Chapter 14
Gwen perched on the edge of a brick ledge, arms crossed tight over her chest, the Spider-Woman mask pulled back just far enough to let the breeze cool her damp skin. Below, the city buzzed with late-night traffic, glowing signs blinking in rhythm with her restless heart. She’d been tailing Miles for two days now and still had no proof. No confirmation. Just a gnawing feeling in her stomach and a name that made her chest twist.
Miles Morales. Her maybe-boyfriend. Her friend with too many benefits and too many secrets.
And maybe, maybe — the Prowler.
She didn’t want it to be true.
But that alley. That duffle. That voice.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
She'd tried catching him in the act earlier that evening, suiting up fast when she saw him slip away from a bodega, same duffle bag slung over his shoulder. But Miles was slippery — fast, quiet, familiar with shortcuts she didn’t know. She lost him near the train tracks and ended up in a dead-end alley with only her thoughts echoing off the bricks.
So now she waited.
The Prowler had a pattern, after all. He always showed up on rooftops when she least expected him — smug, silent, teasing. Tonight, she’d be the one waiting. Watching. Asking questions instead of dodging them.
She shifted her weight from foot to foot, glancing at the rooftops across the street. The moon was pale and thin, like a secret slipping between clouds.
Time passed.
Still no sign of him.
The wind tugged at her hood.
Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she was being paranoid. Maybe it was just her heart playing defense again. After all, the Prowler was... intense. Territorial. But Miles — Miles was gentle. Sweet. An artist. The boy who kissed her neck with the kind of reverence that didn’t match someone who knocked out kids in alleyways.
Still, the memory of his voice in that alley — “No tails. No capes.” — wouldn’t let her go.
She crouched lower, shadows wrapping around her, eyes focused on the distant edge of the building.
Then, a shimmer.
The sound of a grappling hook.
A shift in the air.
He was here.
The Prowler landed without a sound, sleek and purple and dangerous, like a ghost molded out of metal. He stood up slowly, mask glinting in the neon light from the signs below, head tilting when he saw her waiting.
“Well,” he said, voice low and amused. “Didn’t expect you to be early.”
Spider-Woman stepped forward, one hand resting on her hip.
“I need to ask you something,” she said evenly, heart thudding. “And I want the truth.”
The Prowler laughed under his breath, stepping closer until the rooftop space between them shrank to a few feet. “Truth’s a funny thing coming from you, cariño.”
She ignored the flirt, steeling herself.
“It’s about one of your boys.”
That made him pause.
And Gwen could feel the air shift.
She was in it now. No turning back.
The rooftop air suddenly felt heavier. The Prowler's shoulders shifted, just slightly, like he was bracing for something. Gwen didn’t miss it.
He folded his arms, the metallic sheen of his suit catching the streetlight. “One of my boys?” he echoed, like he hadn’t heard her right the first time. “You know I work alone.”
She held his gaze through the white eye lenses of her mask. “Yeah. I figured you'd say that.” Her voice was calm, too calm. She didn’t want to start a fight—not yet. “But this guy… he's been showing up around your usual routes. Smart. Quiet. Carries himself like you. Same kind of gear.”
The Prowler cocked his head, mask unreadable, but something about the way his fingers curled at his side told her he was listening now.
“What’s his name?” he asked, tone low.
Gwen hesitated for a moment, then said it out loud. “Miles Morales.”
The Prowler didn’t answer right away.
Didn’t move.
Just stood there, stiff like metal bolted to concrete. His silence stretched long enough to become suspicious.
Finally, he spoke. “That’s specific.”
Gwen raised a brow beneath her mask. “Yeah. He goes to Brooklyn Visions. You know him?”
The Prowler turned his back to her, staring out over the city. It was a simple move, but it screamed avoidance. Gwen stepped closer.
“Do you?”
His voice came slower this time. “What do you need with this Morales kid?”
“I’ve got a friend,” Gwen said, careful. “Someone who’s… close to him. I'm worried for her. Thought I’d check him out for her.”
He turned to face her again, slower this time. His voice was softer—only a notch—but enough to make her chest tighten. “What friend?”
Gwen lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug she didn’t feel. “Gwen Stacy.”
That name hit him hard.
She felt it ripple off of him like a pulse. His shoulders squared. His head tilted slightly downward, like he was thinking. Hard.
He was too quiet.
“No,” he said finally. “Never had a Miles in my crew.”
“Could’ve been a new recruit. Or someone you’re keeping on the down low.”
“I don’t recruit. I train alone. Work alone. Always have.”
His tone was defensive now, edged with something darker—protective or possessive, maybe both. Gwen didn’t know if she believed him. She wanted to. But the way he said Gwen Stacy… like it echoed in his head longer than it should’ve.
“Right,” she said softly. “Just checking.”
She turned as if to go, but didn’t move, watching him from the corner of her eye. The Prowler hadn’t looked away.
“You worried about him?” he asked suddenly.
“Maybe,” she said.
“You like him?”
Gwen’s breath hitched. “He’s… important.”
Silence again. Then the Prowler chuckled once—low, dry. “That’s dangerous.”
She looked back at him fully. “What is?”
“Caring too much.”
And with that, he vanished into the shadows like smoke on concrete, leaving Gwen standing on the rooftop with her thoughts tangled and twisting like webs in the wind.
Miles lay on his bed, arms folded behind his head, eyes trained on the ceiling like it had answers he couldn’t find anywhere else. The conversation from the night before replayed in his head—Spider-Woman asking about Miles Morales. And then dropping Gwen Stacy’s name like it was nothing. Just casually, like it didn’t matter.
But it did.
A lot.
He exhaled through his nose, frustration creeping up his spine. The air in his room felt hot, stuffy, full of questions. He kicked off the covers, sat up, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He grabbed his sketchbook, flipping past pages of graffiti drafts, half-finished murals, a portrait of Gwen laughing with her eyes closed.
He hadn’t drawn Spider-Woman lately, but she was there too. In the earlier pages. Perched on buildings. Mid-air in a flip. That damn suit burned into his brain.
She’d said Gwen Stacy was close to Miles. It wasn’t a stretch. Everyone knew Gwen and Miles had a thing—or something like it. He’d heard it from his classmates. Even his mom had asked once or twice if they were official. He never gave a clear answer.
Could Gwen know Spider-Woman?
Or…
No. It didn’t make sense.
He thought about the possibilities. Maybe Gwen’s bandmates?
He pulled up their photos on his phone. Reina was too tall, Dezi too chatty, Lynn too skinny. Their voices didn’t match Spider-Woman’s calm, level tone. And Spider-Woman moved like a dancer, graceful, fluid, sharp when she had to be.
What about ballet girls?
He tried to remember the ones Gwen talked about. Lena? Too short. Mary? Nah, voice was too nasal. Some of them had the body type, but none had the timing, the instincts.
His eyes narrowed.
“None of them fit.”
He tossed his phone down and stared at the sketchbook again. His pencil tapped the side of the page, the rhythm uneven.
Except for one person.
One impossible person.
His eyes lingered on a recent sketch he did of Gwen on the subway, chin tucked into her scarf, headphones in, smiling without even noticing.
She was the right height. The right build. She danced and trained like her life depended on it. And she knew the city like the back of her hand. That night he’d walked her home, she’d moved through alleys like she owned them.
But…
It couldn’t be Gwen.
She didn’t have that edge. That darkness in Spider-Woman’s voice. That… intensity.
Right?
He leaned back against the wall with a groan, dropping the pencil.
“Too much.”
His head knocked softly against the plaster. The mystery was getting under his skin. If Gwen was Spider-Woman, it would explain a lot. The bruises. The late texts. The way she disappeared sometimes. But she couldn’t be. She was—Gwen. His Gwen.
He sighed, dragging a hand down his face.
“Forget it.”
For now, at least.
He grabbed his jacket and headed out for a run. Maybe the wind would blow the thoughts out of his head. Or maybe it’d just make them louder.
“You still got your keys?”
Miles was already halfway down the stairs when Gwen’s voice reached him through the phone. She sounded breathless—scared. That wasn’t like her.
He paused at the corner, sneakers slapping concrete as he answered, “Yeah, why? What’s up?”
A beat. Then. “I think my flat got broken into.”
That was all it took.
He was out the door within seconds.
The apartment was chaos.
Miles stopped short in Gwen’s doorway, heart racing as he took in the sight. Her bookshelves were overturned. Her couch cushion split open like someone had searched inside for something. Her drawers were all open, clothes scattered across the floor like a tornado had passed through.
Gwen stood by the kitchen counter, arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes were wide but dry—shock had already taken root.
“Yo,” Miles said gently, stepping inside. “Gwen…”
She looked up at him, and just like that, the wall cracked. She exhaled shakily. “I was just at the corner store. Gone maybe twenty minutes. I came back and—”
Miles didn’t wait. He crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. She let him, tucking her face into his chest. She smelled like citrus shampoo and cold air.
“They didn’t take anything valuable. My laptop’s still here. My records, too,” she mumbled. “But they trashed everything. Like they were looking for something.”
“You think it was random?” he asked, but even as he said it, the words felt hollow.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
He looked over her shoulder at the mess. Something about it didn’t feel random at all.
“We gotta call the cops,” he said.
Gwen shook her head quickly. “Not yet. Not tonight. My dad will find out and—just… not yet.”
Miles didn’t press. He knew how complicated things were between her and Captain Stacy.
“Alright,” he said. “Then you’re staying with me tonight.”
She looked up at him, startled. “What?”
“I’m not letting you stay here alone, Gwen. Come crash at mine. My mom’s working the night shift. You can take my bed—I’ll take the couch.”
A pause. Then her mouth twitched at the corners, a tiny smile.
“You really think I’m letting you sleep on the couch?” she murmured.
They reached the Morales apartment after dark. Gwen moved quietly through the familiar space, placing her backpack beside the coat rack, careful not to make noise. Rio’s shoes were gone—already at work.
Miles handed her a glass of water. “You sure you’re okay?”
She nodded, sipping from it. “Just a little spooked. Thanks for this. Seriously.”
“Anytime,” he said. And he meant it.
After brushing her teeth with a spare toothbrush Miles kept for emergencies—though never one like this—Gwen settled onto the couch. She tried to get comfortable, but her thoughts kept her wired. Every creak in the walls, every gust of wind made her twitch.
Half an hour later, soft footsteps padded down the hallway.
She looked up.
“You still awake?” Miles asked.
“Yeah.”
“Wanna swap?”
Gwen didn’t hesitate. She grabbed her pillow and followed him to his room.
They lay side by side on his bed, barely touching. But they talked, quietly, until the silence felt safe again. And when Gwen finally leaned over and pressed a kiss to his jaw, it was soft, grateful.
“I feel better here,” she said.
“Good,” he murmured. “Then stay.”
“You’re not sleeping, are you?”
Miles cracked one eye open. Gwen’s voice was a whisper in the dark, barely louder than the rustling of sheets, but it pulled him from the edge of sleep.
“Nope,” he muttered. “Not even close.”
He turned his head to look at her. The dim glow from the streetlights outside spilled through the blinds, casting soft stripes of gold across her face. Gwen was lying on her side, arm tucked under her head, looking small but safe. And for the first time all day, she didn’t look scared.
“Your bed’s comfy,” she murmured.
“You say that like you ain’t secretly trying to steal it permanently.”
She smirked, nudging his side with her knee. “What if I am?”
Miles grinned, eyes closing again. “Then I’ll just have to deal with it, I guess.”
They lay in silence for a while, a kind of warmth passing between them, easy and familiar. Gwen reached out and idly traced her finger over the veins in his hand where it rested between them.
“Thank you for letting me stay,” she said quietly. “I don’t know what I’d be doing right now if you hadn’t answered.”
“Course I answered,” he said, opening his eyes again. “It’s you.”
She rolled closer to him until their foreheads touched. “You say that like I’m special.”
He chuckled. “You are, dummy.”
Her smile faded slowly, replaced by something softer—something heavy with meaning. Her hand cupped the side of his face, thumb brushing his cheek, and when she kissed him, it wasn’t hungry or desperate.
It was gentle.
Slow.
Safe.
It said: I’m okay now.
He kissed her back, hand sliding to her waist, pulling her in. They moved together under the blankets, not rushing, not thinking, just feeling. Between kisses, Gwen laughed against his mouth—breathy and hushed.
“You’re ticklish,” she teased as he tried to playfully nibble her neck.
“Nah, you just got weird elbows.”
They giggled like they were sixteen again, which—technically—they were. But for once, things didn’t feel like they were crashing or burning or spiraling.
They just were.
Later, when the laughter faded and her head found a place on his chest, Gwen sighed contentedly.
“I’m gonna bring your mom flowers,” she said, barely audible.
“Huh?”
“For letting me stay here. And for being so sweet to me that day. She liked that I called her Miss Morales.”
“She was lowkey beaming about it after,” Miles admitted with a laugh. “And don’t get her started on how polite you are. Aaron, too. He was like ‘yo, that’s the girl from the fire escape?’”
She snorted. “He remembered?”
“You made an impression.”
Gwen went quiet, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”
And when she finally fell asleep with her head on his chest and her fingers tangled in his, Miles stayed awake just a little longer, memorizing the way she breathed. The way her brow had finally smoothed out.
He kissed the top of her head once, whispered a quiet “Goodnight,” and let the peace wash over him like a promise he’d never break.