There was something about your apartment that always made him sleep better. Peter never could put his finger on it.
Perhaps it’s the jade colored sheets that are always soft to the touch. Or the way your place always smelled suspiciously like vanilla, even without a candle in sight (he had found out later about things called wax warmers.) Maybe it’s the pile of books sitting on your nightstand, dog-eared in the middle of the foreword because you never could pay much attention when reading new genres.
Peter thinks about the way you decorate your walls. There are no vintage faces to leer at him. No contemporary faces either. You’ve got a calendar hung up by a magnetic board. Peter can make out his own handwriting: a note he left you not long after your five month anniversary. He marvels at the fact that you still have it there, untouched by your eraser like it’s something sacred, and not just a silly note to make you laugh.
There’s a picture of him taped to your bed frame, and it’s the sweetest idea in the world, Peter thinks, that you keep him so close to you. Along the walls you play with different textures, like embroidered quotes, hanging beads and fringe, photos he’s gifted you, and photos you’ve taken when you thought he wasn’t looking.
He thinks about the drawer in your dresser: his drawer, with his own dividers and his own deodorant, and his own clothes that smell like your laundry detergent. He thinks of the bright pink toothbrush settled beside your red one. He thinks of his shampoo sitting beside yours in the shower. Even though he doesn’t live here, you still make it home.
Thoughts like this overwhelm him when he fits his key into the lock. You gave it to him awhile back, almost too nonchalantly. Peter keeps it as safe as he can, unwilling to lose something so significant to him. Something that feels like a part of you.
He never was certain he’d have somewhere to come home to. He was terrible at keeping up with rent, with all the spider-business going on. There were valuables he was afraid to lose. There were things he could keep at your place, safe, because you took care of his things like they were his own.
And he never knows how to thank you enough. Even now, as he pushes the door open, grabs your mail on the way in and sets it on your table, he feels a little lost. The grocery bags feel almost pointless when he sets them on the counter.
He’s not a good cook — and he doesn’t pretend he is. So he got a kit prepared at the store, one you just stick in the oven and kind of hope for the best. He got wine that one of the workers told him would pair well with it, though he can’t be certain they knew what they were talking about. And for dessert, he got your favorite pastry from a bakery that’s always too far away for you to just drop in whenever you have a craving.
He wants to spoil you. He wants you to come home to something warm and good and safe. Being Spider-Man isn’t something that guarantees a lot of that, but right now he’s just Peter Parker, and his police scanner has been turned off, his suit has been tucked away, and he’s counting down the minutes until you finally come home from work.
Peter knows your schedule. He knows you like to shower as soon as you come home, because it soothes your bones and helps you prepare for the evening. So when you do come home, with the sweetest smile on your face, he ushers you into your bathroom and tells you to take your time.
When you return, soft in your sweatpants and old t-shirt, he can smell his body wash on you, like maybe you ran out of yours, or simply decided to wear his, but it fills him with pride. Like you’re a part of him. Like you want to be closer to him.
Peter is kissing you before he can stop himself. Just a soft peck on your head, and then your cheeks, and then your eyelids, chin, and nose for good measure. “You’re so lovely.”
You preen under his gaze, and Peter wonders why his opinion means anything at all to you. How he ended up with someone so gentle, after everything, he can’t begin to fathom.
A life of grief and pain seemed to be the long and lonely future set before him, and then you walked in, like a sunbeam. Like a light at the end of the tunnel.
You eat and sip the wine, and Peter tries not to be obvious in watching your reactions, ready to dial for pizza the moment you seem displeased. But you finish your plate and ask him where you can buy another kit just like it, because you liked the flavor he picked.
When he reveals the pastry, your squeal of excitement warrants a beam of joy to shoot through him. Making your day makes his, and watching you tear the pastry into two equal pieces to share with him makes him love you even more.
He washes the dishes, refuses to let you help. So you sit on the counter and tell him about your day. His hands are still wet with grape-scented suds when he wraps them around your waist and pulls you into him.
You’re sweet. You’re so sweet, so good. Your arms and legs wrap around him like you know he’d never do a thing to hurt you. Like you trust him to carry you.
Peter squeezes you until you begin to laugh. Then he’s carrying you to bed, dropping you on the blankets and smothering you with as many kisses as he can before you’re pushing him off, telling him to wash up so the two of you can cuddle.
Sometimes he holds you. Sometimes you hold him. Sometimes, like tonight, the two of you face each other, legs tangled and pinkies linked together. Peter nudges your nose with his. “I love you,” he says, even if it’s not even half of what he feels. Even if he could write essays expanding on and explaining why. The thing is, you know. You know, but you’re tired, and Peter knows when to rest in silence with you.
“I love you too,” your voice is soft with slumber, like you’re already falling, and Peter squeezes your pinky just a little tighter, a wordless promise between the two of you to keep this love, and home, forever.