Chapter 6
The buzzing in his ears from the mission hadn’t quite faded, even as the glow of the streetlights blurred past the window of the train. His hoodie was pulled low over his face, shadows clinging to his shoulders like a second skin. Miles leaned back in the corner seat, fingers tapping out the beat of an old jazz song his mom used to hum while doing dishes. The rush of adrenaline from the heist had already fizzled. Now came the come-down. The mask off. The quiet.
When he slipped through the door of their apartment, it was late enough for the hallway to be empty and the building to creak like it had secrets. The scent of sofrito lingered in the air, warm and sharp. His mom always cooked even when she was tired—it was her way of saying, you’re home, you’re safe.
“Mi’jo?” came her voice from the kitchen, soft but alert.
Miles froze for a second, then forced a tired smile on his face. “Yeah, it’s me, Ma.”
She appeared in the doorway, apron dusted with flour and eyes narrowed slightly. She scanned him like she always did after work—or what she thought was work. He didn’t look hurt, not bleeding, no black eye. Still, her brow pinched.
“You’re late,” she said, folding her arms.
“Sorry,” he said, stepping closer. He pulled a few folded bills from his jacket pocket and offered them to her. “Picked up extra hours at the part-time. I wanted to help with rent.”
She stared at the money, lips pursed, then slowly took it. “Miles… are you doing anything dangerous?”
He shook his head. “Nah, Ma. Just working. I promise.”
There was a moment of silence where neither of them believed that promise completely, but neither of them broke it, either. Instead, she sighed and tucked the bills into the kitchen jar.
“Come help me finish dinner,” she said finally.
Miles rolled up his sleeves and joined her at the stove. He stirred rice while she chopped onions, the two of them moving in rhythm like it was choreography they’d rehearsed for years. She nudged his elbow when he stirred too fast. He tossed her the spices without looking. The air filled with steam and seasoning, and for a moment, the weight lifted.
“You remember when you were five,” she said suddenly, “and you wanted to be an astronaut?”
He smirked. “Nah, that was Aunt Maria's kid. I wanted to be a ninja.”
She laughed, a soft sound, and flicked a grain of rice at him. “That’s right. You even wore that little mask to school.”
Miles chuckled. “Guess not much has changed.”
She didn’t question that, just smiled and patted his cheek. “Whatever you’re doing out there, Miles… just don’t lose yourself. You hear me?”
He nodded, a quiet ache blooming in his chest. “I hear you, Ma.”
And when they sat down to eat together, it wasn’t just the food that warmed him—it was the silence. The kind that only comes when you know you’re loved.
The scent of sweat, leather, and floor polish clung to the cracked walls of the underground gym like memories. The light was dim, the hum of a flickering ceiling lamp echoing above the steady thump-thump of fists hitting the worn-out heavy bag. Miles exhaled through his nose, focused on the rhythm of his gloves smacking the leather.
Uncle Aaron leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching. “Your left’s still lazy,” he called. “Tighten your stance.”
Miles rolled his eyes but adjusted anyway. He threw a jab-jab-hook, the final punch sending the bag rocking. His muscles burned. Sweat trickled down his temple.
Aaron stepped forward, tapping the bag to still it. “You good, kid? You’ve been quiet since we got back.”
Miles shrugged, pulling off the gloves with a snap. “I’m good. Just tired.”
“Uh-huh.” Aaron tossed him a towel. “You always get quiet when your head’s on someone else.”
Miles caught the towel, wiped down his neck, and grinned. “You getting all therapist on me now?”
Aaron smirked. “Nah. Just know you better than most.”
They moved toward the ring, where Aaron ducked under the ropes and gestured for Miles to join. Miles hopped in, bouncing on his feet as Aaron raised his hands, nodding for a light spar.
“So,” Aaron said between jabs, “this new Spider-Woman…”
Miles snorted, ducking a punch. “Man, what about her?”
Aaron tilted his head. “She’s been messing with our jobs a lot lately. Quick, too. She’s got instincts. You sure you ain’t slipping?”
Miles grinned, dancing back on his heels. “Nah, I let her catch a glimpse sometimes. Gotta make it interesting.”
Aaron arched a brow, smirking. “You letting her chase you now? Sounds like you like the attention.”
Miles threw a punch that Aaron easily blocked. “She’s just… fun to mess with. Got a mouth on her, but she’s got guts. Reminds me of—”
He hesitated. The image of Gwen’s flushed face, her breathless laugh, flashed across his mind.
“Reminds you of who?” Aaron asked, landing a light jab to Miles’ ribs.
Miles exhaled sharply. “Nobody. Just sayin’, she makes the night more exciting.”
Aaron circled him, eyes sharp. “Exciting can get you caught.”
“Not me,” Miles said with a sly smile. “She’s predictable. Always gotta play the hero.”
Aaron gave a low chuckle. “Just don’t let teasing turn into slipping, alright?”
Miles nodded. “Yeah. I know the line.”
They boxed a little more, falling into a rhythm. Miles liked these moments—the gruff encouragement, the grounding ache of fists meeting gloves. It was one of the few places where he felt real. Not the son. Not the Prowler. Just Miles.
After they finished, Aaron clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You got good instincts, kid. Use ’em.”
Miles gave a small smile, slinging his hoodie back on. “Yeah. I will.”
But as he left the gym and headed into the night, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. The way Spider-Woman moved. The way Gwen kissed.
And the quiet, nagging thought that maybe—just maybe—they weren’t so different.
The night air in Brooklyn buzzed with energy—cars rumbling in the distance, faint music from someone’s open window, and the soft click of Miles' boots as he walked through a shadowed alley. He wore his Prowler suit underneath a thick jacket, hood up, face sharp with focus. He wasn’t in the mood for games tonight. This was supposed to be a clean, quick job.
He reached the drop point, a rundown industrial building with busted lights and no cameras. Classic setup. A few crates were already stacked by the back entrance. Miles crouched, checking the labels. StarkTech. Fancy.
“Damn,” he muttered, pulling out a small device and activating it. The signal blinked green—Aaron had already cleared security.
He got to work, silently dragging the crates closer to the extraction van parked a block away. Everything was running smooth for once.
That should’ve been his first red flag.
A high-pitched thwip sliced through the silence. Miles’s instincts flared and he twisted just as a web shot past, narrowly missing his shoulder.
“You gotta work on being quieter,” came a voice from above.
Miles looked up—and there she was. Spider-Woman. White and pink suit gleaming under the rooftop light, mask tilted just enough to show her eyes squinting with mischief.
He groaned under his breath. “Of course.”
“Miss me?” she quipped, flipping down in a clean arc, landing several feet from him.
Miles raised his hands mockingly. “Could’ve at least let me finish the job first.”
She put her hands on her hips. “You don’t get to rob people just because you’re charming.”
“Charming? That sounds like a compliment, Spider.”
She lunged. He ducked, moving fluidly to the side, then reached into his coat and tossed a smoke pellet. The cloud bloomed instantly, but before he could vanish, she tackled him through the fog, both of them slamming into a pile of crates.
“Seriously?” he coughed. “You always this aggressive on dates?”
“I’m not dating you!”
He laughed, twisting under her and flipping her over with a sharp movement. She landed hard but rolled quickly, rebounding to her feet. “You’re so dramatic,” he called.
She charged again. Their movements blurred—kicks, punches, webs, electric shocks humming through her suit, prowler tech glowing purple.
The fight was messy, and for once, Miles wasn’t having fun.
He was rushed. He couldn’t let her stall him tonight. The gear was hot and valuable—Aaron would be waiting.
“Sorry, Spider,” he muttered, tossing another smoke pellet and flipping out of her reach. “We’ll finish this dance another night.”
She tried to chase him but tripped over a broken crate he’d deliberately kicked into her path.
“Coward!” she shouted through the smoke.
“Tease,” he called back, already vanishing into the night.
As he sprinted across the rooftops, heart thudding, Miles tried to shake the frustration gnawing at him. He hated botching a job. But more than that, he hated how much he missed their usual rhythm. The banter. The chase.
He was starting to think he didn’t just like annoying her.
He liked seeing her.
Miles lay sprawled across his bed, one arm draped across his forehead, the soft beat of music pulsing through the headphones hanging from his neck. His room was dim, only lit by the warm amber glow of his desk lamp, throwing soft shadows across the walls. Everything around him was still, but his mind wasn’t.
The mission earlier was successful. Quick grab, clean exit. Aaron had nodded in approval. Miles should’ve been satisfied.
But the way Spider-Woman looked at him tonight—frustrated, like she’d seen through him—it left him restless.
He sighed, pulled his phone closer, and opened a text thread he probably shouldn’t have.
Miles:
yo u up?
The reply came fast.
Gwen:
Always. Want me to come over?
He stared at the screen for a second, hesitating—but not really.
Miles:
slide thru.
Thirty minutes later, there was that familiar soft knock—three times, quick and quiet.
He opened the door to find Gwen standing there in a hoodie too big for her, shorts, and scuffed-up sneakers. Her hair was pulled into a bun, and the flush on her cheeks made her look like she ran the whole way. She smiled, almost shy.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Hey,” he said, stepping aside.
They collapsed onto the bed, lying side by side in a comfortable silence, like they’d done it a hundred times. For a few minutes, they just listened to the distant sounds of the city through the window.
Then, Miles broke the quiet. “You ever feel like you’re playin’ a role? Like… you’re not sure which version of you is the real one?”
Gwen turned her head toward him. “Yeah… all the time.”
He glanced over at her. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “Sometimes I feel like I’m split down the middle. There’s the version of me that wants to just… exist. And the version of me that’s always bracing for the next hit.”
Miles stared at her for a moment, then reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You get it,” he murmured.
She leaned into his touch just slightly. “Yeah. I think I do.”
There was a pause. Not awkward. Just charged.
Their eyes locked. The space between them felt like static—warm and humming.
And then she leaned forward. Just an inch.
Miles met her halfway.
The kiss was soft. No rush. Just lips brushing, tentative and slow, like neither of them wanted to break the moment. Gwen’s hand found the side of his neck, and his thumb rested on her jaw, guiding her gently.
When they finally pulled apart, her breath caught against his lips.
Miles let his forehead rest against hers.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmured, but there was no teasing in his voice.
Gwen smiled faintly. “So are you.”
Miles woke up to the soft morning light slipping through the blinds. Gwen’s hoodie was folded over the back of his chair, but the girl herself was gone. A quiet ghost, like always. No goodbye, just warmth left behind in the sheets and the faintest scent of vanilla shampoo in the air.
He sat up slowly, dragging a hand down his face. His muscles were still sore from training, his ribs a little bruised from earlier—but none of that was what had him staring at the floor like it might whisper answers.
She was amazing. Gwen. And last night—damn, it had felt good. Honest, even. But...
He got up, crossed the room, and pulled on a clean black hoodie, tugging the strings tight as if he could block the thoughts pressing in. As he passed his desk, his fingers brushed the edge of a small sketchpad. He flipped it open absentmindedly.
A few strokes in charcoal, smudged fingerprints. The outline of a girl in motion, perched high on a ledge. Spiraling webs. Eyes shaped into white crescents over a mask. Spider-Woman.
He stared.
It was messed up.
Because Gwen reminded him of her. Not just in looks—though, now that he was thinking about it, their body language was almost too close. No, it was deeper than that. Gwen had that same fire under her skin. That same way of watching the world like she was trying to figure out how to survive it.
But with Spider-Woman, it was different. She came at him like she wanted to destroy him and save him in the same breath.
He slammed the sketchpad shut.
“Focus,” he muttered.
Still, the city outside was pulling at him. He needed to hit up Aaron, check in, see what came next. There was always another job.
But before that, maybe some clarity.
He grabbed his phone, thumb hovering over Gwen’s name. He didn’t text.
Instead, he opened a different thread.
Miles:
You around?
A minute passed.
Aaron:
Always. Meet me in 30?
Miles tossed the phone on his bed. He paced once, twice, then stopped by the window. Leaned against it, forehead pressing to the cool glass.
From up here, the world was loud but small. Spider-Woman was probably out there already, doing flips off buildings and cracking jokes she thought were clever.
He smiled faintly to himself.
Then frowned.
He had a whole mess of things in his chest—desire, guilt, something like regret—and no one to hand it to.
And Gwen? Gwen was sweet. Smart. So damn easy to fall into. But she wasn’t the one he thought of when things went quiet.
That spot was already taken by someone in a mask.
He picked up his gloves, slipped them on slowly.
Time to move.