8 The kiss

He had kissed her back and held her and given himself to her. Not all of it. But this night, his body, his warmth was hers any time she asked. But Peter had never promised his love. Not once, not when she whispered she loved him and did he love her too or when she cried out his name, and he hers. He never told her he loved her when they woke up together. He had simply folded himself into a shape to fit her, but he still hadn't been honest.

Honesty was all she'd ever asked for.

He stood up, determined. He set his sights on the brightest source of light and set off toward it. It took him a couple minutes of clawing through branches and sidestepping rocks before he came across a beaten path. Eventually, it tied itself to another route-worn even further.

The streets were busy, and people bustled along, most just getting in Peter's way. He ran through, pushing people and earning a couple rude remarks on his way.

"Y/N!" He screamed. "Y/N!"

He paused in the street, noticing the attention he'd attracted from the crowd. Children, the few who were still out this late, peeked out from behind their parents, and civilians whispered and gestured. Y/N was pretty well known around the city. She was friendly and kind, so long as her conversation showed her respect too. If not, well, every rose has its thorns, and Y/N bared hers like a threat. She had acquaintances all over the city, friends from bars and fights and people she'd bumped into and liked.

"Has anyone seen her?" He shouted. "Anyone? I need to apologize!"

Peter felt a hand on his shoulder. It squeezed, pulling him backwards, and causing him to lose his balance. Before he could steady himself, the hand scooped him back to his feet, and swiftly shoved him down again. A slender, yet calloused hand.