New York was a tiring place. No matter where you went or how fast you walked, you couldn't escape the people. They were everywhere; on the streets, in the bank, blocking the aisles of every goddamn shop and oozing out the subway. Nobody moved to the city with the intention of it being an open and peaceful space but man. After a long day of work at a diner - filled with spilled coffee, angry customers, and the clogged-up air of heat fryers and grills - the last thing you wanted was to deal with that. With people. So many fucking people.
Even the hallways of your apartment building were filled with them. Your elderly neighbor was dragging her five dogs out for a walk (it explained the smell in the hall, at least) and there was a group of teenagers smoking something much stronger than tobacco in the stair-well. Your grocery bag ripping a few feet from your front door was the final straw.
"Peter!" you let out an exasperated sigh as you kicked open the door. "Did you not hear me calling from the hall?"
"Huh?" Your boyfriend stuck his head up from the sofa, soft tufts of hair sticking up in a million directions and brown eyes tired with sleep. You'd clearly ruined his nap - not that you had much sympathy for him. More like jealousy.
"My bag..." you trailed off, deciding it wasn't worth it. "Don't worry. Can you just help me unpack the shopping?"
"Yeah, of course," Peter hopped up, over to the kitchen in a flash. "Man, am I happy to see you."
He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you back against his chest. You didn't mean to ignore his affection, but you just wanted to get shit done and pass out on the sofa. You could be all over him then. That meant, for now, if he wanted to hug you, he'd have to awkwardly shuffle around the kitchen whilst attached to you. To no one's surprise, that was exactly what he did.
Peter pressed a kiss to the back of your head. "The oven broke again by the way."
"Seriously?" you groaned. "That's gonna take ten years for maintenance to fix."
The only thing worse than the crowds in New York was the housing. Unless you were a millionaire, there wasn't much on offer. The estate agent had called your apartment a steal, but with its terrible lighting and thin walls, you had to disagree. It had been the first place you and Peter had got together after high school and it felt like home now. That didn't mean the real estate gods didn't test you every now and then by blowing up an appliance or bursting a pipe.
"It's okay, we can use the microwave."
"Yeah," you forced a smile. "Did you send off the cheque for the gas bill?" You felt Peter tense up behind you. That was a no.
"Peter," you groaned, turning around to face him. Despite your attempts to elbow him off of you, he stayed pretty stuck. "I asked you to do it three days ago."
"I forgot. I'm sorry-"
" - so the oven probably isn't broken," you cut him off. "The gas company have cut us off, most likely. And no gas means no oven."
"I'll do it tomorrow," he gave you a goofy smile. "I promise."
"Yeah, okay," you let out a small sigh of defeat. He was hard to argue with.
You felt bad nagging him; you didn't want to sound like his Aunt May, but you could have sworn the boy had undiagnosed ADHD. He worked his ass off at night to protect New York, but his day job as a freelance photographer had dried up. That meant most of the financial burden fell on your shoulders, which had been fine when it was just a temporary thing. Temporary had lasted almost six months by that point and Peter forgetting basic things you asked him to do was starting to get to you. Coming home to empty take-out boxes and piles of washing up after a ten-hour shift wasn't fun.
