[ His jaw clenches when she places her hand over his, as she tries to untangle his fingers from the way they clutch at the fabric of his blankets. Eventually, he forces his fingers to relax, but he can do little about the faint, adrenaline-fueled tremor that shakes his hands. He’s nervous. He’s scared. It’s like sitting on a rollercoaster, slowly climbing higher and higher, knowing the drop is coming and wondering faintly if the fall will lead to disaster.

But he watches her carefully (even if a part of him wants to look away to save himself some shame), swallows around the lump blocking his throat. He lets her speak, and even if he was steeling himself to be let down gently, each word that falls from her lips makes that ache in his chest twist and twist and twist until it bursts, flooding him with a golden warmth that steals his breath, that puts a soft, crooked smile on his face.

It’s a stupid smile. He knows it’s a stupid smile. He needs to stop smiling this stupid smile, because he looks stupid, but he can’t get rid of it. ]

It doesn’t have to look much different.

[ ... okay. Peter’s actually kind of talking out of his ass, here, because he doesn’t know much more than Gamora, if he’s honest. But what he has that Gamora doesn’t is years and years of pop culture, of watching some of the best romances unfold on the silver screen and on TV. ]

We stay friends. [ Best friends. And it’s important that he say this first off, because if it doesn’t work out? He wants them to stay friends. ] But maybe we— I dunno. Maybe you’ll let me hold your hand sometimes when we’re walking around. And maybe I’ll loan you my jackets more when it’s cold. And maybe, every once in a while—

[ He pauses. He’s trying his luck, he knows, but he puts it forward anyway, voice slightly tentative, with a teasing edge to lessen the quiet little thread of hope, ]

—maybe you’ll let me kiss you.