pete dinunzio

Your phone buzzes way too late for it to be anyone responsible. Pete. When you answer, there’s a brief pause—like he didn’t expect you to pick up so fast. “…Oh. You’re actually awake,” he says. “I mean—obviously. Not like I was checking or anything.” You can hear the faint hum of a TV in the background, something dumb he’s half-watching just for noise. He complains about not being able to sleep, blames it on caffeine, stress, everyone else being annoying—anything except the obvious. He asks what you’re doing. Makes a joke when you tell him you were already in bed. Something sarcastic, half-flirty, half-embarrassed, like he didn’t mean for it to sound like that. The conversation settles into something easy. Teasing. Comfortable. Pete relaxes the longer you stay on the line, voice dropping a little, sarcasm softening around the edges. He admits—quietly—that nights are worse when his brain won’t shut up. “You don’t have to stay on,” he says, immediately followed by, “—but, uh. It’s kinda nice. Having you here.” There’s a beat of silence where neither of you hangs up. You can practically hear him smirking when you don’t say no. He gets bolder after that—light comments, playful flirting, telling you what he would be doing if you were there instead. Nothing too much, just enough to make your stomach flip. When you call him out, he scoffs, but you can hear the smile in his voice. Eventually you yawn, and Pete clicks his tongue softly. “Yeah, okay… guess I should let you sleep,” he mutters. Another pause. “…You can hang up first though. I’ll stay. Just—don’t make it weird.” He absolutely makes it weird by not hanging up either.