Chapter 3
Miles hit the button for lemon tea. It got stuck halfway.
He sighed, leaned into the machine with his shoulder, and thumped it twice. It groaned, then spat out two cans instead of one. Score.
"That thing eats people's lunch money for fun," came a voice behind him.
He turned. Gwen Stacy, hoodie sleeves pushed up, earbuds dangling around her neck. She looked like she belonged in a black-and-white indie film. The kind that wins festivals.
“Oh. Hey,” he said, casual. Too casual?
She pointed at the vending machine. “It tried to take my five yesterday. I fought back. It won.”
“You’ve gotta do the shoulder shove,” he said, handing her one of the lemon teas.
She blinked at the can. “You’re giving me this? Is this a trade or… like… an alliance?”
Miles chuckled. “Let’s call it a peace offering. First week truce.”
She took it with a tiny grin. “Thanks, I'm Gwen Stacy.”
“I know,” he said before he could stop himself. “Uh—I mean, yeah. You’re in my physics class, right?”
Her eyebrow went up, amused. “Right. And you are Miles, right?”
“Yeah.” He sipped his tea, covering the fact that he suddenly forgot how to breathe. “Miles Morales.”
Gwen nodded, thoughtful. “Cool name. Rolls.”
He tilted his head. “You’re the music person, right? Saw you heading to the collective earlier.”
“You spying on me, Morales?”
“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’. “Just observant.”
A pause. She smiled again—small, polite.
“Well, thanks for the tea.”
“No problem.”
She turned to leave, and for a second, he watched her go. Something about her… He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d seen her before, in some other way.
Not in class. Not like that.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.[webwatch.net] New blog post: “New Views, Same Sky”
Her dorm room still smelled like lavender Febreze and cheap laundry detergent. Gwen shut the door with a soft click, dropped her backpack, and flopped face-first onto her bed.
“You good?” her roommate mumbled from the other desk, not looking up from her bio notes.
Gwen let out a muffled, "Mmhm."
"Okay." A pause. "You wanna order Thai later?"
She lifted her face just enough to answer, “Yes. Massaman curry and the mango sticky rice.”
“Obviously.” Her roommate resumed highlighting with dangerous precision.
Gwen rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. Her fingers itched to type something.
The blog had blown up since the last post. Over eight hundred followers now. People she didn’t know DM’d her with sightings and theories. Someone even made a meme of one of her captions. She should be overwhelmed.
Instead… she was buzzing.
She slid into her desk chair, popped in her earbuds, and opened her browser.
New Post Draft: “Vending Machines and Vigilantes”
[Blog post scheduled: not yet published]
gwenstagram writes:
He’s a little different in person. Not that I met him. Obviously. This is just theory.
But maybe… he moves like he’s still figuring things out. Like he’s chasing after something but doesn’t know what it is.
(It’s dumb. I know. Don’t quote me.)
I saw someone today who reminded me of him. Not in the superhero way, but in the “hey, I’ve got too much going on in my head” kind of way. He gave me a lemon tea.
Weird how kindness feels rare sometimes, even in a city full of people.
Anyway. New theory coming soon: What if he’s still becoming Spider-Man? What if that’s what makes him real?
She hovered over publish—then hit save draft instead.
Not yet.
She pulled out her drum pad, balancing it on her knees. Slow, steady rhythm.
Brush brush. Tap tap.
A knock at the door.
“Food’s here!” her roommate called.
Gwen stood up, pausing only to glance at her sketchbook. In the corner of one page, there was a doodle of Spider-Man mid-swing. A new one. No cape. Sneakers. Slimmer build.
Maybe she’d draw him again later.
It was just a project.
Physics. Group of four. Assigned randomly.
But she still caught herself smoothing her hoodie when Miles sat next to her.
“Hey,” he said, easy.
She nodded. “Hey.”
Their partners were two upperclassmen already half-checked out of life. Gwen and Miles did most of the work. Well—Gwen wrote out the equations and started building the circuit diagram. Miles leaned over the tablet screen, elbow barely brushing hers.
It shouldn’t have made her heart skip.
But it did.
“Wait,” he said, turning the tablet toward her. “You’re using Kirchhoff’s Law?”
“Yeah. To figure the potential drops.” She paused. “Sorry—is that nerdy?”
He blinked. “No. It’s cool. You’re smart-smart.”
She shrugged, biting a smile. “You're not so bad yourself, Morales.”
He gave her this sideways grin. “Not to brag, but I’ve only electrocuted myself in lab like… three times.”
Gwen laughed, loud and surprised.
And that was the moment.
It wasn't thunder or lightning or slow-mo violins. It was just—warmth. Familiarity. Like her body recognized something her brain hadn’t caught up to yet.
She didn’t want to stop talking to him.
Later that night, while organizing her blog drafts and queuing episode ideas, she opened a new note tab and typed:
Observation, not romantic
Miles Morales has warm hands.
Miles Morales is kind.
Miles Morales looks like he keeps secrets.
She stared at it.
Then backspaced “not romantic.”