The low, thrumming bass of a song that had been shaking the floorboards an hour ago had finally dissolved into a mellow, ambient synth track. The kaleidoscopic party lights no longer strobed, but pulsed in a slow, gentle cadence of blues and purples across the common room of Avengers Tower. The celebration—for what, Peter wasn't even sure anymore, maybe just for surviving another Tuesday—was entering its final, quiet phase.
Most of the heavy-hitters had already called it a night. Steve had tidied up a section of the room with military precision before heading to his floor. Now, the aftermath was a cozy, comfortable chaos. Empty platters, a light dusting of confetti on the Persian rug, and the lingering, intoxicating scent of sugar and victory.
Peter Parker was happily ensconced in a beanbag chair that felt like sinking into a cloud. To his left, Bobby was idly creating and crushing tiny, intricate snowflakes between his fingers. To his right, Shadow sat with her customary stillness, the deep cover of her hoodie hiding her expression, though Peter could feel the relaxed set of her shoulders. They were part of the last bastion of partygoers, a small group of younger heroes scattered around a low table, engaged in a lazy, nonsensical card game that involved more bluffing than actual rules.
Banner was a soft, snoring lump on a nearby couch, a blanket of discarded party streamers his only cover. Laughter, soft and genuine, bubbled up from the card game as Tigra accused Quicksilver of cheating, a charge he denied with a theatrical, high-speed shrug. The air was thick with contentment, a rare and precious commodity in their line of work.
Bobby nudged Peter with a chilly elbow, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "You ever notice how Shadow disappears every time the room gets too loud?"
Peter glanced at the still figure beside him, then back at Bobby, a slow grin spreading across his face. He'd noticed, of course. He noticed everything. He'd seen the way Shadow would subtly retreat to the edges of a room when the noise and energy peaked, finding solace near a window or in a quiet corridor. He'd also noticed the way Bobby's gaze always seemed to follow her.
"Yeah," Peter said, pitching his voice just low enough. "You've been tracking her like a bloodhound lately. Got something to tell me, Mr. Frosty?"
Bobby's cool composure cracked. A faint pink dusted his cheeks, a stark contrast to his usual icy pallor. "Nah, man," he said, the words tumbling out a fraction too fast. "Just… making sure she's okay. She gets… overwhelmed, you know?"
"Right. Your purely platonic, concerned-citizen-level of making sure she's okay," Peter teased, nudging him back.
Across the scattered remnants of the party, Shadow shifted. Her head tilted slightly, the movement barely perceptible, but Peter knew she'd caught the tail end of their exchange. Under the deep shadow of her hood, a blush bloomed on her cheeks, unseen by anyone but the perceptive boy next to her and the anxious one on his other side. She quickly turned her attention back to the city lights beyond the window, but the small, secret smile lingered.
Minutes bled into a comfortable half-hour. The card game broke up with a final round of good-natured accusations. Natasha, who had been watching from the bar with a knowing smirk, finally steered a protesting Clint Barton towards the elevator, his quiver of arrows bumping softly against the doorframe. Tony, muttering something about a breakthrough in nano-lubricants, vanished into the private elevator that led to his workshop, leaving behind only the scent of expensive cologne and ambition.
The room was nearly empty now, a quiet testament to a night well-spent. Just as she had done three times earlier that evening, Shadow rose with a fluid, silent grace that always reminded Peter of smoke. She didn't say a word, simply slipped through the sliding glass doors and onto the wraparound balcony. Peter watched her go, a half-formed idea of joining her dying on his lips. No, he decided. She sought out the quiet for a reason. He'd let her have her space.
Iceman, however, was not so restrained. He fidgeted, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm on his knee. He picked up a stray napkin, froze it solid, then let it shatter on the table. He stood, sat back down, then stood again with an abruptness that made Peter jump.
"Be right back," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the balcony doors.
Peter propped his chin on his hand, his expression a perfect blend of amusement and suspicion. "Uh-huh. Totally not following the mysterious hoodie girl to the place she goes to be alone."
"Shut up," Bobby shot back, the words lacking any real heat. He was a bundle of nervous energy, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he practically strode out of the room. The glass door slid shut behind him with a soft whoosh, leaving Peter alone with a sleeping scientist and the quiet hum of the tower.
He smirked to himself, sinking deeper into the beanbag. About time.
The air on the balcony was crisp and cool, a welcome shock after the warm, stuffy lounge. Far below, New York City was a breathtaking tapestry of shimmering lights, a galaxy of human endeavor stretching to the horizon. The ceaseless hum of traffic was a distant, soothing lullaby from this height.
Shadow leaned against the reinforced glass railing, her arms crossed over her chest. The wind tugged at the edges of her hood, but she seemed oblivious, lost in the sprawling view. For her, the quiet wasn't an absence of sound, but a presence of self. In the roar of a party, she felt her edges blur, her identity swallowed by the noise. Out here, she was solid, real, and whole.
The door slid open behind her. She didn't turn, already knowing who it was. Bobby had a unique energy signature—a crackle of cold air and nervous warmth that was entirely his own. He stepped out, attempting a casual lean against the railing that came off as stiff and rehearsed. A small cloud of condensation puffed from his lips, the chill he unconsciously generated warring with the mild spring night.
"You always disappear after parties," he said. His voice was softer than usual, stripped of its usual bravado.
"I like quiet," she answered simply, her gaze remaining on the city. "Noise makes me… feel like I don't belong." It was a truth she rarely admitted to anyone.
He let out a short, awkward chuckle. "Yeah, I get that. Weird, right? I never shut up and people still act like I'm background noise." He ran a hand through his spiky hair, a gesture she'd come to recognize as his tell for when he was truly being honest.
A silence stretched between them, different from the comfortable quiet in the lounge. This one was charged, vibrating with unspoken words. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it was heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Then, Bobby broke it. He turned to face her, his expression earnest and terrified. He blurted it out, the words a frantic rush, as if saying them slowly would make them impossible to say at all.
"I like you. Like… really like you."
Shadow finally turned her head, her visible face illuminated by the glow of the city. She blinked, her dark eyes wide with surprise, though a part of her had known this was coming. "You mean—"
"Yeah," he interrupted, his verbal floodgates now wide open. "Like, crush-level, head-over-heels, can't-stop-staring-at-you-when-you-phase-into-a-shadow-like-it's-nothing kind of like. The kind where Peter makes fun of me for it constantly even though it took him way to long to realise. That kind."
He finally ran out of breath, standing there looking like he was ready to be flash-frozen by his own powers. For a long, heart-stopping moment, she just stared at him. The wind whipped a strand of dark hair across her face. Then, the corner of her mouth tilted up in a slow, knowing smirk that was more devastating than any punch.
"Took you long enough."
Before the stunned relief could fully register on his face, she closed the small gap between them. She reached up, her gloved fingers resting gently on his jaw, and leaned in. The kiss was short, warm, and utterly real. It tasted faintly of the sugary frosting from the cake they'd eaten and felt like coming home. As their lips met, a delicate, unconscious shimmer of frost bloomed on the glass around them, catching the tower lights and fracturing them into a thousand tiny, glittering stars.
Just as Bobby felt the world realign on its axis, the glass door slid open with a jarring whoosh.
Peter stood there, framed in the doorway, holding a slice of seven-layer chocolate cake on a napkin. "Hey, you guys seen my phone? I think I left it—oh."
He froze, his sentence dying in his throat. His eyes, wide and owlish behind his glasses, darted from Bobby's flushed face to Shadow's faint, satisfied smile. They had pulled apart instantly, but the air around them was still sparkling with literal frost.
"Oh!" Peter's voice cracked. "Oh wow, okay, this is—uh—yeah, no, keep doing that, I'll just—uh—find my phone later. Nope. I'm leaving now."
He began to back away slowly, still clutching the cake as if it were a shield. He fumbled behind him for the door panel, his movements clumsy and panicked. He bumped squarely into the doorframe with a soft thud.
"You two look… chilly!" he squeaked, the pun hanging in the air like a lead balloon. "Heh… I'll stop talking now."
The door finally slid shut, plunging them back into their private world.
Peter stumbled back into the lounge, his face the color of his own suit. He leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath and trying to erase the last thirty seconds from his brain.
Tigra, lounging on a sofa and sharpening a claw with a nail file, raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "You okay, kid? You look like you saw a ghost."
"Worse," Peter muttered, collapsing back into his beanbag and taking a huge, stress-induced bite of his cake. "I saw romance. Up close. It was… sparkly."
A blur of silver and blue zipped past him, coming to an abrupt halt. Quicksilver, who had seemingly been on the other side of the room, was now standing directly in front of him, a grin spreading across his face.
"Wait, finally?" he asked, his words clipping along at their usual rapid pace. "The ice cube and the ghost? For real?" Peter could only nod numbly, his mouth full of cake. "Oh, I owe Clint twenty bucks."
As if on cue, the remaining occupants of the room—Tigra, Natasha, and even a few of the junior SHIELD agents who had stayed late—burst out laughing. A collective, knowing, joyful sound that echoed through the quiet space. Peter looked around, bewildered. They all knew. They had all been waiting.
Back on the balcony, the laughter from inside was a faint, muffled sound. Bobby and Shadow stood in a renewed silence, though this time it was light and bubbling with unspoken joy. Both were smiling shyly at the floor.
"He's never gonna let us live that down," Bobby said, finally breaking the silence.
Shadow looked up at him, her eyes, now fully visible without the hood drawn so low, were bright. "Doesn't matter," she replied, her voice soft but firm. She reached out and slipped her smaller, gloved hand into his. His hand was cold, as always, but his touch was warm. "I don't hide from this."
They stood there side by side, his hand enveloping hers, looking out at the city that never slept. The frost on the glass around them glimmered, a silent testament to the moment, a private constellation just for them.
Inside, Peter's face split into a wide, genuine grin as he joined in the laughter. The initial embarrassment evaporated, replaced by a deep, uncomplicated happiness for his friends. His heart felt lighter than it had in weeks. For once, the tower wasn't a war room or a triage center. There were no alarms, no battle plans, no fresh wounds to stitch.
It was just a home. And for tonight, at least, it was filled with heroes simply being human.
"Is that how Harry felt with me and Elaine?" Peter murmered to himself.