Chapter 38
Gwen paced the edge of the common room, fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve. Her mom was still upstairs, probably talking to the dorm supervisor. But her dad… he was standing near the vending machine, fidgeting with the change slot like he had nothing better to do.
She took a breath and walked up to him.
“Dad,” she said, tugging gently at his arm.
He turned, and his expression softened instantly. “Hey, kiddo.”
“Can we talk? Just us?”
He nodded and followed her to the quieter hallway around the corner.
“I don’t want to leave,” she blurted.
Her dad blinked. “I know.”
“No, like—really, really don’t want to leave,” she continued, voice rising. “I love it here. The classes, the people, the city. And—” Her voice cracked slightly. “And a boy.”
Her father gave her a long look, the kind only a cop and a dad could give. She watched him fight his own thoughts.
“I get it, Gwen,” he said finally. “More than you think.”
Her eyes lit up. “So, you’ll talk to Mom?”
He exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sweetheart… this isn’t just about you getting into trouble. Your mom’s worried sick. You’ve been slipping in school, sneaking out, getting caught up in—stuff.”
“I’m trying to fix it,” Gwen said. “I will fix it. Please, Dad. Can’t you convince her to give me another chance?”
He looked away.
“It’s not my decision,” he said quietly. “It’s hers.”
Gwen climbed the stairs two at a time, anger prickling behind her eyes. She didn’t want to cry again—not now. Not until she’d seen him.
She knocked once on Miles and Ganke’s dorm door before pushing it open.
Ganke wasn’t there.
Miles stood near the window, still peeling off the upper half of his Spiderman suit. His curls were damp with sweat, his hands trembling slightly.
She shut the door behind her.
Miles turned, surprised but clearly relieved.
“Gwen?”
“Can we go somewhere?” she asked, voice soft but steady.
He blinked. “Now?”
She nodded. “Right now.”
He quickly zipped up his hoodie over the suit. “Anywhere.”
Neither of them said anything else as they slipped out through the side stairwell. Gwen didn’t even ask where they were going—she just knew she wanted to be with him. Somewhere they didn’t have to pretend, or explain, or be anything except themselves.
The warehouse was dimly lit, just how Miles remembered it. Their voices echoed softly through the wide, empty space as he unlocked the side door with a grin. Gwen followed him inside, her hoodie pulled low and hands in her jacket pockets, quiet but curious.
“Welcome to the unofficial Morales art studio,” he said with a playful bow.
She smiled faintly. “It’s cool.”
“Cool? Girl, this place is legendary,” he teased, already pulling out the crate of half-used spray cans and some beat-up masks.
Music thudded low from his speaker—some old-school hip hop mixed with lo-fi beats. The sound of shaking cans filled the air, the faint hiss of paint soon after.
They painted side-by-side for a while, not speaking, just being. The air smelled like color and memories. Gwen painted abstract shapes—stars and spirals that bled into the wall. Miles worked slower. More deliberate.
She turned when she felt him pause.
He was staring at the wall, head tilted, then raised his can again and began outlining something—no, someone.
It was her.
Ballet pose. Mid-spin. Head high, arms curved gracefully. She recognized it instantly—it was from the night of the school play.
Gwen froze. Her throat tightened.
“You remembered that?” she asked quietly.
Miles glanced at her, cheeks a little pink. “Kinda hard to forget.”
The silence between them was warm now. Familiar. Safe.
She stepped closer to see the finished piece, her breath catching in her chest.
“I look… strong,” she murmured.
“You are,” he said simply.
They sat on the floor afterward, backs against the wall. Paint streaked Gwen’s forearms. Miles’s fingers were speckled with green and violet. The music had faded into soft ambient sounds, a background hum that made the quiet feel heavier.
Gwen leaned her head against his shoulder.
“Today sucked,” she said.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
She tilted her face toward him. “But this didn’t.”
Miles smiled a little, his eyes flicking toward hers.
“Gwen,” he said. “I know things have been… messy. And I probably screwed up a lot. But I don’t want you to go. And I don’t want this—us—to be something you look back on and regret.”
She didn’t move. Just stared at him.
“So,” he continued, nervously scratching his neck, “Would it be totally crazy if I asked you to be my girlfriend?”
Her answer wasn’t with words. It was in the way she leaned in, kissed him again—soft and slow and sure. No more secrets between them now.
They stayed like that for a while. Together in their little hideaway of paint and peace, pretending—for just a moment—that the world outside didn’t exist.