Chapter 13
Rain pelted down like the city was crying with her. Spider-Woman crouched low on the edge of a warehouse rooftop, every inch of her body aching. Her knuckles were raw from the last few punches, her shoulder screaming from where she'd been slammed into concrete. Below her, the gang she was tracking—small-time tech thieves armed with Stark scraps—were still trying to rewire a delivery drone, shouting over each other as they loaded crates into the back of a rusted van.
She shouldn't still be out here. Her ribs burned every time she breathed, her limbs sluggish and sore. But quitting halfway through a takedown? Not an option.
Her comm crackled softly from inside her mask. “Another Prowler sighting, Midtown West. Suspect headed eastbound, high speed.”
Her breath hitched.
She should go. Everything inside her tugged in that direction. The thrill of their last encounter, the confusion of what he said—maybe I love you—it haunted her in the quiet hours. She should go.
But she didn’t.
No. She forced herself to stay. The criminals were nearly done. If she left now, someone could get hurt.
She dropped down into the alleyway, rolling on impact, and sprung forward. “Alright, boys,” she called out, voice sharp and steady despite the fatigue. “You gonna hand over those stolen goods, or do we have to do the whole song and dance?”
The men turned, startled. One charged her with a crowbar, which she dodged—barely—and kicked his knee out. Another swung at her with an electrified baton, and this time, she wasn’t fast enough.
It cracked against her arm. She bit back a cry, vision blurring.
This is bad, she thought.
“Focus, Gwen,” she whispered to herself.
But before she could move again, the alley seemed to shake. A mechanical hum echoed from above, followed by the sudden crash of metal.
One of the gang members screamed as a purple blur slammed into him from the shadows.
She spun around just in time to see him.
Prowler.
Tall, sleek, terrifying. His mask glowed faintly under the streetlights. The claws on his gauntlets shimmered as he moved like a shadow through the chaos. Within seconds, he’d taken down the remaining three with brutal efficiency.
“Seriously?” she muttered, breathing hard as she watched him crush the last weapon underfoot.
He turned toward her.
“Was handling it,” she said, standing straighter despite the ache.
He walked forward slowly, silent. Then, without missing a beat, he muttered, “You were dragging your feet.”
“I was pacing myself,” she snapped back.
He tilted his head. “Or were you just distracted chasing the wrong guys lately?”
Her stomach clenched. “What’s your problem?”
Prowler stepped closer. “You’re mine. You don’t get to give your attention to some random street trash and ignore me.”
Her heart kicked in her chest.
He was jealous. Possessive.
And she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.
Before she could say anything, he took one more step—and everything around them suddenly felt heavier, closer. Dangerous.
“You came all the way out here… because of me?”
He didn’t answer with words.
He lunged.
Gwen’s back slammed against the brick wall so fast the breath punched out of her lungs. Before she could recover, his gloved hand was already at her throat—not squeezing, not choking—just there. A reminder. A tease. His face was inches from hers, the lenses of his mask glowing with that same eerie violet.
She struggled for a second, more out of reflex than fear, but her limbs were tired, her body sore. Her instincts, honed by a hundred fights, screamed at her to break free—but she didn’t. Not right away.
“You shouldn’t be this close,” she breathed, the words barely escaping her lips.
“You shouldn’t be this tempting,” he replied, voice lower now, vibrating with something dark and dangerous. “Running around the city like this, all eyes on you. But you always end up back here… with me.”
Her heart thudded so hard it hurt.
“Get off,” she said, but it came out softer than she wanted.
He leaned in, slower than usual, deliberate. The lower half of his mask folded back with a hiss, revealing his mouth—full lips, sharp jaw, the faintest smirk playing at the edge.
“You want me to stop?” he asked, his voice rough silk now, brushing against her like velvet and smoke.
She didn’t answer.
He tilted his head and kissed the line of her jaw. Slow. Unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world. Like she was his.
Gwen’s fingers curled into his jacket, not pushing away, not pulling closer—just caught. She could feel the heat of him even through their layers. Could feel her own breath stutter.
“I could make you forget about him,” he murmured against her skin.
“Who?” she asked, not even knowing if she meant Miles or Peter or both or neither.
His smile turned sharper. “Exactly.”
Her cheeks flared under the mask. She hated that he got to her like this. Hated how much she wanted him to get to her.
The Prowler’s hand slipped from her throat down to her waist, grip tightening just slightly. Possessive. Intentional. “You gonna keep playing this game with me, Spider?”
“I don’t play games,” she muttered, even though her head was spinning.
“No?” he asked, brushing his mouth down the curve of her neck now. “Then why do you keep coming back?”
That finally snapped something loose in her.
She shoved at him hard, wrenching herself free with a grunt. He let her go—too easily.
Her body trembled as she backed away, fists clenched, jaw tight. “Don’t follow me.”
“I didn’t,” he said casually, stepping back into the shadows. “You followed me, remember?”
She blinked, and he was gone.
The alley was quiet again, except for the hum of her blood in her ears and the way her heart wouldn’t slow down.
Her legs barely carried her up the side of the building as she launched herself into the night.
She didn’t stop swinging until her lungs burned and her thoughts blurred—until she could pretend that kiss didn’t still burn on her skin.
By the time Gwen got to Miles’ place, her legs still felt like jelly and her heart hadn’t completely stopped doing cartwheels in her chest. She had scrubbed her face clean in a gas station bathroom, thrown on the softest hoodie she owned, and pulled her hair into a messy bun. Anything to feel normal again.
Not like a girl who got kissed against a wall by the city’s most dangerous vigilante. Not like a girl whose pulse still jumped at the memory.
Miles opened the door before she could knock twice. He was in a tank top and sweats, his curls messy, and his sleepy smile was all soft edges.
“Hey,” he said. His voice always did something to her, low and easy. Like a melody only she got to hear.
“Hey,” she replied, stepping inside.
She didn’t even make it past the hallway before his arms wrapped around her, pulling her into his chest. Her fingers clutched at the hem of his shirt. Like magnets, like muscle memory—they always ended up like this.
They barely said a word as they tumbled onto his bed, kisses tasting of heat and a quiet hunger. It was fast, electric, like they were both trying to forget something. Maybe themselves.
Afterward, Gwen lay beside him, staring at the water stains on the ceiling. Her body hummed with satisfaction, but her mind had gone somewhere else. Somewhere darker. Her fingers played with the edge of the sheet as her throat dried.
“Miles?”
He glanced over at her, arm tucked under his head.
“You ever…” she started, then stopped. Her teeth grazed her bottom lip. “You seeing anyone else?”
His brow furrowed slightly. “What?”
“You know. Like… other girls.” She tried to sound casual, like it didn’t matter, like it wouldn’t dig under her skin if he said yes.
He looked at her for a long moment. “No,” he said finally.
But something about the pause made her heart twitch.
“No one?” she asked, voice quieter now.
“I’m not seeing anyone,” he repeated, sitting up a little, like he wanted to put distance between them but didn’t dare.
She nodded. She didn’t know what answer she wanted. Maybe she was looking for a lie. Maybe she wanted to prove something to herself.
Or maybe it was that damn kiss still echoing down her spine.
Gwen smiled a little, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Okay.”
They didn’t talk much after that. She curled into his chest, let his hand stroke her hair. The warmth of his body made her feel safe—but her mind wouldn’t stay still.
She thought about how the Prowler had held her. The way his voice slid under her skin. The look in his eyes when he said he could make her forget.
She didn’t want to forget Miles.
But maybe she wanted to forget who she was when she was with the Prowler.
Miles was walking home from the bodega, headphones snug in his ears and a plastic bag swinging at his side. He wasn’t really listening to music — just letting the beat fill the silence that had stretched too long after Gwen left his place.
Something about the way she asked if he was seeing anyone else… it had left a pit in his stomach. He hadn’t lied. Not exactly. But truth bent easily when your heart was split in two directions.
As he rounded the corner to his building, his stride slowed. There, standing on the stoop with arms crossed and a stiff expression, was Captain George Stacy.
Miles blinked.
“Uh—Captain Stacy?”
George looked up, his stern cop face softening a bit when he recognized him. “Miles.”
Miles swallowed. “What, uh… what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” George said, and then — surprisingly — extended a hand. “Was just dropping off something Gwen left at home. Thought I’d catch her on the way out.”
Miles shook his hand cautiously. “She, uh… just left my place, actually.”
George’s brow twitched — but not in the way Miles expected. “She mentioned you two were close.”
A beat passed. Miles nodded, unsure of the ground he stood on.
George sighed, then gave a short laugh. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure at first. You know — the whole boyfriend thing. It caught me off guard. But… Gwen’s always been smart. And stubborn. If she picked you, then you must be something.”
Miles blinked. “She… told you I was her boyfriend?”
“Yeah. That night I found her sneaking back in,” George said, with a smile like he remembered it fondly. “Said she’d been staying at your place. And that you two were, well, together. I guess I should’ve been stricter about that — but honestly? I’m just glad she’s smiling again. It’s been a while.”
Miles didn’t know what to say. His stomach twisted painfully. “I… yeah. I care about her. A lot.”
“I can tell.” George gave him a look — not cop suspicion, but dad scrutiny. “She’s different around you. Calmer. Like she can actually be a kid again.”
Miles scratched the back of his neck. “She deserves that.”
George nodded approvingly. “Just… take care of her. Gwen’s been through more than she lets on. Lost more than she admits.”
Miles knew that better than anyone.
George glanced at his watch. “Alright, I should go. Thanks for looking out for her, Miles.”
As he turned to leave, he added over his shoulder, “You’re a good one. Don’t screw it up.”
Miles stood there, plastic bag hanging forgotten at his side.
He hadn’t expected that.
He hadn’t earned that.
Not when Captain Stacy thought he was Gwen’s one-and-only, and Miles was still tangled in lies and double lives — sneaking kisses as one person and haunting rooftops as another.
And now? The weight of that trust sat heavy on his shoulders.
“Yeah,” Miles muttered to himself, turning for the door. “Don’t screw it up.”
The mask was tight tonight. Not physically, but in the way it clung to Gwen’s face like a question she didn’t want to answer.
She crouched on the edge of a building, hood pulled up, lenses narrowed. Below, Miles Morales walked out of his building with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. His stride was casual, his headphones on, his expression unreadable.
Just like every other night.
Except tonight, Gwen was watching.
Her chest felt tight — not with jealousy exactly, but with something more sour. Something like confusion. Unease. Doubt.
After their last night together, when she’d asked him if there was someone else, Miles had hesitated for just a second too long.
He said no.
She believed him.
But something still felt off.
So she followed.
She trailed him from rooftop to rooftop, staying low and silent, like muscle memory. Miles didn’t do anything suspicious at first. He hit the gym, spent nearly an hour inside. When he came out, he wiped sweat from his brow and took a breath like he was resetting something inside himself.
Then came the murals — a wall behind a mechanic shop in the Lower West. Gwen perched nearby, watching from a rusty fire escape as he painted in rhythm, his hand smooth, confident, layering color like thought. The image was soft and glowing — a dancer in motion, mid-leap. Gwen blinked.
Was that her?
Then, beneath it, another shape began forming. A darker figure, hunched, hooded, purple highlights blooming across the shoulders. The Prowler.
Her breath caught. He was painting them both.
And he didn’t even look conflicted about it.
Afterward, he stopped by a corner grocery store, got a beef patty and a coffee , and started walking again — past the station, past the park. Gwen followed, pulse quickening.
Then she saw him duck into a narrow alley near Canal Street. She slipped down the side of a building, clinging to the shadows, her hand gripping the edge of the wall.
Miles greeted someone.
Uncle Aaron.
She recognized him immediately — the voice, the broad frame, the calm swagger.
“Yo,” Miles said, handing off the duffle. “It’s all in there.”
Aaron nodded, checking the contents quickly. Gwen couldn’t see what was inside, but it was heavy enough to thud when placed down. Not groceries.
She narrowed her eyes.
“Still clean?” Aaron asked.
“Like glass,” Miles muttered, leaning against the brick wall. “No tails. No capes.”
The words made Gwen’s stomach twist.
“What’s next?” Miles asked.
Aaron grinned. “Something big. Might even make her show up.”
Gwen’s heart thundered.
They weren’t just talking.
They were planning.
And whoever “her” was — Gwen knew. They meant Spider-Woman.
She backed up, slowly, heart in her throat. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t.
Miles. Her Miles. Her sweet, careful, art-obsessed
Miles…
Was not just painting the Prowler.
He was working with him.