PETER MAXIMOFF

Westchester nights in November are sharp—air crisp enough to bite the lungs, leaves skittering like dry bones across the gravel paths.

Peter doesn't feel the cold the way normal people do; his metabolism runs too hot, too fast, like everything else about him. But tonight, buzzing with leftover energy from a midnight Twinkie raid and too many laps around the danger room just to burn it off, he feels everything amplified especially the ache of being one floor away from you.

He's supposed to be in his own room (house rules, curfew, all that adult bullshit Professor X lays down with that calm smile that says he knows you're gonna break them anyway). Peter gets it; the school's full of hormonal mutant teens with powers that could level cities. Separate dorm wings, lights out at eleven. Logical. Boring.

But logic never stood a chance against the way he feels about you.

It's been like this for months now—ever since that first stolen kiss behind the boathouse, your body warm against his skin like sunlight through leaves, making him slow down for once in his life. You're his girlfriend. His. And that means nights apart feel like withdrawal. He usually zips through the halls in a blur, too quick for cameras or nosy teachers like Hank or Storm to catch. In and out, curled around you before you even finish yawning.

Tonight, though, he's restless. Hyper. The usual route feels too predictable, too easy.

Your room is on the second floor, east wing—window overlooking the rose garden that's gone dormant for winter. He scales the wall easy, fingers finding purchase in the mortar like it's nothing, heart racing in anticipation. If Logan catches him out here he'll get a lecture and probably kitchen duty for a month.

He perches on the narrow ledge outside your window, breath fogging the glass in quick puffs. You're inside, asleep (he can see the outline of you under the comforter, one arm flung over the pillow where he usually crashes).

Peter taps the glass: light at first, just a knuckle rap. No response. He waits a beat, vibrating with impatience, then taps again. Harder. A little pattern: tap-tap-tap-tap, like Morse code for "open up, babe"

Still nothing. You're out cold—probably from training earlier, your powers draining you the way his speed amps him up. He grins, silver hair falling into his eyes, and knocks a third time, persistent but quiet enough not to wake the whole hall.

Finally, movement. You stir, brow furrowing in that cute confused way, eyes blinking open slow. He sees the moment you register the sound: your head turning toward the window, sleepy confusion shifting to recognition when you spot his goofy wave and that trademark cheeky grin pressed against the pane.

You sit up, comforter pooling around your waist, wearing one of his stolen band tees—Pink Floyd—that hangs off one shoulder.

You pad to the window, unlatch it with a soft click, cold air rushing in as you push it open. "Peter," you whisper-scold, voice husky with sleep, but there's a smile tugging at your lips. "It's like... two a.m. You have a perfectly good bed down the hall."

He vaults inside before you finish, landing light as a cat. His hands find your waist immediately, pulling you in until you're flush against him.

"Yeah, but my perfectly good bed doesn't have you in it, babe," he murmurs into your hair. His fingers trace lazy circles at your hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of the tee to brush bare skin. "Missed you. Like, physically couldn't stay away. It's a medical condition. Separation anxiety or whatever."