Chapter 18
It started with a gust of wind rattling the fire escape outside Gwen’s dorm. She was mid-brushstroke on her physics homework, pencil in her mouth, hair up in a half-sloppy bun, when something red flashed past her window.
Her heart did a somersault.
By the time she scrambled to her window and cracked it open just an inch, the rooftops were empty.
Or—wait. No.
There.
A flicker of movement. A figure perched on the building across from hers. Spider-Man. Tall, unmistakable silhouette, crouched near the edge like a gargoyle watching the city breathe.
Except…
She squinted.
Was that a hoodie?
A black hoodie. Layered over the suit. Not zipped, just hanging loose in the wind. The hood half-up, framing his masked head in this ridiculously casual, off-duty vibe.
She gasped so loudly Amaya stirred in her sleep.
Then—just as fast as he appeared—he stood, stretched a little (showing off the fact that yes, the suit and hoodie combo worked somehow), and turned like he was about to swing away.
Before he did, he looked directly at her window.
Tilted his head.
And saluted.
Saluted.
Gwen shut the window so fast she nearly lost a finger. She pressed her back against the wall and slid to the floor, face redder than his suit.
He read the blog.
He read the blog.
And now he was… was he flirting??
No. No no no. Spider-Man didn’t flirt. Especially not with blog girls who had identity crises and crushes on two people at once.
Outside, a soft thwip signaled he’d finally swung away.
Inside, Gwen clutched a pillow and screamed into it.
Miles sat sideways on his bed, one foot braced on the windowsill, hoodie still half-draped over his Spidey suit. The same hoodie. The one.
He was grinning like an idiot.
Ganke, from the other side of the room, didn’t even look up from his laptop. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The weird silent giggle thing. The ‘I’m cooler than I am’ thing.”
Miles scoffed. “Bro, I am cool.”
“You’re wearing a hoodie over your superhero suit because a girl on the internet said layering makes you look ‘less like an action figure.’”
“…Okay but was she wrong?”
Ganke finally looked at him, expression flat. “You saluted her window.”
Miles went still. “…You saw that?”
“I live here.”
He muttered something under his breath and flopped backward dramatically onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling like it personally offended him. "Okay but like... it worked, right?"
"You're the one acting like you just won prom king."
Miles pulled the hoodie off his head, tossed it at Ganke (who dodged effortlessly), and then sat back up, grinning again despite himself.
"She noticed. I know she noticed."
A pause. Then, quieter:
"She looked really cute all flustered like that."
Ganke shook his head, returning to his laptop. “I’m not helping you plan your wedding.”
“You say that now, but wait till I ask you to DJ.”
“Gwen, dear. That’s not fifth position, that’s ‘I just saw my crush smile and now I forgot how legs work’ position.”
The whole class giggled.
Gwen’s face burned as Madame Celeste raised one elegantly arched eyebrow. Her hands were perfectly folded in front of her, but Gwen swore she was smirking.
“I—sorry. I didn’t sleep much,” Gwen mumbled, trying to snap her feet back into place. She kept her gaze locked on the mirror. Not on the other girls. Not on Madame Celeste. Definitely not on the very obvious smirk on her teacher’s face.
“Mm.” Madame Celeste paced slowly down the line of girls like a swan in a silk scarf. “Then you must have been dreaming of something very distracting. Or someone?”
Another round of giggles.
Gwen’s body was obediently following the steps now—plié, relevé, hold—but her brain? Her brain was still at that café. Or in the window across from Miles. Or maybe on his hoodie, because now she couldn’t unsee it, couldn’t unfeel that spark of weird stupid fluttery joy.
“You’re blushing again,” Celeste said in a sing-song voice, passing by and gently nudging Gwen’s elbow into better alignment. “I knew it. Love is excellent for grand jetés, but horrible for pirouettes. Keep that in mind.”
Gwen let out a breathy laugh despite herself, biting her lip to keep from smiling too much.
She finished the routine perfectly after that—but only because she imagined Miles cheering from the front row.
The smell of onions and peppers hit him the second he opened the door.
“¡Mijo!” his mom called from the kitchen without looking. “Take your shoes off, I just mopped!”
Miles toed his sneakers off and padded inside, tossing his hoodie on the back of the couch. It still smelled faintly of city wind and—yeah, lemon tea. That girl was in his head way too often.
“You okay, Ma?” he asked, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. She was chopping cilantro like the blade was part of her hand. Music played from her phone speaker—something upbeat and golden-era.
“Better now,” she said, smiling at him. “I saw the news. About that fight in Midtown?”
Miles tensed. “I wasn’t anywhere near that—”
“You were always a terrible liar.” She raised an eyebrow, then looked back at the cutting board. “Just…be safe. Please.”
He nodded, heart caught somewhere between guilt and gratitude. “I will.”
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He slipped it out:
Gwen: pls tell me ur not wearing that ugly hoodie again
Gwen: jk its growing on me. like mold. cute mold.
He definitely smiled. Like, a dumb, wide, mom-will-tease-him smile.
“You’re grinning,” his mom said, eyes still on the food.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. Who’s the girl?”
“No one.”
“Dímelo, Miles.”
“It’s… a friend.”
“Mmhmm.” She didn’t push, but she did plate him a bowl of arroz con gandules like she knew love was good for the appetite.