Chapter 8
Miles tugged the hood of his jacket down a little lower as he walked the few blocks toward Gwen’s place. His pace was casual, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He told himself it was just a friendly check-in—nothing more. Not because he hadn’t seen her around in a minute. Not because she hadn’t shown up to the last rave or because Ganke had mentioned something about her hurting her ankle.
And definitely not because he missed her.
Nope.
The apartment complex was the kind of place that felt lived-in—plants in the windows, kids’ bikes leaned up against rusted rails, wind chimes dancing in the breeze. Miles climbed the stairs two at a time, paused at her door, then knocked twice with his knuckles.
Gwen opened the door a moment later, dressed in a big hoodie and leggings, hair loose around her face, and… limping. On her left foot.
“Oh damn,” Miles said, eyes widening slightly. “You really did mess it up, huh?”
Gwen laughed, waving him in. “Yeah, stupid slip during patrol—well, not patrol, I mean… walking. I tripped walking. Classic.”
She turned and limped ahead of him, and Miles followed her inside. He glanced down once more at her foot—left one this time. Not the right one like Spider-woman had twisted. Huh. Guess he got it wrong.
The apartment smelled like vanilla and lavender. The windows were cracked open, and a soft playlist was playing in the background—The Clash, something mellow. Gwen flopped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh and motioned for him to join her.
“I’m on bed rest today,” she said, grabbing a blanket and tossing it over her lap. “Doctor’s orders. And by doctor, I mean Reina and my dad threatening to duct-tape me to the couch.”
Miles chuckled, sliding down into the other end of the couch. “I brought snacks,” he said, holding up a plastic bag. “Hope you like gummy worms and Takis.”
“Are you trying to kill me or heal me?”
“Both. Builds character.”
They snacked, joked, and watched part of an old kung fu movie Gwen had playing. The conversation drifted to music, her band, the raves she hadn’t gone to. Miles tried to seem casual, laid-back—but he kept stealing glances at her. Her hair was messy in a cute way, and her eyes crinkled every time she laughed.
“You been laying low lately,” he finally said. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she said quickly. “I mean, ankle aside. Just been chillin’. You?”
He shrugged. “Same. Working. Drawing. Breaking up the occasional drug ring.”
She looked over at him with a raised brow. He smirked. “Joking.”
She didn’t press. Neither of them did. It was always like that—flirting with the edge of something real, but never leaning in too far. Not yet.
Eventually, Miles stood, grabbing his jacket.
“I should head out,” he said. “But let me know if you need anything, aight?”
Gwen looked up at him, her voice soft. “Thanks for coming by.”
He gave her a two-finger salute. “Catch you later, Gwendy.”
And with that, he left—none the wiser that her limp was a lie.
Gwen groaned as she shifted in bed, her pillow clutched tight under her arm and her ankle throbbing. The swelling had gotten worse overnight, thanks to her brilliant idea of faking a limp on the wrong foot to throw off Miles and her dad. Why? Just because they both saw Spider-woman the day of her injury. Miss Paranoia, right here. Now her actual injury was paying the price.
“Genius,” she muttered, glancing down at the angry red swelling under the ice pack. “Absolute genius, Stacy.”
She’d been stuck in bed all morning, alternating between watching cartoons, scrolling her cracked phone screen, and feeling a slow, creeping frustration settle into her bones. It wasn’t just the ankle. It was Peter.
He hadn’t been acting like himself for days.
Gwen shifted again and reached for her phone, opening up her texts.
Gwen: “Hey. You wanna come over today? Still stuck in bed. I got snacks.”
The typing bubble didn’t appear for a solid minute, and when it did vanish again just as fast, her stomach dipped. Then came the reply:
Peter: “Can’t. Sorry.”
Gwen stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. She considered leaving it there, but she knew herself too well.
Gwen: “You okay?”
A longer pause. This time, no bubble. Just silence.
Then finally:
Peter: “Yeah. Just tired. Later.”
She locked her phone and tossed it to the side of the bed with a small thud. Her stomach tightened—not in the physical pain way, but that gut-pull of knowing someone you love is hurting and won’t let you in.
“Peter…” she whispered aloud, her voice catching on the name.
They’d been inseparable once. He knew her better than anyone. Even after everything—after her secret, after the distance, after Miles—Peter had always been her anchor. And now? He felt like a stranger.
She lay back, staring at the ceiling. Her bedroom was quiet except for the muffled city noise outside. A siren in the distance. A car horn. Life going on while she lay here, frustrated and stuck. And worse—alone.
With a groan, she rolled over and grabbed her journal. If she couldn’t get answers from Peter, she could at least dump her swirling thoughts onto a page.
“Peter’s hiding something. Not just stress. Something else. He flinches when I talk about Miles. He shuts down when I ask about school. Did something happen? Or is he pulling away? Am I losing him?”
Her handwriting faltered there. She stared at the ink, heart heavy.
Then she added:
“And Miles… he believed it. The wrong foot. He checked on me, and for a second, it was almost nice. Just… him and me, no flirting, no tension. But it’s always short. Always distant when it matters.”
She shut the notebook and stared at the ceiling again, a question forming in the back of her mind—
Am I the problem?
But she pushed it away just as fast. She’d been through too much, fought too hard, to start doubting her gut now.
Still… she wished Peter had come over. She could’ve used the comfort. The old them would’ve stayed up all night playing video games and ranting about villains. Now she was left wondering if they’d already become past tense.
And that hurt more than the damn ankle.
Gwen crouched on the edge of a rusted water tower, her mask pulled halfway up as she scarfed down a protein bar. Her ankle still twinged when she moved wrong, but it was getting better. Not healed—definitely not—but enough for her to justify slipping back into the suit. Her city needed her. Or at least, she needed the city tonight. The tension coiled in her chest had only grown since Peter ghosted her and Miles went quiet again.
“Fun times,” she muttered, tucking the wrapper into a pouch at her waist and sliding her mask down. “Alright. Let’s see who’s acting up tonight.”
The rooftops welcomed her like an old friend as she moved—graceful, even with the occasional stumble. Her ankle ached, but adrenaline was a decent painkiller. She kept to the shadows, scanning alleys and listening for anything out of place.
It didn’t take long.
Screams rang out from below. Gwen swung around a chimney just in time to spot a robbery in progress—three thugs trying to hijack a delivery truck. Easy pickings.
Until he showed up.
The Prowler dropped in from the opposite rooftop, landing like a silent blade in the dark. Gwen’s heart did a little stupid thing in her chest, and she hated it.
“Of course,” she mumbled, dropping into the chaos.
She kicked one guy into a stack of crates, webbed up the second, and was halfway through flipping over the third when a shockwave from Prowler’s gauntlet sent the last man sprawling.
“Wow,” Gwen said, swinging down to land in front of him. “You helping people now? Gonna go full-time hero on me?”
Prowler tilted his head, stepping closer with that lazy, mocking energy she’d come to know too well. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, chiquita. Just didn’t like their faces.”
“Uh huh.” She crossed her arms. “So, you’ve been stalking me and playing vigilante? You miss me that much?”
He chuckled. “Maybe. You were off the radar. I figured you got bored of me.”
“I twisted my ankle, genius.”
“Yeah?” He paused, and this time his voice dropped lower. “You alright?”
She blinked. The question caught her off guard, real and unguarded. For a second, she swore he meant it.
But her defenses snapped up fast.
“Aww,” she said sweetly, voice oozing sarcasm. “Worried about me, kitty cat? That’s almost romantic. Should I swoon?”
His jaw ticked, and he stepped even closer, until their faces were inches apart.
“Careful,” he murmured. “You keep talking like that, and I might think you’re flirting.”
“Oh, sweetie,” she whispered, brushing a hand down his armored chest like a dare, “I’m always flirting. You just can’t handle it.”
He caught her wrist for a second, their eyes locking behind their masks. The tension snapped between them like a live wire, heavy and electric.
Then Gwen yanked her hand back and decked him. Hard.
The fight broke out instantly—fast, dirty, familiar. Like dancing with someone who knew your rhythm too well. But she noticed it now—he was pulling punches. Not enough to lose, but enough to not hurt her.
And she hated how much it made her heart twist.
“Next time,” he said breathlessly, pinning her for half a second before she reversed it, “I’ll let you catch me.”
She smirked under her mask. “Next time, I’ll earn it.”
Then he vanished into smoke and shadows, leaving Gwen on the rooftop—confused, aching, and burning in places she didn’t want to admit.
The rave was already buzzing when Gwen and the girls arrived. Reina tossed her jacket off dramatically, Dezi adjusted her mic, and Lynn was bouncing on her toes like she’d downed three energy drinks on the way over.
Gwen took a seat behind her drum kit, exhaling as she spun a stick between her fingers. Her ankle still twinged if she moved wrong, but tonight wasn’t about that. Tonight was about the beat, the noise, the lights. Tonight, she wasn’t limping or worrying about Peter or whatever the hell she and Miles were doing. She was just the drummer.
“You good, G?” Lynn leaned in, her guitar slung across her chest.
Gwen gave her a tired smile. “Yeah. Let’s kill it.”
Lynn bumped her fist and turned to the mic. “We’re The Mary Janes! Let’s get loud!”
The crowd hollered as the lights dimmed and the first riff hit. Dezi’s bass thundered, Reina came in with her sharp harmonies, and Gwen slammed into the drums like she was breaking through every emotion she hadn’t let herself feel all week. Each beat was tight, explosive, the rhythm in her bones. The room pulsed with their energy.
By the third song, Gwen was dripping sweat, heart pounding, hair clinging to her neck—but she couldn’t stop grinning. The cheers, the bodies moving in the pit, the way Reina twirled her mic stand and winked at the front row—it was all electric.
“You’re on fire tonight,” Dezi whispered between songs as she handed Gwen a bottle of water.
Gwen laughed. “Guess I needed this more than I thought.”
And then her eyes drifted to the back.
There he was.
Miles. Hoodie up, arms crossed, that usual unreadable look on his face. Just watching. Not part of the crowd, not hidden either—just there, like he always was. Like gravity.
She didn’t even think before turning back to her kit, but her hands were buzzing in a different way now.
After their last song, the room exploded with applause. Reina blew a kiss to the crowd, Lynn tossed a pick out into the pit, and Gwen stood up, towel over her neck, heart racing.
She didn’t need to say anything. The girls saw the look on her face and just grinned.
“Go,” Reina mouthed with a wink.
Gwen rolled her eyes, laughing under her breath as she slid past the stage and into the crowd. It didn’t take long to reach Miles—he hadn’t moved an inch.
“Didn’t peg you as a groupie,” she teased.
“Didn’t know you could hit like that,” he said, nodding toward the stage. “You got rage.”
“Gotta let it out somewhere."
His eyes stayed on hers for a second too long. “You wanna walk? Somewhere less… loud?”
“Sure,” she said, her voice low.
They didn’t hold hands. They didn’t need to. They just slipped away into the back corridors, footsteps echoing into silence. Neither of them said what this was, or what it wasn’t.
But they never just talked.
The door clicked shut behind them as Gwen and Miles slipped into the dim little room tucked behind the rave’s main floor. It looked like a backstage storage area, abandoned amps stacked in the corner, old posters peeling off the walls. Gwen leaned back against the table, wiping sweat from her temple with the hem of her shirt.
Miles didn’t say anything. Just stood there watching her, eyes flicking from her collarbone to her bruised knuckles to her lips.
“So,” she said finally, tossing her drumsticks into her backpack. “You stalkin’ me, or…?”
“Wasn’t hard to find you,” he said with a lazy shrug, stepping closer. “You were the loudest person in the building.”
Gwen laughed under her breath. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He was right in front of her now, thumb brushing her cheek. “It’s not.”
They didn’t talk after that.
It was instinct at this point—lips crashing, fingers tugging, breath hitching in the dark. Miles lifted her onto the table like it was second nature, and Gwen wrapped her legs around his waist like she’d done it a dozen times before.
The music pulsed faintly through the walls, muffled but steady, like a heartbeat they moved to.
They didn’t say each other’s names. Didn’t ask questions. Just let the moment swallow them up—tangled limbs and shallow gasps and the kind of silence that spoke louder than anything.
And when it was over—when their hearts were slowing down and the heat had passed—Gwen lay back, staring up at the stained ceiling, catching her breath. Miles sat on the edge of the table, pulling his shirt back over his head.
“You always disappear right after,” she said softly, not looking at him.
He paused, zipping his hoodie halfway. “You want me to stay?”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she sat up and reached for her boots, pretending like the question hadn’t landed like a weight in her chest. He didn’t push.
As they got dressed in silence, Gwen glanced sideways at him. “We’ve been doing this a while.”
“Yeah.”
“Is this… like a thing?” she asked, voice light, like she didn’t really care.
Miles glanced at her with that unreadable look again, but didn’t say anything. He just pulled on his hood and tapped his knuckles against the table lightly. “You askin’ if we got labels now?”
“No,” Gwen said quickly. “No, I mean—yeah, no. Just wondering.”
“Cool.” He nodded once. “Just wondering.”
She gave a dry chuckle, pulling her hair up into a messy ponytail. “Right.”
For a moment, it was quiet again. And in that quiet, Gwen couldn’t help but wonder if she was the only one getting caught up in it. If he meant anything when he touched her like that. If they were friends with benefits, or if she was just convenience.
She hated how much she wanted the answer.
“You heading out?” she asked as casually as she could manage.
“Yeah,” Miles said, already halfway to the door. “See you around, Gwendy.”
“Yeah. See you.”
And just like always, he was gone before she could figure out what they were.