Chapter 15
Gwen paced her dorm room in what could only be described as "maximum avoidance mode."
“Do not look at the window,” she mumbled to herself, pointing a stern finger at her own reflection in the mirror. “You looked once. That’s enough for a lifetime. It’s not that deep.”
Amaya, lounging on her bed with a book and an eyebrow raised, didn’t even try to hide her smirk. “You’re acting like the window personally betrayed you.”
“It did,” Gwen said, flopping onto her bed with an overdramatic groan. “It opened a direct line of embarrassment between me and the guy I’ve been blog-crushing on for weeks.”
“You mean the one who lives, what, ten feet away?” Amaya asked sweetly. “Who might’ve seen you trip over your own socks yesterday?”
“Amaya!” Gwen buried her face in a pillow. “This is the worst timeline.”
“And yet you keep checking if he’s there.”
“I do not—!” she sat up mid-sentence. “...Okay maybe once.”
Amaya’s smirk grew into a full grin. “Once an hour.”
“That’s generous.”
She stood, arms crossed, facing the window like it might leap open and scream her secrets.
“I’m not looking. I refuse to look. I am a strong, independent girl who is not in the middle of a spiral.”
“Sure. And I’m not about to throw this sock at you.”
A sock hit Gwen square in the face.
She squeaked and dramatically collapsed onto the floor.
From across the dorm, Amaya said with deep, deadpan wisdom, “You’re doomed, girl.”
“I know,” Gwen whispered into the carpet. “I know.”
Gwen had been good. So good. She hadn’t looked at the window in three whole hours. That had to be a personal record. Maybe even world-breaking.
She had homework open, music playing, and Amaya gone for the next hour—ideal conditions for pretending Lemon Tea Guy didn’t exist approximately ten feet to the left of her line of sight.
She stretched, sighed dramatically, and stood to refill her water.
And then—
The fatal mistake.
She glanced. Just a little glance.
And he was there. Leaning against his own window, casually sipping from a familiar mug like this wasn’t the most emotionally compromising moment of her teenage life.
His eyes flicked up.
Direct eye contact.
Gwen froze.
So did he.
One full second.
Two.
Three.
She panicked.
She ducked so fast she smacked her forehead against her desk with a muffled thud.
In his window, Miles choked on his drink.
Gwen, now sprawled on her floor for the second time that day, groaned. “WHY am I like this?”
Across the way, Miles slowly lowered his mug, blinking like he just witnessed a wildlife documentary’s rarest bird trip over its own wings.
Then—then!—he grinned. Actually grinned.
Gwen caught it just before yanking the curtains shut with the dramatic flair of a theatre major.
From behind the fabric, she whisper-shrieked, “I am never opening these again.”
Outside, in his dorm, Miles looked at the now-covered window and laughed quietly to himself. He scratched the back of his neck and murmured, “Guess she did recognize the mug.”
The mug wasn’t fancy. It had a chipped handle, the faded print of a cartoon lemon with sleepy eyes, and the words “Just Sippin’” in curly font. But to Miles, it was everything.
He was eleven. It had been a rough year.
Dad was working nights again, Mom was trying to keep the house warm on tea and patience, and Miles was the kind of quiet where even teachers forgot to call on him.
He remembered that rainy afternoon vividly.
He’d been sketching in the corner of the library when someone tapped his shoulder.
“Hi,” the girl said—blonde hair tied up in a messy knot, her ballet shoes slung over her shoulder by the laces, rain dripping from her jacket. Gwen. He didn’t know her name yet, but she'd clearly spotted him more than he expected anyone ever did.
“You forgot this.”
She held up a mug—the same one his mom had packed with a thermos of lemon tea. He must’ve left it by the windowsill earlier.
Miles blinked. “Thanks.”
She nodded. “It’s cute. Looks like something that belongs to someone who doodles in the margins.”
“…I don’t doodle,” he muttered, flipping the sketchbook shut.
“Sure,” she said, smirking. “Lemon tea guy.”
She walked off after that, no last name, no goodbye. Just a weird, funny nickname that stuck with him. That mug? It became sacred.
Years passed.
The cartoon started fading. The handle chipped. But he still brought it with him to Brooklyn Visions. And sometimes, when he saw Gwen across the hall and she gave him a curious glance, like she couldn’t quite place where she’d seen him before, he thought—
Wouldn’t it be funny if she remembered the mug before she remembered me?
Gwen adjusted the strap of her backpack and slipped into her usual seat in the second row of the physics lab. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the whiteboard was already half-covered with the day’s formula of doom.
She yawned. Only half fake.
“Long night?” a voice said beside her.
She blinked. Miles Morales was sliding into the seat next to hers, that stupid adorable sleepy smile on his face. He held a travel mug—her travel mug. No. His. The mug.
The one from the blog. The one she’d written paragraphs about. The one that had haunted her for a week and a half.
She immediately looked away. “No. Just… cosmic fatigue.”
“Ah,” he nodded seriously. “The worst kind.”
They were quiet for a moment. The professor hadn’t arrived yet. Students were still trickling in.
Gwen stared ahead at the chalkboard and tried to stop thinking about how close his arm was to hers.
“Hey,” Miles leaned closer, voice quiet, “So, random question...”
She looked at him—big mistake—because he was smiling just a little, like he knew something.
“Do you... run a blog?” he asked.
Her soul nearly left her body. “W-What? A blog? Me? No. Definitely not. Blogs are—who even blogs anymore?”
He raised a brow. “Just asking. There was this one post… about lemon tea. And mugs. And, I mean, I’ve been meaning to buy a more generic one since apparently mine has a fan club.”
She squinted at him. “Coincidence.”
“Right.”
He smiled wider, like he knew. And maybe he did. And maybe he was messing with her on purpose.
“Let’s focus on physics,” she said quickly, cracking open her notebook with too much force.
“Sure. Newton over feelings.”
She choked back a laugh. “You’re so dumb.”
“You’re the one who wrote three paragraphs on my beverage choice.”
She glared at him, and he just grinned wider.
Then, the professor arrived, clapping loudly to begin. Equations filled the board. Miles passed her a piece of gum beneath the table. She took it, still blushing, and neither of them looked at each other for a solid ten minutes.
But their smiles never faded.