Chapter 4
Miles sat cross-legged on his dorm bed, hoodie pulled over his head, half-eaten bag of chips by his side. His physics notes were untouched. His tablet was glowing.
The blog was open again.
He told himself it was for research.
He told himself she was just a good writer, that's all.
But that latest post?
It got to him.
"He gave me tea. I laughed. And for like five seconds, the world didn’t feel like a hurricane. It felt soft."
He reread it.
Twice.
Then scrolled down to the comments, browsed through wild guesses and chaotic shipping wars, before locking on one that made his stomach do a weird flip.
“Plot twist: tea guy IS Spider-Man. Calling it now.”
He dropped the tablet onto his bed like it burned him.
"Nope," he muttered to the ceiling. “Nooope. That’s crazy.”
Except—he had given someone tea that day.
And she had laughed.
It was just Gwen. Smart, weird, sharp-tongued Gwen who beat him at mental math and sometimes tapped on her desk like she had a rhythm in her head no one else could hear.
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“I’m not tea guy,” he said out loud.
Then paused.
“…Am I tea guy?”
A sharp knock came from the other side of the dorm door. His roommate.
“Dude. Are you talking to yourself again?”
Miles fell backward onto his bed and groaned into his pillow. His pulse was doing that thing. Like he’d just dropped from a rooftop.
It wasn’t love. Not yet.
But something had clicked—and now he couldn’t stop hearing it.
Saturday mornings were Gwen’s favorite. Dorms quieter. Streets less packed. No rush to be anywhere but here.
She sat outside the campus café with her sketchbook and a chai latte, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, earbuds in. A soft lo-fi beat played in her ears, but she wasn’t really drawing. Just… doodling. Mostly spirals and messy city skylines.
“Hey.”
She looked up—and there was Miles.
Backpack slung over one shoulder. Hoodie slightly askew like he got dressed in a hurry. Smiling.
She tugged one earbud out. “Hey.”
He nodded at the chair across from her. “This seat taken?”
She tilted her head, pretending to think. “I mean, yes. But he’s invisible. You’ll just have to share.”
Miles smirked as he sat down. “Guess I’ll risk it.”
A beat passed.
“You draw?” he asked, nodding at the sketchbook.
“Sometimes,” Gwen said. “Not like, seriously. Just lines. Stuff in my head.”
He leaned forward a little. “Can I see?”
She hesitated. Then flipped to a cleaner page. “Okay, but only the pages that aren’t cringe.”
He laughed. “Fair.”
She turned it toward him. Cityscapes. Fire escapes. A kid on a skateboard in motion. A figure swinging over buildings—faceless, but unmistakably Spider-Man.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re kinda good at this.”
“Kinda?” she teased. “Wow. High praise.”
“I mean—you’re basically a superhero with a pencil.”
Gwen blinked. Her throat caught.
Just a joke. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know.
But still—her fingers tightened around the cup.
“You really think Spider-Man’s that cool?” she asked lightly.
He looked down at the sketch, then back up at her.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think he makes people feel less alone.”
Her heart did something weird in her chest. Like… stuttered.
She looked at him longer than she meant to.
Miles, watching her like she mattered.
She shook her head, smiling small. “Okay. Fine. You win. That was sweet.”
He grinned. “I’m not trying to win anything.”
But he was already winning.
And neither of them realized it yet.
Gwen stood by the laundry machines in the basement of their dorm, hoodie sleeves rolled up, staring at the timer like it owed her money. Her socks were soaked—she'd misjudged a puddle on the walk back from her drum elective—and the damp chill in her shoes was starting to give her war flashbacks.
“Guess I’m not the only one who waits until they’re down to their last pair,” a familiar voice said.
She turned. Miles was there, a full basket of laundry in his arms and an easy smile on his face.
“Not gonna lie,” she said, grinning, “I strongly considered just buying new socks.”
He chuckled. “Capitalism wins again.”
They moved in sync—machines next to each other, detergent swapped, sarcastic commentary flowing like it was something they did every weekend.
And then…
They sat side by side on the rickety bench while their clothes spun. A weird, comforting quiet settled.
Miles was telling her about the art mural he was working on for his elective—something about using light and shadow to show dual identities—and Gwen was… watching his hands. The way they moved when he talked. The way his eyes lit up when he was passionate.
He was just… Miles.
But also, he was something else. Something magnetic and golden and kind.
“And then I accidentally spilled paint all over my sneakers,” he was saying, laughing at himself.
“Oh no,” Gwen said softly. “Those were the ones with the red laces, right?”
He blinked. “You remember that?”
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “I notice things.”
Miles looked at her a beat longer than usual. His smile faded into something softer, and Gwen felt it—the weight of being seen.
Like they were the only two people in the basement.
Like they were both on the edge of a moment they hadn’t quite named yet.
Then her dryer beeped.
And just like that, the spell broke.
“Saved by the spin cycle,” she mumbled, standing way too quickly.
But her hands were a little shaky when she pulled her laundry out, and her heart was doing way too much for a girl who still hadn’t told him about the blog.
Or the crush.
Miles tried not to grin like an idiot as he walked back to his dorm with a half-full laundry basket and a heart doing somersaults in his chest.
It wasn’t even about laundry. It was Gwen. Gwen in her hoodie with the sleeves pushed up. Gwen with damp socks and bad luck and the kind of voice that made ordinary words sound like music.
He’d never wanted to say something dumb so badly. Something like “Hey, your eyes look like they could start a revolution.” But instead, he just told her about paint. And shadows. And sneakers.
Cool. Chill. Totally normal.
“You remember that?”
Her voice had replayed in his head like a stuck record. She noticed stuff. About him. That felt… big. Like bigger than just being friends. Bigger than casual.
Miles shut the door to his room and dropped the basket onto his bed, flopping face-down next to it.
“What am I doing?” he groaned into his sheets.
Because there was the tiny, dumb part of him that wanted to tell her. Everything. That he was Spider-Man. That he was the reason she had a whole blog and podcast. That he read her posts sometimes with this weird smile he couldn’t explain to anyone.
But mostly he wanted to tell her that she made him feel like a normal teenager again. Like not everything was webs and saving people and hiding behind a mask.
Just her. And him. And the way she looked when she smiled at something he said, like he was actually worth listening to.
He turned over and stared at the ceiling, smiling to himself.
“Laundry day,” he whispered, chuckling. “I’m down bad on a laundry day.”
And honestly?
He wasn’t even mad about it.