For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
They didn't go far. Just walked the tree-lined streets around campus, the low hum of the city a distant backdrop to the growing intensity of their quiet conversation. The setting sun painted the sky in shades of bruised purple and fiery orange, casting long, dramatic shadows.
Peter felt an odd lightness, a release from the mental prison of textbooks and lies. With Diana, even the silence felt different. It wasn't awkward; it was comfortable, filled with the unspoken awareness of each other. He found himself telling her things he wouldn't tell anyone else—his genuine, boundless fascination with how things worked, his frustration with the limitations of science, his fears about the future.
She listened with an unblinking intensity, her deep blue eyes fixed on his. She didn't offer easy platitudes or try to fix him. She just listened, and somehow, that was exactly what he needed. He felt a profound sense of being understood, a rare and precious thing in his life.
"You speak of science as if it were a living entity," she observed, her voice soft in the dusk. "As if it has feelings, and desires."
Peter chuckled, kicking a loose pebble along the pavement. "Sometimes it feels that way. Like the universe is constantly trying to tell us something, and science is just the language we're trying to learn to listen." He paused, then looked at her. "What about you? What drives you, Diana? Beyond the ancient myths?"
She looked away for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the distant skyscrapers, silhouetted against the dying light. "I seek truth, Peter. And justice. To right the wrongs I see. To protect those who cannot protect themselves." Her voice had taken on a resonant quality, a deeper, almost solemn tone that sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn't the voice of a student; it was the voice of someone who carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.
He felt that familiar flicker, that strange resonance he'd felt the first time she'd caught him. It was the same energy he'd felt from himself when the suit was on. He wanted to ask her more, to prod at the edges of this intriguing mystery that was Diana Prince. But something held him back. A fragile politeness. A fear of breaking the spell.
They walked for a long time, until the streetlights hummed to life and the first stars began to prick the darkening sky. The air grew colder, and Peter instinctively shoved his hands into his pockets, wishing he'd worn a heavier jacket.
"Are you cold?" Diana asked, her voice laced with concern.
"Just a little," he admitted. "My aunt always says I should dress warmer. She worries."
"Aunts are meant to worry," she said, a gentle smile on her face. Then, to his surprise, she moved closer, her shoulder brushing against his. The simple contact sent a jolt through him, a warmth that had nothing to do with the external temperature. "Is this better?"
"Yeah," he breathed out, his voice hoarse. "Yeah, much better."
They continued walking like that, their shoulders occasionally bumping, a shared warmth spreading between them. The physical intimacy was subtle, a natural progression of their deep conversation. But it was there, a silent acknowledgment of the growing pull between them.
As they approached Auerbach Hall, the exhaustion from the day, from the bridge, from the emotional rollercoaster, finally began to set in. But it was a good exhaustion, a satisfied tiredness.
They reached the lobby, and the quiet camaraderie of the outside world was replaced by the brightly lit, sterile normalcy of the dorm. The small, electric current between them intensified. The "goodnight" that was coming felt monumental.
They rode the elevator up, the silence charged with all the unspoken things. The memory of her hand in his, the shared knowledge of the bridge's chaos, the hint of something vast and ancient in her words—it all swirled around them, an invisible force field.
When the doors opened on the fourth floor, the hallway was deserted. They walked to their doors, their footsteps muffled by the carpet. Peter stopped at his door, turning to face her.
"Thanks for... everything, Diana," he said, the words feeling utterly inadequate. "I really needed that."
She looked at him, her blue eyes dark and luminous in the dim hall light. "I, too, found much solace in our conversation, Peter. And… in your company."
She was so close now. Close enough that he could see the tiny, almost imperceptible freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose. Close enough that he could feel the soft warmth radiating from her body. His gaze dropped to her lips, and the ache returned, sharper this time. He wondered what they would taste like. He wanted to know.
Diana's own eyes had dropped to his mouth. Her breath hitched, a tiny, almost inaudible sound. The air between them crackled. He could see the pulse beating faintly in her throat. Her nipples, he noticed, were pressing against the soft fabric of her sweater, a subtle but undeniable hardening that sent a jolt of raw desire through him.
He reached out, his hand hovering uncertainly between them. He wanted to cup her cheek, to pull her closer, to erase the last few inches that separated them.
"Di," he whispered, the name a plea.
She didn't move. Her gaze locked with his, a silent question passing between them. A question that held months of shared laughter, quiet understanding, and simmering, undeniable attraction. A question she knew he was too nervous to ask, and one she was too careful to force.
But her eyes gave him an answer. The deep blue depths held a promise, a challenge, an invitation.
Then, with a soft sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries, she reached out, not to his hand, but to the front of his hoodie, gently straightening the collar. Her fingers brushed against his skin for a fleeting second, sending shivers down his spine.
"Goodnight, Peter," she said, her voice a little softer, a little huskier than before. "Rest well."
She unlocked her door, her movements precise and unhurried, and slipped inside. The soft click of the lock resonated in the empty hallway, a final, definitive period at the end of a chapter.
Peter stood there, his hand still hovering in the air, his chest heaving with an emotion he couldn't name. Frustration. Desire. Awe. He felt like he'd just been granted a glimpse of a treasure and then had the lid slammed shut. He was left with the tingling ghost of her touch, the scent of her, and the profound, undeniable truth that he was falling. Hard. And he had no idea what to do about it.