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Peter laughs, shaking his head as he makes his way to his tiny kitchen, the meowing following him only getting louder. Anyone would think that the cat hot on his heels had spent the past week out on the street instead of being regularly (over)fed inside Peter’s warm apartment while her owner has been away for the holidays.
One thing he’s come to learn while looking after Dahlia is that she’s an incredibly dramatic cat. And he's also completely convinced she can tell the time. Both of those facts mean that when he’s two minutes late to feeding her she begins to mewl like she’s on the verge of a horrible, bitter death.
“Ouch!” Peter jumps, frowning as he looks down at the scratch on his bare foot. He bends down and scoops the chubby black cat into his arms. “You don’t have to get violent. I’m literally about to feed you.”
He gives her a scratch behind her ears, feeling the vibration of her purr against his chest before reaching out to open up the cabinet where he’d stored her food.
Another thing he’s learned about Dahlia is that she only eats the most expensive cat food known to man. Which is fine, because her owner—a high-powered inner city lawyer—can certainly afford it. But it also means that when Peter opens his cupboard and realises he’s fresh out of the ridiculously expensive food he’d been supplied with, he knows he has a problem on his hands.
“Shit,” he mutters, shifting the cat in his arm as he opens up more cabinets and realises he doesn’t even have a simple can of tuna. He strokes Dahlia thoughtfully as he turns his wrist to check his watch. It’s almost 9pm, and it’s New Year’s Eve, and maybe he can find some tuna or off-the-shelf cat food at a store nearby but he’s pretty sure the cat will turn her little pink nose up at whatever he gives her. Unless—
He carries her in his arms as he makes his way to his bedroom and opens up the window to step out onto his balcony, on the off chance that he’ll find some extra cat food out there.
The layout of this building does little for privacy. Judging by the way the single balcony stretches from outside his bedroom window to outside his neighbours living room, separated only by a short janky brick wall, Peter suspects that their two tiny apartments were at one point in history one large apartment. (The wall that separates his bedroom from her living room is equally thin and janky which makes him oddly uncomfortable about having company over—but he doesn’t like to think about that.)
The wall between their balconies is only about waist-high. And from looking at similar setups in the same building, Peter’s pretty sure there’s supposed to be a tempered glass screen up for privacy but it’s been absent since he moved in eight months ago and he’s not sure which of their landlords is supposed to have it fixed.
That tiny brick ledge, it turns out, is the perfect bridge for her nosy little cat. And Peter hadn’t been living in the apartment a week before he’d started hearing the scratching at his bedroom window in the morning. His neighbour had apologised profusely after discovering her pet’s whereabouts but Peter hadn’t minded it one bit. He’d told her nonchalantly that he’s a cat person. What he hadn’t told her is that he’s pretty indifferent to cats but he was just grateful for the company.
Soon it wasn’t just the cat that could be found on the balcony wall. One day he’d climbed out to find a stack of old cookbooks on there with a note in handwriting he hadn’t recognised, with the words: clearing out my kitchen. feel free to take these if you want.
He’d taken the cookbooks, and in return had left her an old ceramic pot from a plant he’d recently starved to death. She’d taken that too. And thus had begun the precedent of the balcony ledge. As the months have gone by the items left out there for collection have become more and more obscure. From books, to near-expired food items, to unwanted gifts—it’s nice to be involved in this endless stream of giving and receiving.
The best thing he finds out there, though, is her.
She likes to drink her morning coffee on the balcony. One day he’d been late home from patrol, stumbling in through his bedroom window at about 6am, just before sunrise. And as he’d peeled off his suit he’d heard the familiar scrape of a wooden chair outside. He’d put on his pyjamas, climbed back outside, pretended his late night was an early morning and had chatted to her for forty-five minutes while she drank her coffee and they watched the sun come up.
It’s become a habit now, him climbing out of his window when she opens her door, both of them offering sleepy smiles and making slow conversation as dawn rolls in. It’s different to catching her in the hallway, or in the lobby. Their moments together on the balcony feel more intimate, more personal. As she stands there in her pyjamas, bedroom slippers and coat, he feels like he’s with her in her home without actually being there, like the little wall that separates them stops existing.
Now, though, the balcony is empty. And there’s no cat food on the ledge like he’d hoped there might be. So with a sigh he steps back inside his bedroom and shuts the window behind him. He bites his lip thoughtfully, remembering that she’d told him where her spare key was kept in case of emergencies while she was away. He thinks at the very least she’ll have some spare cat food in her kitchen or something.
“What’d’you say?” he murmurs, bending his neck to brush his nose against Dahlia’s as he trails out of the bedroom and toward the front door of his apartment. “This counts as an emergency, right? She won’t mind if we use the spare key so you don’t starve, right?”
Dahlia meows demandingly as he steps out into the hall and takes two steps to his right. “Yeah, she won’t mind…” he mutters, bending down and slipping his free hand beneath the welcome mat.
MJ presses the tips of her fingers into her soft cheekbones as she applies her face oil, frowning at the slight shadows under her eyes. She’s unspeakably glad she decided to come home from her parents’ place early. Any more time over there and the bags beneath her eyes would be luggage.
She loves her parents, loves spending time with them, but she’s at a point in her life where spending more than a week with them can become a little taxing. They seem to have endless questions about her life—ones she doesn’t know the answers to herself—and a never ending list of friends with kids who happen to be her age and single.
At 22 her parents were already married with her older sister on the way, moving into a house they’d probably been able to afford to buy in exchange for old jewellery and some chicken change. So naturally, being 25 and still single, living in a tiny box of an apartment, MJ’s own life is definitely headed down the gutter.
For as much as she tries to explain to her parents that times have changed, and that there are a million and one other things she’d like to do with her life before settling down with a family (if she even decides she wants to settle down in that way), her parents don’t fully seem to get it. They seem to think she’s missing out on something.
MJ doesn’t feel like she’s missing out on anything. Well, mostly. She’s been single close to two years now and while it had been freeing at first, she now finds herself in want of the connection that comes with a romantic relationship.
That’s not to say she doesn’t have fun. Let the record show that MJ Watson knows how to do no-strings. But sex is sex, and dates are dates, but when it comes to pigging out with someone on the couch and watching reruns of her favourite shows in her hoodie and sweats…that’s surprisingly hard to come by.
There was a brief moment where she’d gotten her hopes up for the possibility of something exciting when her new neighbour had arrived.
When Peter had moved in next door eight months ago MJ had needed to remind herself to breathe and stop staring through the peephole as he’d walked back and forth in the hallway, hauling heavy boxes into his apartment like they were weightless.
She’d tried flirting with him a little in the first couple weeks he’d been around—not that she’d been looking for anything serious but he was hot and it’d be convenient to hook up with someone just next door—but her attempts had never fully landed. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attracted to her—she could tell he was by the way he looked at her—but she got the sense that he was complex, or probably just considered himself to be too complex for a relationship of any kind.
(It had taken her less than two months to figure out that he was Spider-Man and all of a sudden so many things about him had begun to make sense. He doesn’t know she knows, but with how terrible he is at hiding it, she wouldn’t be surprised if everyone in a ten mile radius knows too but has just vowed to turn a blind eye.)
As far as she’s aware, Peter Parker doesn’t really date. He has sex—that much she knows from sharing a wall with him—but he seems to have some aversion to anything long term. Maybe it’s the Spider-Man thing. But of all the people she sees come and go from Peter’s apartment there are hardly any repeat offenders. Apart from a semi-regular called Felicia who seems inconceivably freaky. By the sounds Peter makes, MJ is never sure whether he’s having the time of his life or whether she should call the police or ambulance when Felicia is over.
Recently, though, her visits have been few and far between. In fact, coming to think of it, it’s been an awful long time since she’s heard Peter with adult company.
And in that time she’s gotten to know him more too. Most of that is thanks to Dahlia and their practically shared balcony. But bit by bit she’s learning things about him.
She knows he doesn’t have much time to read books because he didn’t bring up the old novella she’d left out there for him in conversation till almost two months after he’d taken it. She knows he’s good at fixing things, because when she’d left a broken camera out there with a note saying can you have a look at this please? she’d found it back outside two days later in pristine condition. She knows he’s Jewish because of the half-burnt latkes he’d wrapped up and left for her during Hanukkah. She knows he has an aunt that comes around to see him often but other than that, he doesn’t seem to have anyone that really takes care of him. (It’s why she’d left him the hot ginger soup her mom used to make when she’d heard him coughing through the wall all week last month.)
She knows that he seems to like watching the sun come up, so she’s developed a caffeine habit she’d never had before so she can spend a half hour or so in the morning with a warm mug in her hands, leaning against the balcony railing or sitting in one of her wooden chairs and listening to him talk to start her day.
He’s become an instrumental part of her life lately.
And she doesn’t even have his phone number.
It’s funny if she thinks about it. They’re doing everything backwards. They communicate through a janky slab of brick wall that separates their apartments and yet they practically have shared custody of her cat. He’s gone from the hot, weird guy who lives next door, to the elusive superhero with bootycalls, to the kind, thoughtful human being who she’s trying desperately to convince herself she’s not falling for.
(It’s not going all that well.)
MJ sighs, shaking her head as she reaches for her body lotion, her stomach fluttering at the thought of having to go and collect Dahlia from Peter’s place later. She won’t go inside (she never goes inside), but they’ll either make the exchange in the hall or on the balcony, and he’ll stare at her a little too long, and her cheeks will feel a little too warm, and Dahlia will probably swat at one of them because they’re standing like statues—and all the while MJ will be going over all the reasons why she shouldn’t ask him out in her head, until he clears his throat and makes some excuse to retreat back into his apartment. Fun.
MJ pauses with her hand halfway to the cabinet when she hears the sound of footsteps coming from the direction of her living room. Her brows pull together and her heart quickens, and for a few seconds she doesn’t hear anything else. Convinced it’s probably just in her head, she lets out the breath she’s been holding and opens the cabinet.
But then she hears the unmistakable sound of clattering coming from her kitchen and her stomach drops like she’s at the pinnacle of a rollercoaster.
“Oh my God…” she breathes, freezing, suddenly regretting giving in to that true crime documentary that her sister made her watch because now she’s completely convinced that this is where it ends for her. New Year’s Eve. Butt naked. What a way to go out.
She hears the footsteps emerging and her fight instinct kicks in fast. She ties her towel around her chest and reaches for the most weapon-like item she can find in her shower stall—which happens to be a wooden-handle loofah.
“Fuck me…” she mutters, pinching her eyes shut as she works up her courage before bolting out of the bathroom at full speed. She holds the loofah in her fist, over her shoulder like a dagger as she charges head first into the front room. “I’m armed! And…and dangerous! And—”
All her threats die in her throat when she encounters none other than Peter Parker, standing battle-ready in her kitchen with her cat in one hand and a rolling pin in the other. He looks about as relieved to see her as she feels to see him.
But her relief is short-lived. She stands up straight, fixing her towel. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?” she yells. “And why do you have my rolling pin? Were you planning on baking my cat?”
“I came in, and I heard movement in the bathroom,” he shrugs helplessly, “thought there was an intruder.”
“The only person intruding is you, Peter.”
“I know but…in my defence I didn’t think you’d be here,” he says, setting down the rolling pin on her kitchen table as Dahlia squirms under his arm. “You said you’d be at your parents’ place till the 2nd.”
“I came home early.” MJ shakes her head. “And I said that the key under the mat was for emergencies. Have you just been coming in here and making yourself at home while I’ve been gone?”
“No!” Peter says quickly, starting to take a half step forward before suddenly deciding against it. “No, I’m sorry. But you…you didn’t leave enough food for Dahlia. I’m…I’m fresh out of the stuff she eats. I checked the balcony but… In the end I thought it made sense to just come over and check here. I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” MJ says sheepishly, feeling her cheeks heat. “Shit. I’m sorry, I must have counted the days wrong.”
Peter shakes his head. “No, don’t…don’t worry about it. I’m sorry for scaring you.” He gives her a little crooked smile as he nods down at the loofah still clutched in her hand. “I’m just glad I’m still in one piece. You could’ve done some real damage with that thing.”
MJ snorts out a laugh. “I know you’re joking but you don’t know about my loofah skills.”
“Maybe you can show me sometime,” Peter murmurs, smirking a little, before seemingly playing his words back over in his mind and realising that he probably shouldn’t have said them. He clears his throat. “Anyway, I’ll…leave you to it.” He takes a step back, shielding his eyes as if suddenly conscious of her state of undress.
“Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“Leave the cat.”
“Right.” He nods, letting Dahlia out of his arms before reaching for the door. “Sorry. I’ll, er…I’ll be sure to keep all interactions to the balcony from now on,” he says, winking at her kindly before slipping out and shutting it behind him.
MJ stands there in her towel long after he’s gone, lifting Dahlia into her arms and running her fingers through her thick soft fur as she tries her hardest to dampen the fluttering in her stomach.
“Shit.” She sighs.
“Shit,” Peter mutters to himself, hands on his hips as he stands in the middle of his apartment. He’s having A Moment. One of those moments where he’s so busy replaying every second of what just occurred in his head that he can’t bring himself to do anything else other than just…stand there and blink at nothing.
He’s trying to not be embarrassed about it all, trying not to talk himself into believing she must think he’s a freak, trying not to think about how her legs looked poking out of the hem of that too-tiny towel, trying (and utterly failing) to convince himself he’s not falling for her.
He has no idea how much time has elapsed before he finally shakes his head with a sigh and gets his feet to move. He walks into his bedroom and drops down onto the mattress, laying flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling.
He should really start getting ready soon. His friend Flash had invited him to a New Year’s Eve party and Peter is wondering to himself why he said yes to going in the first place. He used to be a party person, back when he was younger, back in his college days, back before his world tilted on its axis and never quite found its way back.
Losing his girlfriend in an accident when he was just twenty had somehow aged him about a decade. The past five years without her have simultaneously flown by—he can’t believe it’s been five years—and also felt like the slowest, most torturous years of his life. He’s felt every turning moment in his bones, feels the constant ticking of time in the back of his skull and perhaps that makes him a little reclusive. A little more willing to spend time with cats instead of people, and while it leaves him lonely, he knows it’s a loneliness of his own making, it’s a subtle punishment for thinking he could be normal and happy.
He sighs heavily, hauling himself up from the bed and making his way over to his closet. He frowns when he hears the tap against his window and slowly makes his way over. He opens his drapes and pulls the window up, leaning his head out to see MJ standing on her side of the wall, holding the long broomstick she used to knock his glass with.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
She nods, swallowing as she glances down at her feet and back up at him. “Yeah. I just…wanted to ask you if you have plans tonight?”
Peter does have plans. Regardless of how much he doesn’t want to follow through with them. But he doesn’t say that straight away—he wants to know why she’s asking. “Um…”
“I’d, er…planned to have a quiet night in. You know, bottle of wine, cheeseboard, that kind of thing,” MJ babbles. “Anyway, I picked up too much food and I wouldn’t want it to go to waste. So, I was wondering, if you’re not doing anything then maybe…maybe I could bring it out here on the balcony? Maybe we could catch some fireworks or something.”
Peter’s stomach suddenly feels like all his internal organs have been replaced with a colony of butterflies. “I…” he breathes, with no real thought as to how he might finish that sentence.
“If you’re busy, that’s fine, of course,” MJ jumps in quickly. “Just thought I’d offer. You know, as a thank you. For…watching my cat.”
Peter doesn’t point out that she’s changed her reasoning from having excess food to now wanting to express gratitude. And even though he has plans tonight he realises there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than freezing his ass off on the balcony with her tonight.
He shakes his head. “No, I’m… I don’t have any plans,” he lies. “And that sounds…really good. Thank you.”
Her face brightens a little. “Sure. Um…meet back out here at 10?”
“10 sounds perfect.” Peter smiles.
MJ rolls her eyes at herself as she organises small circles of salami into a flower on the wooden slab. When she’d said she’d provide a cheeseboard she’d had every intention of keeping it simple like she’d planned to when it was just for herself. But now, she finds herself organising chorizo slices into concentric circles, separating olives by colour, and fanning out three different types of crackers.
She’s not trying to impress him. Michelle Jones-Watson does not try to impress people. But her penchant for perfectionism hits the roof when she’s nervous. And as she cuts pieces of cheddar into perfect little squares she admits begrudgingly to herself that she’s far more nervous than she’d thought she’d be.
With a soft sigh she makes one last trip to her bedroom, giving herself a once over in her full length mirror. She’s not dressed up—to put on a sparkly mini dress and heels just to venture out onto her balcony feels just a step away from utter foolishness—but she chose a good pair of jeans, and the new sweater that Gayle bought her for Christmas. Her hair is down, freshly washed and wavy around her face, and for a brief second she contemplates putting on a little makeup before deciding firmly against it. She settles for a coat of tinted lip balm before switching off her bedroom light and making her way back to the kitchen.
She slips on her puffer jacket, zipping it up to her neck, before lifting the cheeseboard into her hands, the unopened bottle of dry white wine resting in the centre. She grabs two glasses, threading her fingers around the stems before taking a deep breath and walking through the living room, making a beeline for the balcony.
She shoulders the door open and kicks it shut behind her, nodding with a small smile when she sees Peter out there already, standing by the wall, one hand in his coat pocket and the other gently pushing Dahlia’s nose back as she attempts to inspect a plate balancing on the bricks.
MJ’s feet come to a halt as she comes up to the wall and looks down to see Peter’s own platter of tidbits consisting of four strawberry pop tarts, fanned out as if they’re expensive crackers, a sliced overripe banana with a healthy dollop of peanut butter beside it, and an odd number of Kit Kat sticks.
“Really?” MJ scoffs, a smile stretching across her face.
Peter shakes his head, cheeks blooming as he grins down at the plate. “Shut up, it’s all I had.”
MJ laughs heartily, tossing her head back as she hears him chuckle along with her. “Well, you’re in luck.” She raises up her cheeseboard, handing it over to him when he reaches out to take it off her hands. She pulls up a chair and sits down by the wall, making herself comfortable. “I wasn’t joking when I said I had too much food.”
“Yeah.” Peter smiles, nodding his head as he looks down at her elaborate cheeseboard. “Yeah, um…this looks amazing, MJ. Thank you. You know, for inviting me.”
“To my one woman party?” MJ says, raising a playful brow as she reaches for a grape and bites it off the stem. “It’s not much but—”
“No, it’s…” he interrupts quickly, sitting down in his singular rusty folding chair on his side of the wall, “it means a lot to me. And, um…I’m sorry again, about earlier. Scaring you like that.”
MJ shakes her head, handing him the bottle of wine and the opener. “Don’t worry about it, Pete.” She clears her throat, ears heating round the edges. “Sorry, Peter.”
“No, Pete…Pete’s fine,” he says softly as he twists the corkscrew.
Silence passes between them for a moment as he opens up the wine, his gaze darting back and forth between the bottle in his hands and the side of MJ’s face. By the third time she catches him staring only for him to blush and look away she loses her patience.
“What?” she asks.
He shakes his head, reaching for her wine glass and tilting it to pour some wine in. “Nothing. Just…you look really pretty.”
MJ looks up quickly, her lips parting a little. Her practised response is on the tip of her tongue. And therefore I have value? Her default retort to a compliment like that, something guaranteed to make him squirm. But she reels it back, swallows it down, because the way he sounds and looks so genuine and vulnerable makes her want to be genuine and vulnerable with him too.
“Thank you,” she breathes.
Peter nods, clearing his throat after taking a sip of his wine, tapping his fingers against the stem of his glass. “So, er, why’d you come home early?”
“Because,” MJ reaches for a cocktail stick, stabbing a piece of cheddar and an olive, popping them into her mouth, “if I stayed with my parents any longer I’d be forced to tear out my hair.”
Peter laughs gently, and she gets a tingly feeling in her chest when he reaches out for a cocktail stick of his own and mirrors her actions. “Fair. But Christmas was okay?”
“Oh yeah, Christmas was great,” MJ replies. “My sister Gayle flew in with her family too. Her kids are real cute. Her husband, not so much, but I’ll stomach him for the little babies.”
“Sounds lovely,” Peter says, and there’s something wistful in his tone that gives her pause.
“What about you?” she asks, sipping her wine. “How was your Christmas?”
“Er…” he runs the tip of his index finger around the rim of his wine glass as he looks down, “yeah. Yeah, good. Hung out with some friends on Christmas Eve, then Christmas Day…just”—he shrugs his shoulders—“quiet night in. Chinese food. The usual. I don’t really do Christmas. And my, er…my aunt is currently on a cruise with her girlfriend, so…” he sniffs, looks up at her with a simple smile, “Yeah.”
MJ nods her head, smiling back at him, even as her mind wanders. She thinks about the cloud of loneliness that seems to cover him, and the more she gets to know him the more she’s convinced it’s self-made. That it’s not so much a cloud, but rather a janky brick wall that he’s put up around himself to keep people at a distance.
It’s not lost on her, then, that he’s choosing to be here with her tonight. Choosing to share food and drinks with her across their own little brick wall between their apartments. Ringing in the new year together.
MJ sips her wine and swallows. “Well, anyway, I’m happy to be home.”
When he looks up at her quickly, she swears she sees a sparkle in his eye. He smiles, brows raised high as he nods once and replies, “Happy to have you home.”
“Can I ask you something?”
Peter glances at the side of MJ’s face as she crunches on half a Kit Kat, a blanket around her shoulders that he’d pulled off his bed when she’d shivered an hour ago.
“O…kay…” she says slowly, eyes narrowing as she leans back in her chair and looks at him.
Peter shakes his head, smiling a little. “Why do you live in this shitty shoebox apartment when you can afford better?”
It’s an invasive question, he knows, but their conversation has been anything but superficial since they’ve been out here. Maybe it’s the thrill of being outside in the cold on New Year’s Eve, or maybe it’s the bottle and a half of wine they’ve gone through (though he’s certain he’s more tipsy on her than he is on the alcohol). But somehow he feels more open than he’s felt in a long time and he gets the same feeling from her right now too.
MJ raises a brow at him, scratching Dahlia behind the ears as she curls herself up and purrs in her lap. “How do you know what I can afford?”
Peter scoffs. “I’ve seen the food Dahlia eats.”
MJ laughs quietly, holding her chin up proudly. “It’s what she deserves.”
“Never disputed that,” Peter agrees, reaching across the wall to run his knuckle down the centre of the cat’s forehead.
MJ looks down at his hand with a soft smile. “It’s…it’s my aunt’s old place. This apartment,” she says. “She owned it, actually. I used to stay with her a lot while I was in law school. She didn’t have any kids, or a partner. She was just one of those free-spirited artsy types, you know? Polar opposite of me in so many ways.” She shakes her head with a chuckle.
Peter smiles sadly. He’d caught onto her use of the past tense straight away. And now a few things he’d wondered about make sense. In his brief foray into her apartment earlier he’d been surprised at how colourful and lived-in it was. He’d been surprised because he doesn’t get that vibe from her—she works all hours, wears dark suits and sensible shoes and orders a lot of takeout. But it makes sense now. Makes sense that maybe she hadn’t changed much about the apartment after her aunt was no longer in it. Makes sense that the handwriting in the cookbooks she’d given him didn’t look much like her own. Makes him even more grateful for them.
“Anyway, she got sick, and…and when she passed away she left her apartment to me.” She shrugs her shoulders, draining the last of her glass of wine. “I’ve never really wanted to live anywhere else.”
Peter reaches for the bottle before she has a chance to, popping the cork out and pouring her another healthy glass. “That…that makes sense.” He pauses for a second. “I’m…sorry for asking. If that was…too personal, or hard or—”
“No, no,” she waves him off, “it’s been years now. Don’t worry about me. But, um…what about you?”
Peter fights the urge to clam up. “What about me?”
MJ shrugs her shoulders, dropping her gaze. “I mean, I know you have your aunt, but…you seem…” she trails off.
Lonely is the word she’s looking for but doesn’t want to say, Peter surmises. He feels his cheeks heat a little as he reaches for a cracker that he doesn’t really want to eat. “I, er…don’t have much in the way of family. Just my aunt, actually. And, um…” his throat tightens, “my…my ex died. We…we were together through most of college but she—”
He cuts himself off, shaking his head, turning the cracker over between his fingers. “It’s been five years,” he laughs humourlessly, “and I still…I don’t know. It’s taken me a long time to…to move on, I guess.”
MJ’s lips turn down at the corners, her brows drawing together as she nods at him. “I…” she breathes, “I get that. I’m, er…sorry. So sorry that happened to you.”
Peter nods quickly, putting the cracker back on the board still intact and dusting off his hands. “Yeah. Yeah, no, thank you. That means a lot.”
“But, you know…” he hears MJ’s voice carried softly by the wind after a few moments of contemplative silence, “maybe…maybe it’s time to open up your heart again. I think…I think you deserve that.”
He looks up at her quickly, and as he takes in her open, kind expression, he realises that the butterflies in his stomach have copulated and multiplied to the point where he feels like they might burst out of him at any moment.
He nods, a nervous laugh coming out of his lips as he smiles. “Believe me, I’m trying to,” he confesses, fixing her with a look that’s hard to misinterpret.
Her brows jump up briefly, and she smiles back at him, nodding her head. She clears her throat, and only when she pulls back does he notice they’d been moving closer to each other like magnets. Seemingly in an attempt to break the tension she changes the conversation (or so she thinks she does).
“So, you like watching the sunrise?” she asks casually.
Peter shakes his head, smiling crookedly. “No. No, I’m…more of a night owl actually. I just like coming out here to talk to you.”
MJ looks at him incredulously, blinking before raising a hand to cover her face as she makes an embarrassed sound. “I only started drinking coffee recently,” she mutters beneath her palm.
Peter frowns, still smiling as he tries to keep up with the switch in conversation.
But then, sensing his confusion, she pulls her hand down from her face and fixes him a look. “I’m saying,” she says slowly, “I like coming out here to talk to you too.”
“Oh,” Peter breathes, his heart racing as his smile stretches almost to the point of discomfort. “That…that’s good.”
They lapse into a comfortable silence as the last few moments of the year tick by, just content in each other’s company. And when they hear the sounds of distant voices begin to count down from 10 in chorus, they laugh gently and huddle closer together.
“Happy new year,” Peter says softly, only barely able to hear himself over the cacophony of cheers and the sudden bangs of fireworks. And when she grins in response he leans in slowly, giving her time to stop him (she doesn’t) with the intent to kiss her on the cheek (he does).
Her skin is soft beneath his lips and he already misses it when he pulls back. But he hardly makes it far, because before he can even open his eyes, MJ turns her face and presses her lips to his. He gasps, holds his breath, kisses her back, gives it his all for however long she gives him hers, feels the fireworks ripple through him and around him in more ways than one.
She chuckles nervously when she pulls back, and so does he. He watches as she swallows and turns to look out over the balcony at the sparkles of silver and gold lighting up the sky.
“Pretty,” she breathes.
Peter reaches out, pushes her hair back from her temple gently as his gaze stays fixed on her face. He nods in agreement. “Yeah.”
MJ stretches her arms above her head as she trails into her kitchen and makes a beeline for the coffee machine. She leans against the counter, unable to wipe the smile off of her face as she hears the whirring of the machine as it dispenses her smooth latte.
She adds an extra pump of vanilla, stirring it gently before making her way toward the balcony door that remains wedged slightly open. She grabs her coat and throws it on before pushing at the glass and stepping out. She squints, using the hand that’s not holding her mug to shield her eyes from the bright early morning sun.
She glances down at the street as she sips her coffee, shaking her head as she distantly sees leftover ribbons and sparklers and empty bottles of champagne on the sidewalk. The familiar sound of meowing makes her turn her head, and she smiles, snorting out a laugh when she glances across the wall and sees Dahlia pawing impatiently at Peter’s window.
MJ leans her elbows on the railing and shakes her head, looking over at her cat. “He’s not going to let you in,” she says softly. “I’m sorry bubba.”
“Sorry for what?”
MJ feels a heat coil in her stomach despite the cold when she feels Peter come up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist as he presses his lips against the back of her neck.
She turns around in his grasp. “Just telling Dahlia that she’s not getting into your apartment any time soon. You know, since you’re not home and all.”
Peter glances over at the cat and smiles sympathetically. “I can go back and let her in.”
MJ pouts a little, handing him her half-drunk coffee so she can thread her hands inside his coat and cling to his torso. “I’m not ready to let you go yet. She’ll get over it.”
Peter laughs softly, and when he moves in to kiss her she tastes her own sweet coffee on his lips. “I prefer the view from over here, anyway,” he says, eyes sparkling as he looks at her. “Also…I’m just realising that my balcony looks like trash.”
MJ tips her head back and laughs, squeezing him tighter. “I’ll help you decorate it.”
Or better yet, maybe it’s time to think about knocking that wall down altogether.