Low Tide Lovers (Peter x Reader)

𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒚

⛤⛤⛤

I cautiously climb the ladder on the side of the house, careful not to make too much noise. It was the middle of the night. If anyone saw me, they'd obviously grow suspicious. I tried to ignore my stinging arm, and her shouts in my head, but I couldn't. 

I knocked on the cloudy window. The light inside flickered on. Peter stuck his face in the window and his expression turned worried. I frowned. He opened the window.

"Y/n?" he asked, reaching out for my hands. He steadied me as I stepped through the open space. I opened my mouth, unsure of what to say. I didn't know how to tell him.

"Y/n, please. What's wrong?" he pressed. His eyes searched mine. I shifted ever so slightly, and he looked down. They fell to the dark spot on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. The blood had seeped through the grey fabric. He frowned.

I winced as he took a step forward. He was mere inches away from me. I kept my head hung low as he gently took my hand and rolled up my sleeve, exposing the deep rugburn and cuts the ground had left. I swallowed.

"What happened?"

I sucked in a breath. My voice trembled as I explained. His gaze softened, and for a moment, I felt as if he understood.

"She was drunk," I mumbled. It was only shortly after my father had passed away. Shortly after the funeral. She was a mess. Salty tears pricked my eyes. Peter exhaled sharply. Our hands were still touching. We were still inches apart.

"Come here. I'll help you," he whispered, guiding me out into the hall. He flipped on the bathroom light, capturing both of us in faint yellow light. He quietly rummaged around the cabinet for medical supplies, coming up with rubbing alcohol and wrap bandaging. I leaned against the counter as he poured the alcohol on an old green washcloth.

"It's gonna sting," he warned. He was so calm. But he was correct. It stung very much. I hissed out in pain. His eyes flicked upwards for a mere second before back down to my arm, where he pressed firmly with the wet cloth. I bit my lip.

He pulled the washcloth away from my wound and tossed it in the hamper. I watched, silent, as he unraveled the bandage and began to wrap up the cuts and scrapes. I smiled lightly, sniffling. 

"There," he whispered, shutting the cabinet once more. I thanked him, my voice hushed, as I followed him back to his bedroom. I stood by awkwardly, unsure of what to do. I should probably get going. I started to head for the stairs.

"Wait," he said from behind. I turned, wrinkling my brows. He nervously tapped his fingers on the edge of the mattress. I didn't move.

"Stay."

I walked back over to him and sat beside him. I had no idea what time it was. There wasn't a clock in here. I shifted, giving myself space to lie down. Peter stood, stepping over to his brother's bed. I reached out and grabbed his hand.

I moved over as he crawled on the bed beside me. We lay on our backs, shoulders touching, staring at the ceiling. Neither of us said anything. I finally let out a yawn, rolling over onto my side. I was almost asleep when he did the same. I smiled to myself as he draped his arm over my waist.

⛤⛤⛤