Chapter 10
Gwen was drifting.
Days blurred together like smoke—fuzzy and heavy. She barely noticed when the sun rose or when it dipped below the skyline. She didn’t notice much at all anymore, really. Not her rumbling stomach, not the ache in her legs after another failed ballet class, not even the way Lynn gently tried to call her back when she spaced out in the middle of band practice.
She was always tired, always cold, always just… not there.
It wasn’t just that Peter was gone—it was that he’d been taken from her by her own hands. Even if she hadn’t meant to, even if it had been an accident, it didn’t matter. She saw his face every time she closed her eyes, heard his voice echo in every silence. He haunted her—sweetly, painfully, completely.
That week, she’d skipped three meals. She made it halfway through ballet class before collapsing on the mat, her muscles trembling and the instructor giving her a concerned but silent glance. In band, Reina had to nudge her half a dozen times to bring her back to Earth, and even then, Gwen could barely keep a rhythm.
“Something has to give,” Lynn whispered to Dezi and Reina when Gwen left early again.
“She’s not okay,” Reina said softly.
“She’s breaking,” Dezi agreed.
Lynn set her jaw. “She’s not gonna listen to us. But maybe she’ll listen to him.”
Miles was halfway through eating a sandwich when Lynn texted him.
Lynn: You need to come talk to Gwen. She’s falling apart.
Dezi: Please.
He didn’t even finish the sandwich. Just tossed the rest in the trash and grabbed his hoodie, already knowing what he’d find. He hadn’t heard from Gwen much in the past few days. A vague “I’m fine” over text, no sign of her at the usual spots. His gut had been twisting for days, waiting for something to drop.
When Miles knocked, Gwen didn’t answer. He let himself in.
The place was a mess. Dishes in the sink. Empty bottles of water and half-eaten granola bars on the counter. Her drums sat untouched in the corner, dust forming on the cymbals.
And there she was.
Sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over, hoodie swallowing her frame. Her eyes were red and distant, a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray beside her.
She looked up at him like she hadn’t seen him in years.
“Miles?”
“Hey,” he said, soft. “Mind if I come in?”
“You already did,” she muttered.
He sat across from her, taking in the pale tint to her skin, the way her cheekbones jutted out more than usual. He could see it—she hadn’t been eating. Hadn’t been sleeping. She was fading.
“You look like hell,” he said gently.
“I feel worse,” she answered.
They sat in silence.
“I don’t know how to be okay,” Gwen said finally, her voice cracking like a worn string. “Peter’s gone, and I keep waking up like he’s not. I keep forgetting, and then I remember, and it’s like I kill him all over again.”
Miles didn’t say anything. He just reached across the table and took her hand.
And Gwen, for the first time in days, didn’t pull away.
Spider-Woman sat on the rooftop, legs dangling over the edge as the city buzzed faintly below. Neon signs flickered in the distance. Sirens echoed—far off enough to ignore. Her mask was halfway rolled up so she could smoke in peace, the ember flaring like a heartbeat every time she took a drag.
She didn’t even try to hide anymore. Didn’t swing. Didn’t chase.
She just watched.
Another petty theft happened right below her, and Gwen blinked down at the scene like it was happening in a movie. A guy snatched a purse and took off. She didn’t move.
The woman’s voice cried out—raw and scared.
Still… Gwen just sat there.
She was tired. Tired in her bones, in her blood, in her soul. Even the suit felt too heavy these days.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Probably another ignored message from Lynn or Reina. She didn’t check.
Instead, she pressed the cigarette to her lips again.
“I was wondering how long you’d keep pretending that grief gives you a free pass,” a voice said behind her.
She flinched and whipped around—but she already knew.
Prowler stood at the edge of the rooftop like he’d been there all along. The purple glint of his armor shimmered against the moonlight, and the mask covered his face, but Gwen could feel his gaze burning into her.
“What do you want?” she asked, rolling her eyes and stubbing the cigarette out on the brick behind her. “I’m off-duty.”
“Yeah, I noticed. So did every thug downtown.” He stepped closer, voice low. “You gonna sit here and let the city rot just ‘cause you’re hurting?”
Her hands curled into fists. “You don’t get to talk about hurting like you understand.”
“I’m not saying I do,” he replied. “But I know what it looks like when you give up.”
Silence stretched between them.
“I ain’t seen you around. No chase. No tricks. Not even a web to the face. What happened to the girl who gave me whiplash every other night?”
“She died,” Gwen muttered.
He tilted his head. “Bullshit.”
“Go away, Prowler.”
“No.”
She looked up, meeting the sharp glint of his eyes behind that mask.
“Fine,” she hissed. “Then what—here to mock me? You want a pity win tonight?”
He took another step. “No. I’m here to tell you that if you don’t get your ass off this ledge and back in the game—I'm gonna start robbing again. Like, full-time. Jewelry stores, bank vaults, government facilities. I’ll even make sure to tell the media Spider-Woman couldn’t stop me.”
Gwen blinked. “You’re bluffing.”
He didn’t move.
“You’re not.”
“Nope.”
A spark flickered in her chest. Annoyance. Challenge. Something that wasn’t numb.
“You’re seriously gonna ruin your own streak just to piss me off?”
He shrugged. “Kinda already started. Swiped some cash off a cartel courier earlier. Thought maybe you’d come out and stop me.”
Her eye twitched. “You’re the worst.”
“I try.”
Something cracked in her—just a little. She stood, cracking her neck, adjusting her gloves.
“Well then,” she said, rolling her mask down over her face, “I guess I better make sure you don’t get away with it.”
“There’s my girl.”
She leapt off the rooftop without another word.
But for the first time in weeks, she actually wanted to land on her feet.
Gwen had started breathing again.
Not perfectly. Not freely. But enough that the weight on her chest no longer felt like it was trying to crush her every second of the day.
She still woke up thinking of Peter. Still heard his voice sometimes when things got too quiet. But she got out of bed now. Ate meals, even if they were small. Showered without just sitting under the spray for twenty minutes.
Her dad noticed first. He didn’t say much, but the quiet glances at breakfast, the tiny smiles, the way he didn’t hover so much anymore—it said more than words could.
“Hey, kid,” he said one morning, “you’ve been stretching before ballet, right?”
Gwen blinked. “Uh… yeah. Why?”
He gave a rare smirk. “You’ve been doing good. Don’t want you pulling anything now that you’re pushing yourself again.”
The compliment caught her off guard, but she nodded. “Thanks, Dad.”
That afternoon, she made it to practice with the girls. Reina threw her a double take when she walked in.
“Well, look who finally remembered she’s the drummer,” Reina teased, adjusting her guitar strap.
“I was starting to think we’d have to replace you with a metronome,” Dezi added with a wink.
Lynn just grinned. “Glad you’re here.”
It felt… weird. Like stepping back into her own skin after wearing someone else’s for weeks.
They played through their set, the sound of the snare drum bouncing through the warehouse they’d turned into their band space. Gwen’s timing was a little off at first, but her muscle memory kicked in. By the third song, they were syncing up again.
Afterward, they sprawled out on beanbags, sweaty and laughing. Gwen had missed this. Missed them. She wasn’t the same version of herself from before—but they didn’t treat her like she was broken. Just like she was still Gwen.
Later, at ballet, her instructor raised an eyebrow at her during stretches.
“You’ve lost weight,” the woman noted sharply.
Gwen froze.
“It’s not bad,” the instructor added, watching her arms. “You’ve leaned out. More defined. Stronger.” A nod. “Good discipline.”
Gwen didn’t say anything. Didn’t explain that it wasn’t discipline that carved her out—it was grief. But she didn’t argue either. Just pushed herself through the movements, letting muscle memory carry her through the pain. Letting her limbs fly again.
She got through the whole routine without collapsing once. That was new.
That night, she pulled on her hoodie and slipped out. No cigarette in her mouth this time—just earbuds in, music playing low. Not patrol. Not Spider-Woman. Just… Gwen.
She ended up at Miles’ place.
And of course, things fell back into their rhythm there too.
Their strange, undefined rhythm.
She tapped on his window like always, and he let her in like always. They barely said two words before clothes hit the floor.
It wasn’t perfect. Nothing was.
But for now, it felt like maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t drowning anymore.
The hallway light was still off. Good.
Gwen slid her hoodie on, fingers brushing the curve of her bruised shoulder before zipping it halfway. She moved like a shadow—quiet, practiced. She’d done this before. Too many times now. Her boots barely made a sound against the apartment floor as she tiptoed toward the fire escape window in the kitchen.
One last peek over her shoulder.
Miles’ door was closed. Probably back in the shower. She hadn’t meant to stay so long—definitely not past midnight—but the way he held her tonight had been different. Softer. Less urgent. Like maybe for once, neither of them wanted to think too hard.
She opened the window with a faint creak.
And froze.
A figure leaned against the rusted railing just outside. Broad shoulders. Gold chain. The glint of an earring catching the moonlight.
Shit.
He hadn’t seen her yet—or maybe he had and was just waiting to see if she’d bolt. Her fingers tightened on the window edge as the man turned to face her, calm like he’d known she was coming.
“You must be Gwen.”
Voice smooth. Deep. Not hostile—just… amused.
Gwen’s heart punched her ribs. “Uh. Yeah?”
She half-pulled herself out the window, still poised like she might jump right off the ledge if he moved wrong.
“Relax,” the man said, pushing off the rail. “I ain’t here to bite. Name’s Aaron.” A knowing smirk. “Miles’ uncle.”
“Oh.” Gwen blinked. “I, uh. I’ve heard about you.”
“All good things, I’m sure.” He stepped aside so she could climb out. “Though given the timing… might not be the best first impression.”
Her ears went hot. “Yeah… this isn’t, like—I mean, it’s not—”
“You don’t gotta explain nothin’ to me, chica.” Aaron chuckled, hands in his pockets. “I was young once too.”
Gwen exhaled, adjusting her hood. Her fingers were fidgeting with the zipper now.
Aaron didn’t say anything for a second, just eyed her with that unreadable look older men sometimes gave when they were sizing up a person. Not like a threat—more like a test.
“You’re the one he’s always makin’ excuses for, huh?” he asked eventually. “Disappearing on me early. Ditchin’ training sessions. Thought he was just being lazy. Guess not.”
“I didn’t mean to distract him from anything,” she muttered.
He shrugged. “Didn’t say you did. Just means you matter to him.” A pause. “And don’t let the tough guy act fool you. Miles? He don’t let people in easy. If you’re in? You’re in.”
Gwen swallowed. Something lodged in her throat.
Aaron tilted his head toward the ladder. “You want out clean? This way’s easier.”
She nodded, stepping onto the metal grate. “Thanks.”
“Anytime, Lover-Girl.”
She glanced back sharply, but Aaron was already lighting a cigarette, gaze drifting toward the city like he hadn’t said a thing.
Gwen didn’t respond. Didn’t ask. Just slipped away into the dark.
Miles ran a towel through his hair as he walked back into his room, steam from the bathroom still clinging to his skin. He felt light. Not floaty—but grounded, like his feet were planted on something real for once.
Gwen was something else. And tonight? She hadn't said much. But she didn’t have to. The way she curled into him like she’d finally stopped falling... That said enough.
He pulled on a black T-shirt, yawned, then caught something.
The window was still cracked open.
He blinked. Walked over and peered out.
Gone.
Figures.
She always did this—leave quietly, like she didn’t want to make the morning after a thing. Miles never stopped her. Never made it weird. But tonight, a part of him had kinda hoped she’d stay.
He was still standing by the window when he heard it.
A slow clap.
Miles turned.
Aaron stood by the kitchen counter, biting down a grin and holding his cigarette like it was some kind of award.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “So that’s her.”
Miles didn’t move. “You saw her?”
Aaron raised an eyebrow. “Bruh. I talked to her. Real polite, too. Even tried to explain herself.” A beat. “She’s cute. Real intense eyes. You got taste.”
Miles groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Unc…”
“I ain’t judging, man. I just didn’t expect that girl to be your girl. I thought you had a type.”
“She’s not my girl,” Miles muttered, voice low.
Aaron just snorted. “You keep sayin’ that, and yet… you walk different these days.”
Miles tried to ignore him. He walked over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water.
Aaron leaned against the counter, watching. “You really care about her, huh?”
Miles didn’t answer right away. He twisted the cap off the bottle, drank half of it, then finally said, “She’s been through a lot.”
“That ain’t what I asked.”
Miles sighed. “Yeah. I do.”
Aaron nodded once, then flicked ash off his cigarette. “She got a lot bottled up. You can see it in her face. Like she’s holdin’ the whole city on her back and tryin’ not to drop it.”
Miles leaned back against the fridge. “She lost her best friend.”
“Oh.”
“Recently.”
That got Aaron to go quiet for a second.
“Damn,” he said finally. “That’s rough.”
“Yeah.”
Aaron glanced toward the window. “You think she knows?”
Miles blinked. “Knows what?”
“That you’d probably burn this whole place down if it meant makin’ her smile again.”
There was a pause.
“…Shut up,” Miles muttered, turning his head.
Aaron laughed, loud and teasing. “Aww, look at you. Mr. Softie.”
Miles tossed a balled-up paper towel at him. “You’re mad annoying.”
“Hey, I’m just sayin’—” Aaron dodged it. “—if you gonna keep lettin’ her sneak out like that, you better hope Mama Morales never finds out. She’ll have your ass scrubbing floors for a month.”
Miles grinned despite himself, leaning his head back against the fridge.
Yeah. He was in deep.
And it scared the hell outta him.