A/N - This imagine is based on the song 'Lovin Each Day' by Ronan Keating. It's a little short, but I hope you all enjoy it.
You had always loved parties. Drunken people falling over their own feet. A buzz from the alcohol snuck from other people's parent's liquor cabinets. The stories of idiocy the next morning, whilst your brain is still fuzzy and your mouth feels like it's been stuffed with cotton balls.
Somehow, your love had only grown as you and Peter had gotten closer. He was fun, like real, don't care what anybody else thinks about it, fun. And he had only made the parties more exciting.
You would hang on his arm, grinning up at your slightly drunk boyfriend as you both danced to the music. You were probably completely out of time to the beat, and looking like complete idiots, but there was nothing that could stop you from enjoying the moment.
"You look so pretty," he would mumbled, stumbling over the words as he lifted his hand to stroke your cheek lightly. "So damn pretty."
Of course, your cheeks would go rosy red as you attempted to stifle a laugh. God, when had you gotten to be one of those giggly girls? "You aren't too bad, handsome."
And then he would be kissing you, his lips pressed to yours in a soft expression of his love.
Truly, the best part about going to parties with Peter was getting to go home again. It was a ritual of yours. Go back to his place, attempt to seem sober for Aunt May (though she had already heard you giggling between yourselves out in the hallway of the apartment building), get into your PJs, order a pizza, and watch some shitty film.
By the time the film would wrap, you would be huddled on his bed with your head in his lap with your eyes pressed closed, his fingers running through your hair. You would attempt to stay awake and make conversation, you always wanted to hear what Peter had to say, but most of the time you were unsuccessful and you would drift into a comfortable sleep.
He didn't mind though. You looked, somehow, even more adorable when you slept. You always looked like you were pouting, your brows furrowed as though you were concentrating super hard on something in your dreams. Eventually, he would have to move you, but for now, he was more than happy to remain in this position, keeping you comfortable.
The next mornings were always fun. Flicking through your group chat and seeing what your friends had gotten up to in their drunken states. Shared kisses. Spread secrets. Stupid acts of bravery in an attempt to prove themselves worthy of one another. And then, as the chat slowed down, teasing about where you and Pete had gone, and how you had disappeared so early. It had gained you the title of old people from your friends, but you didn't mind at all.
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