, face half-hidden. Wade walks in. Sits on the edge of the bed. Doesn’t speak.
Peter opens his eyes. Blinks.
“You okay?”
Wade shrugs.
“No.”
Peter nods.
“Me neither.”
Wade lies down beside him. Not touching. Just close.
Peter whispers:
“I’m sorry.”
Wade closes his eyes.
“I know.”
They don’t say anything else. They just breathe. Together. Like survival.
Brooklyn, 4:19 a.m.
The room is dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of Wade’s phone screen looping Peter’s playlist. The air smells like rain and reheated tacos. Wade lies on his back, staring at the ceiling like it might crack open and answer him.
Peter’s beside him, curled up in Wade’s hoodie, eyes half-lidded, breath slow. Wade thinks he’s asleep.
So he speaks.
“I used to think love was just pain with better branding.”
Peter’s eyes flutter open. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just listens.
“Every time I got close to someone, they either died, ran, or begged me to be someone else. So I stopped trying. I made myself loud and violent and funny and forgettable. Easier that way.”
Peter’s breath catches. Wade doesn’t notice.
“But then you showed up. All sticky notes and guilt and eyes that looked at me like I was something worth staying for.”
Wade’s voice cracks.
“And I hated it. I hated how much I wanted it. How much I needed it.”
Peter shifts, just slightly, but Wade keeps going.
“I’ve never said this out loud. Not to anyone. Not even to myself.”
He turns his head, staring at the wall now.
“I’m scared of being loved. Because if you love me, you can leave. And if you leave, I won’t survive it.”
Peter reaches out. Quiet. Careful. His fingers brush Wade’s wrist.
Wade flinches. Looks over. Sees Peter’s eyes—wide, wet, awake.
“You heard all that?”
Peter nods. Doesn’t speak.
Wade swallows hard.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m glad you did.”
Peter shifts closer. Doesn’t ask permission. Just rests his forehead against Wade’s shoulder.
“I’m scared too.”
Wade exhales. Shaky.
“We’re a mess.”
Peter smiles. Barely.
“But we’re still here.”
Wade closes his eyes.
“Yeah. We are.”
They don’t say anything else. They just breathe. Together. Like survival.
Brooklyn, 4:31 a.m.
Peter hasn’t moved since Wade’s confession. He’s still curled beside him, hoodie pulled tight, fingers tangled in the hem like it’s the only thing keeping him from unraveling.
Wade’s breathing is uneven. His eyes are closed. But Peter knows he’s awake. Knows he’s waiting.
So Peter speaks.
“I used to think I was built to be left.”
Wade’s eyes open. Slowly.
Peter keeps going.
“Every time someone got close, I’d start counting the days until they’d find the exit. I’d sabotage it. Push. Twist. Burn it down before they could.”
His voice shakes.
“I thought if I made myself hard to love, it would hurt less when they left.”
Wade doesn’t interrupt.
Peter turns to face him.
“But you stayed. Even when I disappeared. Even when I screamed. Even when I tried to make you hate me.”
He swallows.
“And that scared me more than anything.”
Wade’s gaze is steady. Soft.
Peter whispers:
“I love you. And I don’t know how to do it right. But I do. I love you so much it makes me want to run.”
Wade doesn’t speak. He just moves—slow, deliberate, like the moment might shatter if he rushes.
He cups Peter’s face. Thumb brushing a tear that hasn’t fallen yet.
And then he kisses him.
It’s not desperate. Not hungry. It’s quiet. Grounded. Like a promise.
Peter melts into it. Not because it fixes anything. But because it means something.
When they pull apart, Wade rests his forehead against Peter’s.
“We’re a mess.”
Peter nods.
“But we’re still here.”
Wade smiles.
“Yeah. We are.”
Brooklyn, 8:03 a.m.
Sunlight creeps through the blinds like it’s afraid to wake them. Peter stirs first, blinking into the pale light, still wrapped in Wade’s hoodie, still tasting last night’s kiss like a bruise he doesn’t want to heal.
Wade’s beside him, one arm flung over his eyes, breathing slow and steady. Peter watches him for a moment. Not out of fear. Out of awe.
He whispers:
“You stayed.”
Wade shifts. Doesn’t open his eyes.
“You didn’t run.”
Peter smiles. Barely.
“I thought about it.”
“Me too.”
They lie there in the quiet, the playlist long since stopped, the room filled only with the sound of two people trying not to break the silence.
Peter finally speaks.
“Last night felt like something.”
Wade opens his eyes.
“It was.”
Peter hesitates.
“Do you regret it?”
Wade sits up, hair a mess, eyes tired but clear.
“No. But I’m scared of what it means.”
Peter nods.
“Me too.”
Wade stands, stretches, walks to the kitchen. Peter follows, barefoot, hoodie sleeves dragging past his hands.
They eat leftover tacos in silence. Wade offers Peter the last carnitas. Peter takes it. It feels like trust.
Wade leans against the counter.
“We’re not fixed.”
Peter nods.
“But we’re not broken in the same way anymore.”
Wade looks at him. Really looks.
“I still don’t know how to trust you.”
Peter swallows.
“Then let me earn it. One taco at a time.”
Wade laughs. Just once.
“You’re ridiculous.”
Peter grins.
“You kissed me.”
Wade shrugs.
“You said you loved me.”
Peter’s voice softens.
“I still do.”
Wade doesn’t reply. But he doesn’t look away.
Brooklyn, 11:17 a.m.
Peter folds laundry like it’s a ritual. Wade watches from the kitchen, sipping coffee that’s too bitter and too familiar. The silence between them isn’t hostile—it’s cautious. Like they’re both afraid to speak first and ruin whatever this is.
Peter finally breaks it.
“I didn’t disappear last night.”
Wade nods.
“I noticed.”
Peter sets down a shirt.
“I wanted to. I almost did.”
Wade doesn’t respond. Just waits.
“But I remembered the playlist. And the tacos. And the way you looked at me after I said I loved you.”
Wade’s voice is low.
“Like I was drowning and you were the air.”
Peter nods.
“Exactly.”
Wade walks over. Stands beside him. Not touching. Just near.
“I want to trust you.”
Peter’s breath catches.
“But I still flinch when my phone buzzes. Still brace for silence. Still wonder if you’ll vanish again.”
Peter swallows.
“I don’t blame you.”
Wade picks up a hoodie from the laundry pile. It’s his. Peter’s been wearing it for days.
“You’re trying. I see that.”
Peter looks up.
“Is it enough?”
Wade shrugs.
“It’s something.”
They stand there, surrounded by clean clothes and old wounds.
Peter reaches out. Not for Wade. For the hoodie. He folds it carefully, like it matters.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Wade nods.
“Then stay. Even when it’s quiet. Even when I don’t know how to let you in.”
Peter places the folded hoodie on the couch.
“I will.”
Wade watches him. Doesn’t smile. But something in his shoulders softens.
Brooklyn, 2:08 p.m.
Peter’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration. He’s cooking. Not well. Not confidently. But he’s trying. The pan sizzles with something vaguely edible, and the air smells like burnt garlic and effort.
Wade walks in, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp from a shower he didn’t enjoy. He stops in the doorway, watching Peter stir with too much intensity.
“You trying to poison me?”
Peter glances over, smirks.
“Trying to feed you. Big difference.”
Wade leans against the counter.
“You don’t cook.”
“I do now.”
Wade doesn’t respond. Just watches. The silence stretches.
Peter plates the food—sloppy, uneven, but warm. He sets it in front of Wade like a peace offering.
“I wanted to do something for you. Something small. Something that doesn’t come with a playlist or a panic attack.”
Wade sits. Fork in hand. Doesn’t eat.
Peter fidgets.
“You don’t have to like it.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
Wade picks up a bite. Chews. Swallows.
“It’s terrible.”
Peter laughs.
“I know.”
Wade sets the fork down.
“But it’s mine.”
Peter’s smile fades into something softer.
“I want to be better. Not perfect. Just… better.”
Wade nods.
“I want to believe you.”
Peter’s voice drops.
“Then let me earn it. One burnt meal at a time.”
Wade reaches out. Touches Peter’s wrist.
“You’re not easy to love.”
Peter nods.
“Neither are you.”
They sit there. Two disasters. One table. A meal that tastes like trying.
Brooklyn, 5:56 p.m.
Peter’s curled up on the couch, sketching something in the margins of a notebook—comic panel layouts, maybe, or just shapes that feel like control. Wade’s across the room, cleaning his gear with surgical precision. They’re in the same space, but the air between them feels like glass.
Peter glances up.
“You okay?”
Wade doesn’t look over.
“Fine.”
Peter hesitates.
“You’ve been quiet.”
“You’ve been trying.”
Peter sets the notebook down.
“Is that a problem?”
Wade finally looks at him. His eyes are tired, guarded.
“No. It’s just… hard.”
Peter nods.
“I know.”
Wade walks to the window. Stares out at the city like it might offer him answers.
“I want to trust you. I do. But every time I start to, I remember the silence. The disappearing. The way you made me feel like I was disposable.”
Peter’s voice is soft.
“I never meant to.”
“I know. But it still happened.”
Peter stands. Walks over. Not close. Just near.
“I’m here now.”
Wade doesn’t turn.
“I know. But I don’t know how long that’ll last. And I don’t know how to stop bracing for the moment you vanish again.”
Peter’s breath catches.
“I hate that I did that to you.”
Wade finally turns. His voice cracks.
“I hate that I still want you anyway.”
Peter reaches out. Wade steps back.
Not far. Just enough.
Peter nods.
“Okay.”
They stand there. Two people trying. One of them still bleeding.
Brooklyn, 10:42 p.m.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Wade’s on the couch, flipping through a comic he’s read a dozen times, not absorbing a single panel. Peter’s in the bathroom. The door’s closed. The water’s running.
It’s been running for a while.
Wade hears it. Not just the water. The sobs. Muffled. Rhythmic. Like Peter’s trying to time them between shampoo rinses.
Wade doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just listens.
Peter thinks he’s hiding it. Thinks the shower masks the sound. But Wade knows the difference between water and grief.
Inside, Peter’s curled against the tile, hoodie discarded, knees pulled to his chest. The steam fogs the mirror, blurs the sticky note he left there days ago:
Try again tomorrow.
He’s crying. Quietly. Desperately. Like he’s trying to wring the ache out of his bones.
“I’m doing everything right,” he whispers.
“Why does it still hurt?”
He doesn’t expect an answer. Doesn’t want one.
Outside, Wade closes the comic. Stares at the ceiling. His jaw clenches.
He wants to knock. To say I hear you. To say You don’t have to hide from me.
But he doesn’t.
Because Peter needs the illusion of privacy. Needs the water. Needs the silence.
So Wade waits.
When Peter finally emerges, eyes red, hair damp, hoodie back on like armor, Wade doesn’t say a word.
He just pats the couch beside him.
Peter sits. Doesn’t speak.
Wade hands him a blanket. Peter takes it.
They sit there. Two ghosts. One heartbeat. The sound of the shower still echoing in both of them.
Brooklyn, 3:17 a.m.
Peter wakes up choking on a sob.
The room is dark, quiet, too still. His heart is racing, his breath shallow, his fingers clawing at the sheets like they might anchor him to reality.
The dream lingers—Wade walking out, face blank, voice cold.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
“You’re too much.”
“Goodbye.”
Peter had begged. Screamed. Reached for him.
But Wade had blocked his number.
Deleted the playlist.
Left nothing behind.
Peter scrambles for his phone. Hands shaking. He opens their messages.
Still there.
He texts:
Are you still here?
No reply. Not yet.
He checks the call log. Wade’s name. Still saved. Still reachable.
Peter curls into himself, hoodie pulled tight, tears soaking the collar. The silence feels like punishment.
He whispers:
“Please don’t be gone.”
The door creaks.
Wade steps in, hair messy, eyes half-lidded.
“You okay?”
Peter looks up, eyes wide, voice cracked.
“You didn’t block me?”
Wade blinks.
“What?”
Peter holds up his phone like proof of survival.
“I had a dream. You left. For real. You blocked me. You erased me.”
Wade walks over. Sits on the edge of the bed.
“I didn’t.”
Peter sobs.
“It felt real.”
Wade takes the phone. Sets it down. Pulls Peter into his arms.
“I’m still here.”
Peter clings to him.
“I don’t know how to stop being scared.”
Wade whispers:
“Then be scared with me. But don’t run.”
Peter nods against his chest.
“I won’t.”
Wade kisses his temple.
“Good. Because I’m not blocking you. I’m holding you.”
Brooklyn, 6:43 p.m.
Peter cries in the shower again. Wade doesn’t say anything. He just hears it—the soft, rhythmic sobs behind the water, the way Peter stays in there too long, like he’s trying to wash away something that won’t come off.
It’s every day now.
Not explosive. Not theatrical. Just quiet grief, leaking out in moments Peter thinks Wade won’t notice.
But Wade does.
He notices the way Peter moves through the apartment like a ghost. How he folds his body smaller on the couch. How he speaks less, laughs less, leaves fewer sticky notes behind.
The playlist hasn’t been updated in weeks.
Wade watches him from the doorway, arms crossed, heart heavy.
Peter’s curled up in the hoodie again, sketchbook untouched, food half-eaten. He’s not spiraling. He’s sinking.
Wade walks over. Sits beside him. Doesn’t speak.
Peter doesn’t look up.
Wade finally breaks the silence.
“You’re disappearing again.”
Peter flinches.
“I’m still here.”
“Not really.”
Peter’s voice is barely audible.
“I’m trying not to take up space.”
Wade’s jaw tightens.
“You’re not a burden.”
Peter shrugs.
“I feel like one.”
Wade reaches out. Touches Peter’s hand.
“You cry every day. You think I don’t see it, but I do.”
Peter’s eyes fill.
“I don’t know how to stop.”
“Then don’t. But don’t do it alone.”
Peter finally looks at him.
“I’m scared you’ll leave.”
Wade nods.
“I’m scared you’ll disappear before I get the chance.”
Peter breaks. Quietly. Fully. He leans into Wade’s chest, sobbing without restraint.
Wade holds him. Not to fix. Just to hold.
“You don’t have to be small for me to stay.”
Peter whispers:
“I don’t know how to be anything else.”
Wade kisses the top of his head.
“Then let me remind you.”
Brooklyn, 9:12 p.m.
Peter’s curled up on the couch again, sketchbook open but untouched. The pencil in his hand hasn’t moved in an hour. Wade watches from the kitchen, arms crossed, heart heavy.
He’s seen the crying. The shrinking. The way Peter tries to be small enough not to break anything.
And Wade’s tired.
Not of Peter.
Of the ache.
Of holding onto the hurt like it’s armor.
He walks over. Sits beside Peter. Doesn’t speak.
Peter glances up. Eyes red. Voice small.
“Did I ruin us?”
Wade shakes his head.
“You cracked us. But we’re still standing.”
Peter swallows.
“I don’t know how to fix it.”
Wade exhales.
“You don’t have to. I’m not asking for perfect. I’m asking for real.”
Peter nods.
“I’m trying.”
Wade reaches into his hoodie pocket. Pulls out a sticky note—creased, faded, but still legible.
You’re allowed to mess up. Just don’t disappear.
He places it in Peter’s lap.
Peter stares at it. Then at Wade.
“You forgive me?”
Wade nods.
“I do.”
Peter’s breath catches.
“Even after everything?”
“Especially after everything.”
Peter breaks. Quietly. Fully. He leans into Wade, arms wrapped tight, like he’s afraid forgiveness might vanish if he lets go.
Wade holds him. Not to fix. Not to erase. Just to stay.
“I still love you,” Peter whispers.
Wade kisses his temple.
“I never stopped.”
Brooklyn, 8:46 a.m.
The morning is quiet. Peter’s making coffee, careful not to spill, careful not to speak too loud. Wade watches him from the couch, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders like armor.
They haven’t fought in days. But the silence between them still feels like a bruise.
Peter sets the mug down in front of Wade. Doesn’t sit. Just waits.
Wade takes a sip. Then speaks.
“We need rules.”
Peter nods.
“Okay.”
“Not because I don’t love you. Because I do. But I need to feel safe too.”
Peter’s breath catches.
“I want that for you.”
Wade sets the mug down.
“No disappearing. Not without a word. Not even for a few hours. If you need space, say so.”
Peter nods.
“I can do that.”
“No lying. Not about how you feel. Not about where you are. Not to protect me. I don’t want protection. I want truth.”
Peter’s voice is quiet.
“Even when it’s ugly?”
“Especially then.”
Wade stands. Walks over. Doesn’t touch. Just looks.
“And if you’re hurting, don’t hide it in the shower. Don’t shrink. Don’t make yourself small so I’ll stay.”
Peter’s eyes fill.
“I didn’t know how else to survive.”
Wade softens.
“Then let’s learn together.”
Peter finally sits.
“Can I set some rules too?”
Wade nods.
“Don’t shut me out when you’re scared. Don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re not. And don’t kiss me if you’re planning to pull away again.”
Wade exhales.
“Fair.”
They sit in silence. Not tense. Not broken. Just real.
Peter reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a sticky note.
Forgiveness isn’t forgetting. It’s choosing to stay.
He places it on the table.
Wade reads it. Doesn’t speak. Just folds it into a paper star and drops it in the jar.
Brooklyn, 3:36 p.m.
Peter’s pacing. Not fast. Not frantic. Just enough to make Wade glance up from the couch, where he’s pretending to read but really just watching Peter unravel in slow motion.
Peter stops. Stares at the door. His hoodie’s already on. His phone’s in his pocket. He’s halfway gone.
Wade speaks.
“Where are you going?”
Peter flinches.
“I don’t know.”
Wade sets the book down.
“Then don’t go.”
Peter turns.
“I need air.”
“Then say that. Don’t vanish.”
Peter nods. Breath shaky.
“I’m not disappearing. I just need twenty minutes. I’ll text you when I get there.”
Wade’s jaw tightens.
“Okay.”
Peter walks to the door. Pauses.
“I’ll come back.”
Wade doesn’t reply. Just watches.
---
Brooklyn, 4:02 p.m.
Peter texts:
At the park. Sitting by the fountain. Still breathing.
Wade reads it twice. Doesn’t reply. Just exhales.
---
Brooklyn, 4:28 p.m.
Peter returns. Hoodie damp from mist, eyes clearer than they were an hour ago. He walks in, kicks off his shoes, and sits beside Wade without a word.
Wade hands him a mug of tea. Peter takes it.
“You came back.”
Peter nods.
“I said I would.”
Wade leans back.
“That’s the first time you’ve left and I didn’t panic.”
Peter’s voice is soft.
“That’s the first time I left and didn’t want to disappear.”
They sit in silence. Not tense. Not broken. Just trying.
Wade reaches into the jar. Pulls out a paper star. Unfolds it.
It’s the sticky note Peter wrote days ago:
Forgiveness isn’t forgetting. It’s choosing to stay.
Wade places it on the table.
“You stayed.”
Peter smiles.
“So did you.”
Brooklyn, 11:58 p.m.
Peter’s asleep on the couch, sketchbook open on his chest, a half-finished panel of Wade’s face inked in soft lines. Wade stands in the doorway, watching him. He’s been pacing for an hour, rehearsing words he doesn’t know how to say.
He walks to the kitchen. Opens the drawer. Pulls out a sticky note. Blue. Blank.
He writes:
I’m scared every time you look at me like I’m worth staying for.
He stares at it. Doesn’t fold it. Doesn’t hide it.
Instead, he walks back to the couch and gently places it on Peter’s sketchbook.
Peter stirs. Blinks. Reads it.
“You wrote that?”
Wade nods.
“I meant it.”
Peter sits up.
“You’ve never said anything like that before.”
“I know.”
Peter’s voice is soft.
“Why now?”
Wade shrugs.
“Because I keep asking you to be honest. To stay. To show up. And I realized I’ve been doing the opposite.”
Peter watches him. Doesn’t interrupt.
Wade sits beside him.
“I joke when I’m scared. I deflect when I’m hurt. I make myself loud so no one notices I’m bleeding.”
Peter reaches out. Touches Wade’s hand.
“I notice.”
Wade swallows.
“I want to be better. Not perfect. Just… real.”
Peter nods.
“Then let me see you. Even when it’s messy.”
Wade leans back. Breathes deep.
“I’m terrified you’ll leave. But I’m more terrified of never letting you in.”
Peter smiles.
“Then let me in.”
Wade doesn’t speak. He just rests his head on Peter’s shoulder.
The sticky note stays on the sketchbook. Unfolded. Unhidden.
Brooklyn, 1:14 a.m.
Wade’s sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up, eyes unfocused. The apartment is dark except for the soft blue glow of the playlist looping in the background. He’s not crying. He’s not speaking. He’s just gone quiet in that way Peter recognizes now—when the weight gets too heavy and Wade forgets how to ask for help.
Peter doesn’t say anything.
He walks over, barefoot, hoodie sleeves dragging past his hands. He sits beside Wade, close but not touching. Just there.
He pulls a sticky note from his pocket. It’s blank.
He writes:
I’m here.
He folds it. Places it gently in Wade’s lap.
Wade doesn’t look at it. Not yet.
Peter leans his head against Wade’s shoulder. No pressure. No demand. Just warmth.
Wade breathes in. Shaky.
Peter doesn’t move.
After a long stretch of silence, Wade picks up the note. Unfolds it. Reads it.
He doesn’t speak. Just rests his head against Peter’s.
Peter closes his eyes.
They sit like that. Two people who’ve broken each other and still choose to stay. No words. No fixes. Just presence.
The playlist shifts to “Out the Blue.”
Peter doesn’t flinch. Wade doesn’t move.
They just breathe. Together.
Brooklyn, 2:03 a.m.
Peter’s still beside him, head resting on Wade’s shoulder, the sticky note between them like a lifeline. Wade hasn’t moved. Not because he’s frozen. Because he’s safe.
He reaches into his hoodie pocket. Pulls out a folded sticky note—creased, faded, written weeks ago but never shared.
He hands it to Peter.
Peter unfolds it slowly.
I don’t know how to be loved without bracing for pain.
Peter reads it. Doesn’t speak. Just holds it like it’s fragile.
Wade exhales.
“I wrote that the night you came back. After the playlist. After the tacos. I didn’t give it to you because I didn’t think I deserved comfort.”
Peter looks at him.
“You do.”
Wade nods.
“I’m starting to believe that.”
Peter shifts. Climbs gently into Wade’s lap, arms wrapping around his shoulders, legs folded to the side like he’s done this a hundred times and still doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
Wade lets him.
He leans into Peter’s chest, lets his guard down inch by inch. His breath stutters. His hands shake. But he doesn’t pull away.
Peter whispers:
“You don’t have to be strong right now.”
Wade closes his eyes.
“I’m not.”
They stay like that. Wade held, Peter holding. No words. No fixes. Just presence.
The playlist hums in the background.
“Catch My Breath” plays softly.
Wade finally speaks.
“Thank you.”
Peter kisses his temple.
“Always.”
Brooklyn, 3:12 a.m.
Wade’s curled into Peter’s lap, head resting against his chest, arms loose around Peter’s waist like he’s afraid to hold too tight. The playlist hums low in the background, but Peter’s not listening to it anymore.
He’s listening to Wade’s breath.
To the way his fingers twitch when he’s trying not to cry.
To the silence that asks for something more.
So Peter speaks.
Soft. Slow. Like prayer.
“I love you.”
Wade doesn’t move.
Peter brushes his fingers through Wade’s hair.
“I love the way you laugh when you’re exhausted. That broken little wheeze like you’re surprised joy still exists.”
“I love how you patch up broken mugs like they’re people. Like everything deserves a second chance.”
“I love how you fold my sticky notes into stars and keep them like they mean something.”
Wade’s breath stutters.
Peter keeps going.
“I love the way you get quiet when you’re scared. Not because you shut down, but because you’re trying not to bleed on me.”
“I love your stupid carnitas obsession. Your playlist full of rage and tenderness. The way you say my name like it’s a lifeline.”
“I love your mess. Your fire. Your softness. The way you hold me like you’re afraid I’ll vanish.”
Peter’s voice cracks.
“I love you because you stayed. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I tried to push you away.”
“I love you because you see me. And you still choose me.”
Wade’s eyes are wet. He doesn’t speak. Just clings tighter.
Peter kisses the top of his head.
“You’re not hard to love. You’re just scared. So am I.”
Wade finally whispers:
“Say it again.”
Peter smiles.
“I love you.”
Wade exhales.
“Okay.”
They stay like that. Held. Heard. Home.
Long Island, 6:47 p.m.
Peter blinks at the horizon, stunned. The beach is nearly empty, the sky bleeding gold and lavender, the ocean whispering secrets to the sand. Wade stands beside him, holding a blanket, a bottle of red wine, and a cooler that smells suspiciously like carnitas.
Peter laughs.
“You planned this?”
Wade shrugs.
“I Googled ‘romantic date ideas that don’t suck.’ This was the least cringe.”
Peter smiles.
“It’s perfect.”
They kick off their shoes. Wade rolls out the blanket. Peter drops the cooler. They walk to the shoreline, letting the waves kiss their ankles.
“We’re building a sandcastle,” Wade announces.
Peter raises an eyebrow.
“You serious?”
“Deadly.”
They dig. Sculpt. Laugh. Wade insists on a moat. Peter adds a crooked turret. It’s messy, lopsided, and beautiful.
“It’s us,” Peter says.
“Flawed but standing.”
Wade nods.
“And still here.”
They swim next. Wade cannonballs in. Peter wades slowly, letting the salt sting his skin like penance. Wade splashes him. Peter retaliates. They laugh until they’re breathless.
Back on the blanket, Wade pours wine into mismatched mugs. Peter unwraps sandwiches. They eat in silence, watching the sun sink into the sea.
Wade finally speaks.
“I wanted to show you I’m choosing this. Not just surviving it.”
Peter’s voice is soft.
“You did.”
Wade pulls out a sticky note.
You deserve joy that doesn’t ask you to bleed for it.
He places it in Peter’s hand.
Peter folds it into a star.
“So do you.”
They clink mugs. Sip wine. Watch the tide roll in.
And for the first time in weeks, Peter doesn’t feel like he’s bracing for impact.
He feels held.
He feels chosen.
Brooklyn, 10:19 a.m.
The apartment smells like coffee and rain. Peter’s curled up on the windowsill, sketching a mountain range from memory. Wade’s at the table, scrolling through something aimlessly, pretending not to watch Peter’s hands move.
Peter speaks without looking up.
“I’ve always wanted to go on a road trip.”
Wade raises an eyebrow.
“Like… snacks and playlists and bad motels kind of road trip?”
Peter nods.
“Yeah. But not just anywhere. I want to see the national parks. Yellowstone. Zion. Glacier. The places that feel too big to carry sadness.”
Wade sets his phone down.
“You’ve never told me that.”
Peter shrugs.
“It felt stupid. Like something people say when they’re trying to escape.”
“Isn’t that the point of a road trip?”
Peter smiles.
“I don’t want to escape. I want to breathe. I want to stand in front of something ancient and quiet and feel small in a good way.”
Wade walks over. Sits beside him.
“You want to go?”
Peter hesitates.
“Someday.”
Wade nods.
“Then we’ll go. We’ll pack snacks and wine and build sandcastles in Utah and cry under stars in Montana.”
Peter laughs.
“You’d actually do that?”
Wade grins.
“I’d do anything that makes you feel like you’re allowed to exist without shrinking.”
Peter’s eyes fill.
“I want to see bison. And geysers. And red rocks that look like fire.”
Wade kisses his temple.
“Then we’ll go find them.”
Peter folds a sticky note. Writes:
Yellowstone. Zion. Glacier. You.
He places it in Wade’s hand.
Wade doesn’t fold it into a star. He keeps it flat. Like a map.
Brooklyn, 7:42 p.m.
Peter walks into the apartment to find Wade surrounded by chaos—maps spread across the table, a playlist titled “Roadtrip or Die” open on his laptop, and a stack of sticky notes labeled with national parks.
“You planning a heist or a honeymoon?”
Wade grins.
“Both. But with less jail time.”
Peter walks over, picks up a note:
Zion – sunrise hike, no phones, just us.
Another:
Yellowstone – bison watch, bring wine, cry under stars.
Peter’s voice cracks.
“You’re serious.”
Wade nods.
“I want to see you laugh in Utah. I want to hear you sing badly in Colorado. I want to build sandcastles in every state that has sand.”
Peter smiles.
“You’re ridiculous.”
Wade reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a small box. Sets it on the table.
Peter stares.
“Is that—”
Wade opens it. Inside, a simple ring. Silver. Engraved on the inside:
‘Till forever.
Peter’s breath catches.
Wade speaks, voice low, steady.
“It’s not a proposal. Not yet. It’s a promise. That I’m not going anywhere. That this road trip isn’t just a vacation—it’s the beginning of something I want to build with you.”
Peter picks up the ring. Turns it in his fingers like it might vanish.
“You bought this for me?”
Wade nods.
“I bought it for us.”
Peter slips it on. It fits. Of course it does.
He looks up, eyes wet.
“I love you.”
Wade kisses him.
“I know. And I’m staying. ‘Till forever.”
Brooklyn, 9:07 a.m.
The apartment is a mess of backpacks, rolled-up maps, playlists scribbled on sticky notes, and a cooler Wade insists must include “at least three types of cheese.” Peter’s folding clothes with surgical precision. Wade’s tossing things in like chaos is a packing strategy.
Peter pauses.
“I need to run an errand.”
Wade looks up.
“We’ve got snacks. We’ve got wine. What could possibly be missing?”
Peter smiles.
“Just… trust me.”
---
Downtown Brooklyn, 10:42 a.m.
Peter stands at the jewelry counter, fingers trembling slightly. He’s holding a simple silver band. Inside, engraved in soft script:
Home is where you are.
He doesn’t ask for a box. He slips it into his hoodie pocket like a secret waiting to be spoken.
---
Brooklyn, 12:03 p.m.
They’re almost ready. Wade’s loading the car. Peter walks over, heart pounding, ring in hand.
“Before we go…”
Wade turns. Sees the look. Stops moving.
Peter holds out the ring.
“You gave me a promise. I want to give one back.”
Wade takes it. Reads the engraving. His breath catches.
Peter speaks, voice steady.
“You’ve been my safe place. Even when it hurt. Even when we broke. You stayed. And now, wherever we go—Yellowstone, Zion, the middle of nowhere—I want you to know: you’re home to me.”
Wade doesn’t speak. Just slips the ring on. It fits. Of course it does.
He pulls Peter into a hug. Tight. Fierce.
“You’re ridiculous.”
Peter grins.
“You love it.”
Wade kisses him.
“I do.”
They climb into the car. Wade starts the engine. Peter queues the playlist.
The sticky note on the dashboard reads:
First stop: forever.