Chapter 15
The next morning brought a cloudy gray sky and the promise of a quiet Sunday, but Gwen’s stomach churned the whole ride home. Miles had walked her to the car, his hand brushing against hers the entire time, a quiet comfort in the lingering aftermath of the break-in. The Morales household had been warm, safe. But now it was time to face the mess that had started it all.
Miles pulled up outside Gwen’s flat, engine idling. She looked at the building—her home—once warm and familiar, now just another space that’d been invaded. The police tape was still hanging loosely at the edges, fluttering with the wind.
“You sure about going in?” Miles asked, resting his arm over the wheel.
Gwen nodded, tightening her grip on her backpack. “Yeah. My dad’s already inside. He said it was cleared.”
When they stepped out, Captain Stacy was already at the curb waiting. “Hey, Miles,” he greeted, surprisingly warm. He shook his hand with a firm grip and turned to Gwen, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear gently. “They got the guy.”
Gwen blinked. “Already?”
“Caught him late last night. He had a bunch of your stuff in his trunk. Old thug I put away a few years back. He was looking for something—anything—that might damage my rep.” His jaw clenched. “Didn’t find anything, but you got caught in the crossfire. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“I’m okay,” Gwen said softly, trying to believe it.
Captain Stacy turned to Miles again. “I really appreciate you looking out for her. You’ve done more than you had to.”
“I care about her, sir,” Miles replied without thinking.
George smiled, a tired sort of smile that made Gwen’s chest twist. “You hungry, son?”
Miles blinked. “Oh. Uh, yeah, I guess.”
“Good. You’re staying for lunch.”
Lunch felt oddly domestic.
Gwen sat between her dad and Miles at their small kitchen table, the familiar sound of a pan sizzling behind her. George Stacy had taken up cooking like it was an interrogation tactic—loud, aggressive, and oddly effective. Miles looked a little out of place in his crisp hoodie and silver chain, but he didn’t complain. He even helped set the table, offering George a quiet “Yes, sir” every time he was asked something.
The smell of garlic and onions filled the apartment, grounding Gwen in something safe and soft. Maybe too soft. Miles passed her the napkins without needing to be asked, and her hand brushed his again—warm, familiar. It wasn’t lost on her that this was what most people considered normal. But something about it made her stomach twist in a way she didn’t expect.
“I gotta say, Miles,” her dad began, setting a steaming pan of baked ziti down in front of them, “I wasn’t sure about you at first.”
Gwen’s eyes widened. “Dad—”
“No, no, let me finish,” he said, waving her off. “But you stepped up. That break-in… you were there for her. I’m grateful.”
Miles rubbed the back of his neck. “I just did what anyone would do.”
George chuckled. “That’s where you’re wrong, son. Most people would’ve walked away.”
There was a quiet moment while they started serving themselves. Forks scraping plates. Water being poured. Gwen watched Miles across the table. The way he said thank you. The way he smiled when her dad teased him about being too skinny. The way he looked at her like she mattered.
Her chest ached.
She hadn’t realized how natural it had all become—how easy it was to fall into these quiet, safe rhythms with Miles. How, somewhere between the chaos of alleyways and underground raves and breathless kisses, he’d started filling in that hollow space Peter had left behind.
And now… she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“You alright, Gwendy?” her dad asked, noticing her sudden stillness.
She blinked and offered a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
He gave her a knowing look but didn’t press. Miles, on the other hand, reached under the table and gently brushed his knee against hers. A silent check-in.
She nudged him back, smiling faintly.
They finished lunch slowly, with light talk about music and schools and her dad’s awful taste in TV shows. It was comfortable. Warm. But the whole time, Gwen could feel it—this quiet guilt pressing down on her. Because while she was laughing with Miles, part of her was still looking for Peter in every empty space. And when she couldn’t find him, Miles was there.
That wasn’t fair to either of them.
When Miles helped clear the plates and insisted on doing the dishes, her dad actually chuckled. “This one’s a keeper.”
Gwen smiled politely. But the guilt was back in full force now, heavy and quiet and settling in her bones.
She hadn’t planned for any of this.
And she wasn’t sure what would happen when the masks came off.
Miles hadn’t even changed his shirt when Gwen showed up.
Fresh from another chase as the Prowler, his heart was still pounding from the adrenaline. He’d barely ditched his gloves in his backpack when there was a knock at the door. He didn’t even have to check who it was. Only one person knocked like that—impatient, cocky, hers.
“Yo,” he said as he opened the door, sweat still clinging to his collar.
Gwen smiled in that quiet way she did when she wanted something. “Busy?”
“Always,” he joked, but she was already inside.
It happened fast, like always. They didn’t talk much when it was like this. Their routine had become familiar—intimate without the strings. A laugh here, a kiss there, hands on skin, breath tangled. Miles didn’t stop to think about how often this was happening. How every time she called, he dropped everything for her. Even now, sore from a rooftop sprint, he was already melting under her touch.
In the bedroom, Gwen peeled off his hoodie with practiced ease. Her fingers danced along his stomach, up his chest, and he caught her wrists gently, leaning into the contact.
“Rough night?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“You don’t wanna know,” he said, smirking.
She laughed, breathless, and kissed him like she did want to know—but later.
Clothes hit the floor. Sheets twisted beneath them. The soft rhythm of her breathing mixed with the creaking of the bed frame and the occasional sharp gasp when his lips found her neck.
Then she said it.
A murmur against his skin, halfway between a sigh and a slip of the tongue.
“Mm… Prow…”
Just that. A soft, single syllable. Barely noticeable.
But Miles heard it.
Froze.
Not completely—his hands were still on her hips, but his thoughts snapped like a rubber band. His chest tightened. His stomach flipped. “Prow”? That sounded like… like a guy's name. Like some guy. She’d never called him that before. So who the hell was she thinking about?
“You okay?” Gwen asked softly, eyes hooded but still sharp enough to notice his shift.
“Yeah,” he said, trying to smile. “Just… thought I heard something weird.”
She blinked at him, maybe realizing, maybe not. “Weird how?”
He shook his head, brushing it off. “It’s nothing.”
But it wasn’t. Not to him.
The second she closed her eyes again, he was already obsessing.
Prow… Was that a nickname? Was that some dude she was seeing behind his back? Was she messing around with someone else and saying his name in Miles’ bed?
His pulse roared in his ears. He tried to keep calm, tried to stay cool. But his thoughts spiraled fast and ugly. Every guy Gwen had talked to flashed through his mind. Bandmates? Classmates? Dancers? Who the hell was Prow?
The rest of the night passed in a haze, her body warm and close, her kiss sweet—but his mind was somewhere else. Stuck on that single, haunting sound.
He was falling for her.
And now he was scared he wasn’t the only one.
Miles had never thought of himself as the jealous type.
Sure, he had a temper. He got territorial sometimes. But this? This restless, sleepless, stomach-in-knots feeling? This wasn’t him. This was something worse.
He didn’t tell Gwen he was following her. Didn’t ask where she was going or if she wanted company. He just waited, hoodie up, gloves on, quiet as a shadow, and watched.
From the fire escape across the street, he saw her leave her apartment around noon, bag slung over one shoulder, ballet shoes clipped to it. She had that bounce in her step—the one she got when she was excited. He remembered that look. She used to show up to his place wearing it.
Now he wasn’t so sure it was just for him.
She took the train to Brooklyn, phone in hand, music probably blasting. Miles stayed on her trail like muscle memory, ignoring the sting of guilt that came with every step.
He needed to know.
At her band rehearsal, she laughed with the girls, hitting her drums, bouncing her foot to the beat. There weren’t any guys there—he counted twice. Nothing suspicious. Just Gwen being Gwen.
Next stop was school. She stuck to a tight circle of friends—all girls again. No weird glances. No secret smiles.
Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling.
When she headed to the ballet studio, his chest tightened. The last time he walked her there, she kissed him behind the door like she couldn’t wait another second. But that was days ago. Before she said the name.
He waited across the street, tucked behind a lamppost like a ghost, watching.
Gwen walked in.
A few girls followed. Then a guy.
Tall. Older. Strong-looking. He had that effortless charm that made people lean in when he talked. Miles hated him on sight.
For twenty minutes, he watched the guy joke with the girls, stretch, help someone adjust their posture. Gwen was off to the side, tying her shoes, focused. She didn’t say a word to the guy.
When practice ended and she walked out, she passed him without even looking twice.
No wave. No smile. Nothing.
The guy followed behind a few paces, talking to someone else.
Miles waited until Gwen was far enough ahead and followed her again. Just to make sure.
She stopped at a corner bakery to grab a muffin. Sat on a bench. Texted someone. Probably him. Probably Prow.
Miles clenched his fists.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her. It was that she was hiding too much. Keeping things in shadows. Saying names in the dark.
He felt like he was losing his grip.
And the worst part? He still couldn’t stop thinking about the way she kissed him. The way she curled into his side like she meant it.
He sat on the rooftop across from her for another twenty minutes, just watching her laugh at something on her phone.
Just in case she smiled at a name that wasn’t his.
The gym smelled like sweat and metal and something sharp—maybe anger, maybe desperation. The kind of scent that clung to your skin and stuck in your lungs. Miles didn’t care. He welcomed it. Needed it.
He was already halfway through his third round on the bag when the manager shouted, “Yo, Morales! You tryna break it or what?”
Miles didn’t answer. Just kept swinging.
Left. Right. Left. Hook.
He didn’t think. Didn’t want to. If he slowed down, he’d see her face again—Gwen’s. Laughing at something someone else said. Smiling down at her phone like she was his. Whispering names in the dark. Names that weren’t his.
“Prow…”
That one syllable played on a loop in his brain like a curse, like a glitch he couldn’t shake.
He gritted his teeth and threw a heavier punch, the sound of his gloves smacking leather echoing off the concrete walls.
Sweat dripped into his eyes. His hoodie clung to him like it was trying to choke the obsession out of him. He didn’t stop.
He’d followed her. Watched her. Didn’t find anything solid—but still. Something wasn’t right. Gwen was pulling away, or maybe she already had. And it felt like she’d taken a piece of him with her.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
His fists blurred, raw under the gloves. He couldn’t stop the snarl crawling up his throat, couldn’t stop his thoughts from spiraling.
What if she was lying to him this whole time?
What if she was using him?
What if the other guy made her feel more?
“Yo, Morales!” The coach stepped in closer this time, hand on the bag. “That’s enough, man.”
Miles pulled back, breathing heavy, shoulders heaving, hoodie dark with sweat. His eyes were bloodshot, jaw tight. He stared at the bag like it owed him answers.
“You okay, kid?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just yanked off the gloves, hands burning.
Then, quietly, “Yeah. Just needed to clear my head.”
The coach didn’t buy it, but he didn’t push. Just gave him a nod and walked off.
Miles sat down on the nearest bench, elbows on knees, hands covering his face. His heart was still racing, not from the workout, but from the flood of everything he couldn’t say.
She’s mine, he thought bitterly. She kissed me. She crawled into my bed. She called me first.
But that one syllable wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Prow…”
Could’ve been anything. Could’ve been a slip. Could’ve been something else entirely.
But it sounded like a name.
And Miles wasn’t the type to let things go. Not when it came to her.
He sat there until his heart finally calmed. Then, slowly, he stood, peeled off the drenched hoodie, and stared at himself in the mirror.
Fists bruised. Eyes hollow.
“Next time,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing his water bottle, “I’ll get the truth.”
Even if he had to drag it out of someone.