Low Tide Lovers (Peter x Reader)

𝐭𝐞𝐧

⛤⛤⛤

I couldn't believe my eyes. Red stood before me, threatening me with his posture. I let out a shaky breath. He slowly draws the coat away from me like a curtain.

"Red..." I say, my voice barely above a whisper. The sharp click of his knife echoes in the hall. He crumples down into a kneel and roughly takes my hand, my palm facing the ceiling. I whimper; the tip of the blade presses against my skin. It's cold.

"Red!" I shout. His smile only grows. Bigger. Eviler. Wider. My eyes travel to the wall behind him. The shadow of a boy creeps across the wall. I pray that it's Peter. I press my lips in a thin line. This couldn't be real. 

Red slides the sharp knife over my skin. Blood seeped from my palm. Time seemed to stop. I grew dizzy as the blood dripped down my hand and onto the floor. Salty tears stung my eyes. I breathed in harshly as he pulled the blade away from my skin

"Red."

It was Peter.

"Red, let her go!"

He laughed. He fucking laughed. I was shaking uncontrollably, unable to keep my breath steady as he dropped my hand and stood back up, walking back down the stairs as if nothing happened. I shook my head in disbelief.

I stare down at my bloody hand. 

Peter falls to his knees in front of me. Blood seeped into the fabric of his jeans. He cautiously takes my hand in his, running his finger over the base of my hand.

"Red, what the hell!" I hear Alan shout from the base of the stairs. I quickly look at the ground. I know he's proud of what he did. I know he's crazy.

"She's just a girl!" He says. Peter looks at the stairs, and back at me. The thick atmosphere melted away as the door slammed downstairs. 

I dare question why Peter was here. 

We sat there in the newly silenced house. I let out a cry. Peter hushed me, pressing his forehead against mine. His breath fanned against my upper lip. Neither of us said anything. I let myself calm down, let myself feel safe. 

⛤⛤⛤

I sat on my bathroom counter. He pressed the cold, damp washcloth against the cut on my palm. I winced. He shot me a look of sympathy.

"It's okay," he assured, "It'll make it better." I nodded slightly.

Next to me was a roll of bandages. Once my hand was cleaned and blood-smear-free, he picked them up. I watched intently as he unraveled the bandages and snipped a piece off. The thick atmosphere gradually crept back.

"Thank you, Peter," I whispered, bringing my unharmed hand up to his face. His lip quivered. He let out a small noise. I looked down at the floor, letting out a trembling breath.

"What's wrong?" I ask him. He looks back up at me. For the first time, I see the lost hope in his eyes. He looked sad; regretful. I searched his face for answers. I found none.

"I'm so sorry," he says, "I tried to talk them out of it. Alan, too. But Red insisted." He let out a little cry. I felt my heart break. I hadn't seen him cry in years. I grazed my thumb along his cheek, wiping away a hot tear.

"And - and I fucking hate robbing," he finished, sniffling. I pursed my lips. I knew he did. I felt my own eyes growing misty.

"I hate it, too." 

"I tried to stop them," Peter said again. I ran my thumb up and down his cheek, listening to him curse himself repeatedly. I couldn't count how many times he apologized. I exhaled sharply.

"Peter," I said, trying to stop him. He didn't hear.

"Peter."

He hums quietly. 

"It's okay."

He looks up. His eyelashes were thick with tears; there were shiny lines on his face. In the dimly lit bathroom, I could see how broken he was. We stayed like that for a while, looking at one another. Peter slowly starts to lean towards me. Our faces are nearly touching, but the door opens downstairs.

He instantly rocks back on his heels, glancing at the door. I carefully step back onto the floor and peek down the stairs. My mom is removing her shoes by the door. I let out a quiet sigh of relief.

"Hey, Mom," I say, waving. She looks up the stairwell and flashes me a sleepy grin before stepping into the kitchen. I look back in the bathroom, motioning for Peter to follow me. He could leave through the window by my bed. I shut the door.

"You'll have to leave through the window. She'll kill me if she sees you," I whisper. He nods solemnly, looking down at the floor. Neither of us spoke for a minute. I awkwardly shifted my weight from foot to foot.

"I'm sorry," he said a final time. I shook my head, taking a step forward. I cupped his cheek with my hand.

"It's not your fault," I said, reaching up and giving him a light peck on the lips. In the lamplight, I could see his face turn a light shade of pink before he hurriedly opened the window. All at once, he disappeared into the blue-black night. I smiled to myself, tracing the bandage with my index finger.

⛤⛤⛤