Chapter 2
Miles ducked into the student lounge after last period, hoodie up, bag slung low, trying to shake the jittery feeling buzzing in his chest.
It was fine.
She was just a girl.
Just a new student.
A new student with a blog.
He slumped onto the worn couch near the vending machines, pretending to check homework while actually scrolling through webwatch.net on his phone. The design was simple—clean white background, bold red text, and post titles that ranged from “Spider-Man: Brooklyn’s Protector or Overworked Teen?” to “Confirmed: He Did a Triple Backflip Off a Fire Escape.”
“She liveblogged my backflip?” he muttered.
“Yo, Morales.”
He looked up. One of the upperclassmen walked by, nodded, didn’t stop. The lounge was filling up with the usual after-class crowd—kids dumping bags, streaming music, arguing over chess. It smelled like instant ramen and dry-erase markers.
He kept reading.
There was a podcast link, too. Short ten-minute episodes with titles like “Spider-Man and the Exploding Donut Incident” and “My Top 5 Theories About the Masked Webhead.”
He clicked one.
“—and I know I sound ridiculous,” Gwen’s voice came through, bright and focused, “but hear me out. The way he moves? The precision? That’s not just strength. That’s rhythm. He’s trained. Maybe dance, maybe sports. But he knows his body like an artist knows their canvas.”
Miles blinked.
Okay.
So she was terrifyingly smart.
“Also—he’s funny,” she continued. “People overlook that. In every video, every sighting, he quips. That means he’s comfortable under pressure. He’s either very practiced, or very young. Possibly both.”
He shut the tab fast.
Nope.
Just then, a familiar voice piped up behind him.
“Hey—Miles, right?”
He jumped slightly. Gwen stood a few feet away, holding a microwaved cup of noodles and a spiral notebook, dressed in a worn sweatshirt with a cartoon spider on the sleeve. Not the Spider-Man logo—just some stylized indie brand—but it made his heart trip anyway.
“Uh—yeah,” he said, tucking his phone under his leg. “That’s me.”
She nodded, then gestured vaguely to the couch. “Mind if I—?”
“Yeah—no, I mean, go ahead.” He slid his stuff aside.
Gwen sat down, noodles balanced in one hand, notebook in the other. “I think I owe you one for not letting me embarrass myself in Physics today.”
Miles smiled, trying not to act like his brain was short-circuiting. “You handled it fine.”
She looked at him sideways, smirking. “You didn’t see me almost write ‘LOL’ in my notes during the gravity problem.”
He laughed. “Classic move.”
They sat in a comfortable, noodle-scented silence for a beat.
Then Gwen tilted her head a little. “Hey… do you follow WebWatch?”
His entire soul froze.
“Uh—what?”
“My blog. Spider-Man stuff?” she said casually, chewing a noodle. “You just seem like the type. Observant. Kinda quiet. Smart. Definitely more interested than you admit.”
Miles stared at her, wide-eyed.
Then, cool as he could manage:
“Nah. I’m more of a... casual fan.”
She grinned. “Sure. Casual fans totally know the difference between impact webbing and slingshot arcs.”
He blinked. “Wait—what?”
“You muttered it in Physics. I heard you.”
Caught. Red-handed.
Miles groaned, dropped his head into his hands. “I’m never living this down, am I?”
“Not a chance,” Gwen said, taking another bite of noodles. “But hey—at least we’re dorm neighbors. It’ll be easier to mock you consistently.”
Miles peeked at her from between his fingers.
She was smiling.
Oh no.
He was in trouble.
Her dorm room smelled like lemon gum and laundry detergent.
Gwen pulled her hoodie over her head, shook out her hair, and kicked off her boots near the edge of the bed. Her roommate, Liv, had already drawn a perfect line down the center of the room with LED vines and pastel throw pillows. Gwen’s side was far more chaotic: half-unpacked duffel bags, a cracked snare drum, and three sketchbooks shoved under the bed.
She flopped onto the mattress with a dramatic groan.
“Rough first week?” Liv asked, spinning around in her desk chair with a face mask on.
“Nah,” Gwen mumbled. “Just… new school energy. Brain static. Y’know.”
“Mm-hmm. You looked like you were flirting in the lounge today.”
Gwen sat up so fast she nearly fell off the bed. “I was not—”
Liv raised a brow. “Tall guy. Hoodie. Physics class. Big smile?”
“That was not flirting, that was—friendly panic. He saved me from becoming academic roadkill.”
“Sure,” Liv said, already popping in her AirPods. “Call me when he asks you to the lab prom.”
Gwen chucked a pillow at her. “Not a thing!”
Liv just hummed.
Gwen turned toward her side of the room. Above her bed were three carefully pinned posters: a Miles Davis print, an abstract cityscape in ink, and—dead center—a sketch she did herself of Spider-Man mid-swing.
He looked weightless in it. Not powerful. Not perfect. Just free.
She traced the lines with her eyes, exhaled.
Then, almost without thinking, she grabbed a pair of drumsticks from under her bed and started tapping on the wall. Not loud enough to bother anyone. Just rhythm. Just grounding.
Taka-taka-tak. Taka-tak.
Gwen moved to the floor, closed her eyes, and drummed against her knees.
In her head, Spider-Man moved through the city to the beat she made.
Club period at Visions was always chaos. The hallway buzzed like a beehive as students darted between classrooms with cello cases, robotics parts, and entire architecture models.
Gwen clutched her planner like a lifeline, dodging someone rollerblading indoors (how?) as she scanned the door labels.
Room 3B: Music Collective
She knocked once, peeked inside.
It smelled like wood polish, pencil shavings, and sheet music. A few kids were already tuning instruments—two violins, a bass, someone at the piano messing with jazz chords.
“You’re Gwen?” asked the student leader, a lanky guy in a faded Bowie shirt.
“Yeah. Uh—Gwen Stacy,” she said, hoisting her drum bag higher. “I play percussion. And, like, I do some jazz improv?”
He lit up. “Thank god. We’ve had nothing but guitarists all semester.”
Ten minutes later, she was seated with a practice pad and brushes, following a slow piece while the others noodled out the chords. She felt the shift almost instantly—the muscle memory kicking in, her brain finally getting a break.
No pressure. No grades.
Just rhythm.
They played three songs. She only missed two cues. Not bad for a first day.
When it was over, the pianist grinned at her. “You’re good.”
She nodded, wiping sweat off her forehead. “Thanks. I, uh… needed this.”
Outside the music room, her phone buzzed.
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