The thwack is telling. You hear the splat and your heart jumps out of your chest, that weird wet sound against red-brick wall, and then you realise what it means and start to panic.
“Hey, woah woah woah!” Peter says, jimmying open your bum window with a too-strong hand. “It's just me, don't panic.”
You clamber off of the desk chair you're in and rush into the bathroom.
“Two seconds!” you shout, closing the door hard behind you. You can hear the light pad of Peter's footsteps on the floor from the window, but after that he must disguise the weight of them, and you're doubly startled by his knock. “Two seconds, Peter.”
You look around frantically. “What do you mean, no?”
“You're freaking out? Let me in? Like, right now?”
“None of those were questions.”
Peter starts to rattle your door handle. “I'll break it!” he threatens, his voice in that funny place where he's joking but not, the same tone he uses to mess with bad guys who underestimate him. You're being teased.
You pull your shirt over your head just as he opens the door. “Hey, turns out it wasn't locked.” He blinks at you. “Um. Hello to you, too? This isn't the welcome I was expecting.”
“Cut the smarm. I got, uh. Soup on me.”
You nod fiercely. “So much soup.”
“You know I'd smell it, right?” he asks, his hair damp with sweat, the mask stuffed in the pocket of his suit and threatening to fall out as he grabs your shirt. His reflexes are too fast to stop him, as he anticipates your movements before they truly happen.
You stand there in your teeny vest top, crossing your arms over your chest and staring at any spot that isn't his face as he throws out your shirt and takes in the graphic design on the front.
He looks between you and the shirt smiling like a fool. He laughs, and he tilts his head one way then the other before laughing again.
“What's so funny?” you challenge.
“Put this back on,” he says back, matching your demanding tone. “Right now.”
“Put it on! You're indecent. Here, I'll help.”
It's not funny how quickly you lose, shrieking and pushing backwards into the shower as Peter tries to force your arms through the shirt. You laugh as he grabs you and he knows he can keep going, pushing the shirt over your head and his knee between your thighs, and suddenly you've got Spider-Man's emblem on your chest again, the end of the shirt bunched above your stomach. You're both breathless from the scuffle. He stares at your merch.
“Shut up,” Peter says just as quickly, kissing you hard. A rough and short thing, the glove of his suit on your naked hip. You breathe out in a rush and kiss back, not feverish but getting there, never not happy to feel the seam of his lips parting against yours. He yanks back, “Is this–”
You kiss him again before he can ask if it's alright. You like a good fight, and it's hard for him to make fun of you for the shirt when you're kissing. He kisses you long enough to make you dizzy, thumb under the hem of your embarrassing apparel.
He brings his hand to his mouth to bite off his glove and hits the shower with his elbow, a rain of droplets falling from the head like shards of ice down the back of his neck. He pulls away, blinking, and you laugh at his misfortune tauntingly.
“Cold night in Queens?” you ask.
He wipes at his neck. “Warm for you. You are never taking it off. Never.”
“What, you like it?” you ask.
“Just enough to chase you into the bathroom, yeah.”
“Friendly neighbourhood pervert,” you say happily.
He wipes his wet hand down your bare stomach. “And his number one fan.”
