Back at the Visions Academy dorm, the air barely resembled a sanctuary anymore. It smelled wrong—tainted by the bitter tang of ozone, dust, and something faintly metallic, like the static atmosphere left in the wake of a storm that refused to pass.
Miles was that storm.
Books lay violently torn from their shelves, their spines cracked like broken bones against the floor. Sketches—some you recognized from long nights spent under the hum of fluorescent lights, others entirely unfamiliar—had been ripped clean down the middle, their vibrant colours bleeding where ink had smeared under his shaking hands. Clothes were scattered like debris after an explosion. A single chair lay abandoned on its side, one leg bent at an unnatural angle, while a desk drawer hung open in quiet, spilling accusation.
Every sharp, frantic movement Miles made carried the devastating weight of months of grief. It wasn't mere anger; it was a crushing pressure. Each breath scraped against his lungs on the way out, sounding as though the simple act of breathing cost him more than he had left to give.
You sat frozen on the top bunk, knees pulled tightly to your chest, staring down at your hands as if they belonged to a stranger. They trembled. A thin sheen of web fluid still clung to your fingertips, catching the dim light of the room, pearlescent and unreal.
A superhero.
The thought tasted like ash—bitter and profoundly cruel.
No matter how hard you fought to anchor yourself to the present, your mind kept dragging you backward into the dark. Back to Doctor Olivia's voice, calm and clinical as she dismantled the architecture of your life piece by piece. A woman you had dismissed as just another of Kingpin's mad scientists—another brilliant monster hiding behind logic and equations.
Your birth mother.
The word scraped against your ribs every time it surfaced. Mother. A word that was supposed to mean safety, warmth, and truth.
And as if that revelation hadn't been enough to shatter the foundation beneath your feet, the people you had called Mom and Dad your entire life had been building their days on lies. Not small, protective fictions meant to shield a child, but a massive, structural deception. They had been working under the very man who had torn the city apart. Kingpin.
Your chest tightened until the room began to spin.
You barely noticed when the frantic noise of destruction ceased. It was the silence that finally tipped you off—a sudden, heavy, suffocating stillness.
Miles stood by the window now, his shoulders hunched, his back rigid. He was staring down at something held delicately in his hands.
The notebook.
It was the one artifact he never allowed anyone to touch—the one with the paint-splattered corners and dog-eared pages, full of half-finished tags, chaotic doodles, and inside jokes that only two people in the world had ever understood. It was the last piece of ground he and Uncle Aaron had shared before the spider bite, before the masks, the secrets, and the funerals. Before everything broke.
And suddenly, painfully, the truth clicked in your mind. He didn't need Spider-Man. He didn't need the city's savior or a lecture on duty. He just needed someone to see Miles—the kid who had lost the only person who understood him without explanation.
He didn't need fixing. He needed comfort.
You moved at the exact fraction of a second he did. Miles' arm drew back, sharp and desperate, and the notebook left his hand, sailing out toward the open window like it was nothing more than trash to be forgotten.
"No—!"
Instinct overrode thought. A strand of webbing snapped from your wrist, cutting through the air, catching the notebook mid-flight and yanking it back into the room. It landed softly near the bed, its pages fluttering like the wings of a startled bird before settling into stillness, intact.
The room went dead quiet. Even the city outside seemed to hold its breath.
"Miles..."
He didn't answer. Slowly, he turned to face you.
His eyes were raw, glassy, and rimmed with a profound exhaustion that went deeper than one bad night. Tears clung stubbornly to his lashes, threatening to fall but refusing to grant him the release of shedding them. The look on his face—so lost, so guilty, so utterly overwhelmed—hit you harder than any physical blow ever could.
"Miles..." you whispered again. Your voice was fragile, a thread that felt like it would snap if pushed any harder.
He swallowed, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle bunched under his skin. His shoulders trembled, the war within him raging on even though his body had gone still.
"Don't," he said hoarsely, the sound scraping from his throat. "Please... don't say it."
You climbed down, stepping closer with slow, deliberate care. Every movement was measured, as if a single sudden gesture might cause him to shatter.
"I don't wanna hear that it'll be okay," he continued, his voice cracking despite his desperate effort to hold the pieces together. "I don't wanna hear that we'll figure it out. Or that this is how it's supposed to be." His breath hitched, a sharp, uneven sound. "I just want it to stop."
"I know," you said quietly.
And you did. You knew the agonizing sensation of having your past ripped open, of realizing the people who raised you were strangers hiding behind masks of their own. You knew the phantom weight of a name like mother turning sharp and unfamiliar in your chest.
Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, forcing the ground beneath you to feel real.
"I know it hurts," you added.
He let out a weak, broken laugh that collapsed instantly into a sob. "Everything I touch breaks," he whispered, staring at his own hands with terror. "My uncle. My dad. The city." His gaze flicked up to yours, his eyes wide and frightened. "You."
That single word tore through you.
"You didn't break me," you said immediately, closing the distance between you until you were standing directly in his space. "Don't put that on yourself."
He stared at you, searching your face for proof, as if trying to ensure you wouldn't vanish into smoke like everything else.
"You should hate me," he murmured. "You should be mad. I dragged you into this mess."
Your eyes burned with unshed tears. "Miles, look at me."
He hesitated, his gaze drifting, but eventually, he forced his eyes to meet yours.
"Whatever is going to happen with us, whatever happens to me... it's my choice." You shook your head, the certainty steady in your chest. "I'd still choose this. I'd still choose you."
The final wall he had built against the world collapsed.
His shoulders sagged, his breath escaping in ragged, uneven gasps as he buried his face in his hands. You didn't hesitate. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close.
For a single heartbeat, his body went rigid. Then, he broke.
He clutched onto you as if you were the only solid thing left in a dissolving universe. Great, muffled sobs tore out of him, buried deep into the fabric of your shoulder. You held him tighter, your fingers gripping his hoodie like an anchor, grounding both of his fractured worlds.
"I'm right here," you whispered into the dark of his hair, over and over like a vow. "I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to be strong right now. You don't have to be Spider-Man."
Just Miles. Just a kid who was never meant to carry the weight of the world alone.
And for the first time since the spider bite, since the tragedy, since the city began to demand more than he knew how to give, Miles let himself be held.
The two of you stayed anchored in that embrace until a faint, metallic scrape broke the stillness near the open window. It was a subtle sound—almost nothing—the kind of noise you might have dismissed on any other night.
But not tonight.
Your body went rigid before your mind could process the intrusion, every instinct screaming a warning. Your fingers tightened against Miles' hoodie as your gaze snapped toward the window.
Shadows slid across the wall first, elongated and warped by the neon haze of the city below. Then came the soft, synchronized thud of feet landing on the floor. One by one, figures slipped into the cramped dorm room like ghosts returning to a familiar haunt.
Peter B. Parker climbed in first, landing with a quiet grunt as he rolled his shoulders, looking as though gravity were a personal insult. Gwen followed immediately after, light and precise, her movements completely soundless as her boots touched the ground. The others lingered in the threshold—shapes half-dissolved in the darkness, their masks catching the dim light.
The room felt suddenly, claustrophobically smaller.
Miles pulled away almost instantly. The vulnerability he had just allowed to spill out was snapped back behind his ribs like a violent reflex. He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, rough and hurried, turning his face toward the wall as if the movement alone could erase the tears.
You stayed close, your hand brushing his arm in a light, deliberate touch. I'm still here.
Peter took a cautious step forward, his voice gentle in a way that felt heavy with experience. "Hey, guys."
Miles nodded, his throat working hard as he swallowed the remaining grief.
"You okay?" Peter asked.
The question hung in the air, heavy and unresolved. Miles kept his eyes fixed on the floor, his shoulders tightening as if bracing for a blow. No answer came. Only the suffocating silence.
Peter exhaled slowly, his eyes drifting to yours. You shook your head—a small, honest movement. Not really.
Understanding flashed through Peter's eyes. He turned back to Miles, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. It wasn't a heavy gesture, nor was it demanding. It was just solid. Real.
"We've all been there," Peter said quietly. "You know... for me—" He paused, then dropped into a slight crouch to bring himself eye-level with Miles, ensuring he wasn't speaking over him, but to him. "For me, it was my Uncle Ben."
Miles' affectededededededdbyeher, a flicker of recognition crossing his features. Then, another hand settled on his opposite shoulder.
Spider-Noir loomed closer, the dark fabric of his trench coat shifting like shadow play. His voice was a low, solemn baritone. "For me, it was my Uncle Benjamin."
Miles blinked, his breath catching.
"For me," Peni's softer voice followed, her eyes shining as she stared at the floorboards, "it was my father."
Her fingers curled tightly at her sides. Beside her, Gwen's expression faltered, a silent, shared history passing between them in the dark.
"For me," Gwen added, her voice quiet but unyielding, "it was my best friend."
A knot tightened in your chest. Loss wore different faces, spoke in different dialects, and belonged to different timelines—but the blade always cut the same depth.
Finally, Spider-Ham stepped into the light. The usual jokes were gone; his expression was entirely still. "Miles," he said gently, his ears drooping a fraction, "the hardest thing about this job is... you can't always save everybody."
Miles finally lifted his head. His eyes were a storm of guilt, grief, and a devastating shame. "Look," he said, his voice rough as his fists clenched at his sides. "It was my fault. You wouldn't understand."
But you did. You felt the echo of his guilt in your own bones. Without a word, you reached out and gripped his arm, squeezing softly to pull him back from the edge of his own thoughts.
"Miles," Gwen said softly, taking a step nearer. Her voice held no pity, only absolute certainty. "We're probably the only ones who do understand."
Before the words could fully settle, the sharp, metallic jingle of keys echoed from the hallway outside.
Every single person in the room froze.
The door swung open with a click.
"Oh—no."
Ganke Lee stepped into the room, music blasting so loudly from his headphones that he was completely oblivious to the literal multiverse clinging to his ceiling. His backpack hung loosely from one shoulder. But he wasn't alone.
Walking in right beside him was Charlotte.
She looked entirely wrecked. Dark, bruised circles hollowed the skin beneath her eyes, and her shoulders slumped with a profound exhaustion. Irritation bled from her every movement, the telltale sign of someone who had been running on nothing but pure adrenaline and fading hope.
The moment she spoke, her voice cracked under the strain. "What do you mean he's not been here for a while?!"
From your vantage point against the ceiling, your heart dropped straight into your stomach.
Ganke blinked, thoroughly caught off guard. "I—I mean, he hasn't," he stammered awkwardly. "Not for a while. I'm sorry."
Charlotte dragged a trembling hand down her face, her breathing ragged. "Okay—listen," she said, her voice tightening with desperation. "Your roommate is the only person I know who can help me. It's been almost two days." Her voice wavered, threatening to break completely. "No one's seen her. Not her parents. Not her friends. And I just—"
She stopped, her lips pressing into a thin line as her eyes brightened with tears.
"I just want to find my friend."
Guilt flashed across Ganke's face, but before he could offer another empty apology, Charlotte turned away, rubbing her forehead as she scanned the ruined state of the dorm room. She seemed too exhausted to even question the mess. With a sharp, defeated sigh, she dug into her bag, pulled out a sticky note, and scribbled fiercely.
"You know what—never mind," she said, shoving the paper into Ganke's hand. "Just... text me. Call me. As soon as he shows up. Okay?"
The digits of her phone number stared up at him in stark black ink. Then, she turned on her heel and vanished back into the hallway, a small storm of unresolved grief, running on fumes.
The door clicked shut.
From the ceiling, you watched her shadow disappear beneath the door frame. A painful weight tightened around your chest, and a single thought drowned out the chaos of the room:
I need to tell her I'm okay.
Below, Ganke flopped heavily into the chair, his headphones sliding back over his ears as he opened a comic book, completely detached from the drama above. He casually began to roll back and forth in the seat.
Peter B. Parker immediately broke into a panicked whisper-yell. "That way—no, that way!"
A silent, awkward scramble ensued as the entire group began shuffling across the ceiling like a pack of startled geckos.
"Other way, other way, other way—"
The chair rolled again. You crawled faster, but the universe seemed entirely against you. The movement halted, and you found yourself suspended directly above Ganke's head.
He leaned back. He looked up.
Time froze.
Miles panicked, forcing a strained, incredibly guilty smile. "Hey there."
Spider-Ham tilted his head, whispering loudly, "Uh... do animals talk in this dimension? 'Cause I really don't wanna freak him out."
It was entirely too late. Ganke's eyes widened to the size of saucers, his pupils rolled back, and with a dull thud, he toppled out of the chair, landing completely unconscious on the floor.
You stared down at his slumped form, then slowly turned your gaze to the cartoon pig. "Yeah," you muttered dryly. "I think that ship has sailed."
Once the group regrouped on the floor, the lingering image of Charlotte's exhausted face pushed you into motion. "Hey," you said, turning toward Miles and the older spiders. "There's something I need to do. I'll be right back."
You looked at Miles. He was already watching you, the silent understanding passing between you without the need for words. He knew exactly where you were going. Though the thought of you leaving made the air in his chest grow tight, he didn't stop you. Charlotte deserved the truth. She deserved peace.
Miles gave a single, firm nod.
That was all the permission you required. Shooting a line of web through the open window, you vaulted out into the cold night air, your boots gripping the brick exterior of the building. The city lights blurred in a tapestry of gold and blue below you as you made your way toward your own dark window—toward the truth you could no longer hide.
You closed the window behind you with agonizing care, letting the glass slide into its frame until the latch clicked home with a sound no louder than a heartbeat.
The dorm room was choked with shadows, illuminated only by the fragile amber glow of the small desk lamp Charlotte had forgotten to extinguish. Everything felt trapped in a terrible, suspended stasis. Too still. Too quiet.
Charlotte sat on the edge of her unmade bed, her elbows resting on her knees, her gaze hollowly anchored to the linoleum floor.
She looked entirely undone.
Her signature red hair was a tangled, wild halo hanging loose around her face. The familiar purple frames of her glasses sat crookedly on the bridge of her nose, and the dark, bruised violet circles carved beneath her eyes suggested she hadn't slept since the world had begun to fracture.
For a breathless second, you simply stood there in the dark, the weight of your hidden suit pressing against your skin. Then, the silence became too much to bear.
"Char."
Her head snapped up with a violent jerk. She froze. For a agonizing stretch of time, she just stared through the dim light, her eyes wide, refusing to believe the space you occupied.
"...No." The word was a fragile whisper, a plea to the empty room. "No, no. I'm not doing this again."
A deep frown creased your brow. "What?"
Her eyes brimmed instantly, tears catching the lamp's pale light. "I'm not hallucinating you again."
A sharp, physical pain tightened across your chest. "Charlotte—"
"You've been gone for two days!" She stood up so abruptly that the metal bed frame shrieked against the quiet. She took a step forward, her voice rising in a desperate crescendo. "You can't just disappear for two days and then suddenly materialize in the room as if nothing happened!"
"I'm sorry."
"You should be!"
The words burst from her chest like trapped birds, and before she could stop herself, her hands flew out, gripping the fabric of your jacket with white-knuckled desperation. "Do you have any idea how scared I was?"
You couldn't answer. Because the horrific truth was, looking at the wreckage of your friend, you finally did.
Her frantic grip loosened, her fingers trembling against your chest. "I thought you were dead," she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of the confession. "I kept calling. I kept asking everyone. Nobody knew where you were." She let out a shaky, breathless laugh that sounded dangerously close to weeping, wiping at her eyes with the back of her wrist. "At one point, I actually convinced myself you'd gotten lost somewhere in the city and just... forgot your phone."
A weak, melancholic smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "That's kind of stupid."
"It is stupid." She pointed a trembling finger at you, her voice dropping into a raw, bleeding honesty. "But that's how worried I was."
The fragile humor vanished as quickly as it had arrived. The room plunged back into a suffocating quiet.
Charlotte's gaze drifted downward. She looked at your wrists. She looked at the uncanny symmetry of your posture—the way you stood with a sudden, unnatural balance, too aware of the space around you, like a predator reading the air. Her expression slowly shifted from frantic relief to a cold, dawning horror.
"...You got bitten too."
Your stomach dropped into a bottomless void. You remained perfectly still, the silence offering your confession for you.
Charlotte closed her eyes, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping her lips. "Wow."
You swallowed hard, the air in your throat suddenly thick. "You knew?"
"I had a feeling," she murmured, sitting back down heavily onto the mattress as if her legs could no longer support the truth. "After the news about the new spider-people... after everything..." She dragged both hands down her face, her voice muffled. "I just kept putting the pieces together."
You stepped closer, the darkness of the room wrapping around the two of you. "What do you know?"
Charlotte stared at the floorboards for a long, agonizing moment, the silence stretching until it felt brittle. When she finally spoke, her voice carried a chilling gravity. "Those spiders wasn't accidents. They made them."
The words made your stomach twist into a sickening knot. "What?"
"Alchemax..." She whispered the name like a curse. "They were trying to recreate Spider-Man."
A phantom cold swept through your veins, freezing you in place. Charlotte laughed once more, a dry, rattling sound completely devoid of humor. "And apparently, they got closer than they thought."
Your throat tightened until it felt entirely closed. "Charlotte..."
She shook her head, her eyes suddenly flooding with a profound, suffocating guilt. "I told someone about you. I didn't know what was happening."
You froze, the temperature in the room plummeting. "Who?"
"Someone at Alchemax," she confessed, her voice cracking. "I thought they could help."
"Help with what?"
Charlotte went utterly silent. For a terrifying second, you thought she was going to retreat into the shadows, to lock the secrets away forever. But then, with a slow, agonizing deliberation, she reached down and rolled up her sleeve.
Your breath caught sharply in your chest.
It wasn't bruises. It was infinitely worse. It was a grotesque violation of nature—dark, veiny tendrils, like a blackened poison spreading beneath her pale skin, scattered along her arm in a web of decay.
"Char..."
"My bite wasn't like yours." Her voice was microscopic now, stripped of all its armor. "So they tried to cure it. To see how it ends up." She gave a small, pathetic nod. "But nothing happened. No powers. No cool spider stuff. Nothing."
You couldn't tear your eyes away from the dark marks marring her skin.
Charlotte let out a weak, fractured laugh. "I spent weeks praying. Weeks thinking maybe tomorrow I'd wake up and be okay." She finally lifted her head, looking up at you through her crooked glasses. "But I wasn't."
Her voice broke completely on the final word, and the sheer sight of her agony sparked a sudden, violent heat in your chest—a desperate, roaring urge to find whoever had carved this cruelty into her and destroy them.
The walls of the room felt like they were closing in. Your pulse pounded like a war drum in your ears. "What did they do?"
The question left your lips harder and sharper than you had intended, vibrating with a dangerous resonance.
Charlotte swallowed hard against the anger in your tone. "They tested me. Blood tests. Scans. More blood tests." She averted her eyes, unable to hold your gaze. "Apparently, my body couldn't handle whatever pathogen was in that spider."
You stared at her, the world narrowing to the steady rise and fall of her shoulders. "...What does that mean?"
She took a shaky, uneven breath that rattled in her chest. "It means I'm sick." The words barely hovered in the air.
You felt the last remnants of oxygen leave your lungs. "...Sick?"
Charlotte's eyes spilled over. For a moment, the grief choked her entirely. "They don't know how long I have. I'm dying, Y/n."
Everything inside your universe ground to a catastrophic halt.
"No."
"Yeah."
"No." You shook your head violently, stepping backward as if you could physically distance yourself from her words. "No, there's got to be something we can do. It can't end like this—"
"I know," she cried, her voice cracking under the strain of her own terror. "I know."
Silence collapsed over the room once more, heavy and suffocating. Slowly, the fight drained from your limbs, and you walked over to sit beside her on the mattress. Neither of you spoke for what felt like hours, the only sound the quiet, ragged rhythm of her breathing.
Finally, Charlotte wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands, drawing a deep, shuddering breath. "The worst part is... that I was angry at you."
You looked at her profile, remaining silent, giving her the sacred space to pour her heart out into the quiet room.
She laughed through her tears, a sound of pure heartbreak. "I kept asking myself why you got the powers. Why you and not me?" She stared down at her trembling hands, her knuckles pale. "And then I felt horrible, because it wasn't your fault."
The weight of her words left you utterly speechless. Words were too small for a tragedy this vast. So, instead of speaking, you reached across the space between you and took her hand.
She squeezed your fingers immediately, clinging to you with a ferocious intensity, as if she had been drowning in the dark, waiting for a single hand to pull her toward the surface.
"I would have helped you," you said softly, the vow quiet but absolute.
"I know."
"If I had only known—"
"I know," she interrupted, her voice softening into something tender. "I know you would have."
The absolute certainty in her voice only made the blade twist deeper in your chest. It made you wish, with every fiber of your being, that the dark veins were yours—that the sentence had been passed on you instead of her.
Charlotte studied your face for a long, quiet moment, looking at the changes the spider had wrought in you. Then, she asked in a fragile whisper, "So... can you do it?"
You hesitated for a heartbeat. Then, raising your free wrist toward the desk, you triggered the mechanism. A small, silver strand of webbing shot through the air with a faint thwip, sticking instantly to the wooden surface.
Charlotte stared at the tether, her eyes widening. "...Holy crap."
Despite the crushing gravity of the night, a genuine, tiny laugh escaped both of your chests—a brief, beautiful spark of the girls you used to be before the world demanded you grow up.
Then, just as quickly, the shadow returned to her face, and her expression hardened into something deadly serious. "Kingpin isn't done, and neither is Alchemax." The raw, unadulterated fear in her eyes was impossible to miss. "They're still running experiments on more spiders."
Charlotte squeezed your hand so tightly it ached. "You have to stop them."
She wasn't asking a mythical hero from a comic book. She wasn't calling upon a symbol of justice. She was a terrified girl, looking at her best friend, begging for sanctuary.
"Please."
Your eyes burned with a fierce, hot tears. You squeezed her hand back, anchoring her to the earth. "I will."
Charlotte searched your face, her gaze drilling into your eyes, ensuring the promise was forged in iron. Satisfied by the grim resolve she found there, she suddenly leaned forward, throwing her arms around you and hugging you with a desperate, crushing strength.
You wrapped your arms around her immediately, pulling her into your chest, the silence swallowing the room once more.
Then, muffled against the fabric of your shoulder, came her final, devastating confession.
"I'm still really scared."
Your throat tightened until it was agony. "Me too."
A shaky, broken breath hitched against your neck. "I don't want to die."
A little while later, after the storms inside Charlotte had finally quieted into the fragile sanctuary of sleep, you slipped back out into the open night.
The winter air bit into your face immediately, a sharp, frigid shock against your skin. You launched a line into the dark, swinging back toward Miles' dorm as the accumulated exhaustion of the last forty-eight hours finally caught up to you. Everything was an ache. Your muscles, your head, your heart—your entire life felt like an open wound. By the time your boots touched the brick ledge of his window, you harboured only one desperate, unstated prayer: just five minutes where nobody cried, vanished into thin air, got taken hostage, uncovered a secret lineage, or turned out to be dying.
Apparently, in this universe, that was entirely too much to ask.
You crawled through the window frame—and immediately stubbed your boot straight into the splintered wreckage of a broken chair.
Wincing, you looked up just in time to see Miles standing in the center of the room, staring down at his palms. A slow, tentative smile was spreading across his face as he flexed his fingers, turning his hands over as though he couldn't quite fathom that they truly belonged to him. There was a raw, childlike awe in his posture, but beneath it lay something new—a stubborn, brilliant determination flickering like a spark behind his eyes.
Well, you thought bitterly, at least one of us is doing okay.
The cynical thought had barely formed before Miles reached into his pocket for his mask. As he turned to leave, his gaze collided with yours, and he nearly jumped clear out of his skin.
"¡Mierda—!"
The curse slipped from his lips in a breathless, startled hiss. You simply raised an eyebrow, letting your gaze wander slowly around the perimeter of the room before bringing it back to rest on him. It was a disaster area. White, fibrous webbing stretched haphazardly across the walls, the remaining furniture, and practically every available square inch of surface area. The entire place looked as though a spider had suffered a complete psychological breakdown.
"It looks like a bomb of webs exploded here," you noted, your voice flat with fatigue. "What happened?"
Miles let out a heavy, deflated sigh and rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing a sheepish crimson. "They thought it would be better if we skipped this one out."
A sharp, humourless scoff escaped you. As if that had ever been a real option. As if the universe would ever let them walk away.
Without giving him a single syllable's chance to argue, you stepped forward, closed your fingers firmly around his wrist, and began dragging him toward the open window. "As if we would. Come on, we have some villains to take care of."
You had barely taken two paces across the room before something solid and unyielding wrapped tightly around your waist. A startled gasp caught in your throat as Miles suddenly pulled you backward with terrifying speed, dragging you into the deepest, darkest corner of the room. Your back collided flush against his chest, and before you could even draw breath to demand what on earth he was doing, his palm clamped down over your mouth, sealing the sound away.
In that exact microsecond, a familiar, static tingling sensation rippled across the surface of your skin.
Invisible.
The realization had only just crystallized when a low, sleepy groan echoed from across the room.
Your eyes widened in the dark. Ganke.
The two of you froze, dynamic statues pinned against the shadows. From his mattress, Ganke blinked awake, rubbing at his eyes as he pushed himself up slightly on one elbow. His gaze swept lazily, half-blindly across the room. Your heart instantly leaped into your throat, hammering like a trapped bird. The room was an absolute war zone—the webs, the shattered wood, the lingering smell of ozone. Surely, even in his stupor, he would notice.
For one agonizing second, you were entirely convinced the gig was up.
Then, Ganke opened his mouth and let out a long, jaw-cracking, thoroughly exhausted yawn. His heavy eyelids drooped back down. Before either of you could even brace for impact, he collapsed heavily back into his pillow, pulled the blanket over his shoulder, and promptly fell fast asleep again.
The silence that rushed into the room afterwards felt deafening.
Only when the rhythmic, comforting sound of his soft snoring filled the space did you finally allow the air to return to your lungs.
In any other circumstance—in a world where your best friend wasn't fading away and your mother wasn't a monster—you probably would have been painfully, exquisitely aware of how close Miles was. His arm remained anchored firmly around your waist, his hand still lingering inches from your face. You could feel the radiating warmth of his body pressing through the thin fabric of your suit, could hear the rapid, steady cadence of his heartbeat echoing right behind your shoulder blades. It was a sudden, intoxicating proximity, enough to make your pulse stumble for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the threat of being caught.
But there was no time for the luxury of those feelings.
There was no time to dissect the way your stomach had violently flipped when he pulled you against him, or the strange, persistent ache that bloomed in your chest whenever he looked at you just a fraction too long.
You had anomalies to hunt. The spiders at the collider still needed to be utterly destroyed. The others were out there, bleeding in a world that wasn't theirs, and Kingpin was lingering in the centre of it all, a cancer causing damage that would soon become irreversible if someone didn't cut it out.
Determinedly burying every confusing emotion into the darkest corners of your mind, you took a firm step away, breaking his hold.
The movement was small, but the sudden absence of his warmth felt like a physical drop in temperature. When you glanced back over your shoulder, Miles was staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite decipher. A profound confusion lingered in his eyes, laced with something softer, something incredibly vulnerable that caused an unexpected pang of guilt to twist in your chest.
For the briefest, most fragile moment, he looked genuinely hurt by the distance you had put between you.
The sight of it almost made you pause. Almost made you reach back out.
Almost.
Instead, you steeled yourself and turned your back to him, facing the open window. There would be time to figure out the chaotic architecture of your heart later. Assuming, of course, the city was still standing by the time the sun came up.
Without another word, you climbed onto the stone ledge, the neon glow of Brooklyn painting your silhouette against the dark. A second later, the soft rustle of fabric told you Miles had followed, stepping out onto the precipice right beside you.
By the time the two of you descended into Aunt May's house and stepped through the threshold of Peter's hidden lair beneath it, the silence between you had grown thick, almost architectural. The weight of the world followed you down the stairs, settling heavily across your shoulders like a physical mantle.
Aunt May, however, looked entirely unbothered by the late-hour intrusion.
She sat comfortably in a mismatched chair near the main workbench, a steaming ceramic mug of tea cradled between her worn hands. The faint, knowing smile playing on her lips suggested she had mapped out the trajectory of your evening long before either of you had even realized where you were going.
"Took you two long enough," she said softly, the steam from her tea veiling her eyes.
Despite the leaden ache in your chest, the ghost of a smile tugged at your lips.
The next half hour dissolved into a blur of clinking metal, calibrated machinery, and hidden compartments. The subterranean vault felt less like a workshop and more like a museum dedicated to a fallen titan, crammed with enough Spider-Man history to fill a lifetime of stories. While Miles drifted toward the suits—eventually choosing one of Peter's original costumes and beginning the quiet, meditative process of spraying it down with radical streaks of black and crimson—your own attention wandered.
You moved toward a collection of prototypes hanging near the shadows of the back wall. One suit in particular caught the dim light.
It was smaller than the rest. Sleeker. Clearly tailored with a completely different geometry and body type in mind.
When you had quietly asked Aunt May about its origins, she had merely shrugged, her gaze drifting to a point somewhere in the past. "Peter had too much free time."
That was the only explanation she intended to offer, leaving the ghost of the man to speak through his work.
Now, standing inside the cramped confines of the changing room, you pulled the fabric over your shoulders and paused. For a long, breathless moment, you simply stared at your reflection in the glass.
The suit fit perfectly. Almost suspiciously perfectly, as if the threads themselves had been waiting for your specific pulse.
The upper half was a brilliant, stark white, crisscrossed with a network of delicate black web patterns that tracked the natural contours of your frame. Spanning across your chest was a stylized spider, its angular, aggressive design rendered in a muted teal that immediately arrested the eye. The exact same shade bled along the inner seams of your sleeves and lined the interior of the oversized hood attached to the collar. The hood itself rested comfortably over your hair, the pristine white exterior giving way to the subtle, dark web-patterned lining hidden within its folds.
Lower down, the pristine white fractured, shifting into sleek, midnight-black panels that hugged your legs. Sharp, jagged streaks of white cut through the darkness like flashes of frozen lightning, creating an aesthetic that felt both breathtakingly elegant and dangerous.
It looked undeniably like something Spider-Man would wear into battle. But more than that—it felt uniquely, terrifyingly yours.
The mask remained clutched beneath your arm. You weren't quite ready to pull the fabric over your face and disappear just yet.
Taking a steadying, anchoring breath, you pushed open the door and stepped out into the main cavern of the lair.
The first thing you saw was Aunt May, her expression fierce with a maternal sort of pride as she fastened a pair of classic web-shooters around Miles's bare wrists. "Made 'em myself," she said, her voice carrying a rare, solid warmth.
Miles turned his hands over, flexing his fingers and examining the heavy silver cuffs from every conceivable angle. "They fit perfectly."
Aunt May's smile widened, a brief flash of light in the dim bunker.
You leaned your shoulder casually against the metallic doorframe, crossing your arms. "Now you can really be Spider-Man," you offered, your voice a soft contrast to the hum of the computers. "You know... all the swinging and stuff."
The small joke earned a quiet, appreciative laugh from him, but the sound felt distant to your own ears. Almost hollow. You tried desperately not to analyze why—tried not to let your mind spiral back toward the fractured pieces of your life. You locked the thoughts of your parents away. You pushed down the image of Doctor Olivia's clinical eyes, and the memory of Charlotte's breaking voice promising that she didn't want to die.
It felt monstrous that the structural integrity of multiple universes now rested on the fragile shoulders of a few terrified teenagers and one exhausted aunt. Every time your mind drifted toward the cliff's edge of those thoughts, your lungs seized up, making the air in the room feel thin and unbreathable. You wanted to scream until the cavern walls shook. You wanted to shatter something against the floor. You wanted just five minutes where reality wasn't unravelling at the seams.
But none of it would change the horizon. And besides, you weren't the only one walking through hell. Miles had lost his uncle, too. The brutal reality was that neither of you possessed the luxury of time to grieve. Not yet.
"Whoa..."
The soft, breathless sound shattered your internal monologue.
You lifted your chin. Miles was staring at you, his hands frozen mid-air, completely paralyzed. Beside him, Aunt May had paused too, her analytical gaze sweeping over the tailoring.
For a handful of heartbeats, the subterranean lair went utterly still.
An unexpected, burning heat crept into your cheeks. The pristine white and teal of the suit suddenly felt glaringly loud, much more conspicuous than it had moments ago inside the privacy of the changing room.
Miles blinked once, then blinked again, as if trying to clear an illusion. His eyes widened a fraction. Even beneath the dim, industrial lighting of the hideout, you watched the sudden, unmistakable colour bloom along his neck and spread across his face.
"Y-You, uh... your suit looks great."
The words stumbled over one another as they left his lips, awkward and uncoordinated. The rapid darkening of the blush across his high cheekbones only amplified the sudden, clumsy vulnerability of the moment. Or perhaps it made it better. You weren't entirely certain.
Deep within your chest, beneath the layers of terror and grief, something small and remarkably warm fluttered to life. It wasn't nearly enough to erase the ghosts haunting your mind, but it was an undeniable spark—a quiet reminder that despite the tragedy, some part of you remained human, still capable of feeling something entirely removed from fear.
You offered him a smile. A genuine, soft one this time. "Thanks. I bet yours will look great when you put it on."
His eyes flickered down toward the folded black-and-red costume in his hands, then snapped back to your face, before darting away entirely toward the ceiling. The poor boy looked as though his brain had completely short-circuited, erasing any memory of how human syntax functioned.
Finally, he managed a rigid nod. A little too fast. A little too desperate. "Right. Yeah. Thanks."
Clutching the fabric tightly against his chest like a shield, he practically bolted into the changing room, the heavy door slamming shut behind him with a definitive click.
Aunt May remained still, raising her ceramic mug to take a slow, agonizingly deliberate sip of her tea. Her sharp eyes drifted from the closed door, slid horizontally across the room, and came to rest dead on you.
You immediately recognized that look. It was the ancient, universal expression of an elder who saw everything and forgot nothing.
And suddenly, stepping onto a battlefield to face Kingpin seemed significantly less terrifying than standing under the weight of her gaze.
The moment his silhouette vanished around the corner, a quiet gravity settled into the room. Then came the warmth of a hand, gentle but grounding, sliding onto your shoulder. Your frame stiffened instinctively—a modern reflex against an old, unpredictable world—and you turned your head.
Looking down at you was Aunt May. Her eyes held the kind of ancient, luminous kindness that felt less like a gaze and more like a sanctuary. It was the sort of look that disarmed a soul, making you want to unspool your darkest secrets and lay them at her feet, certain that here, judgment could never breathe.
"You look lost there, sweetheart," she said, her voice a soft friction against the silence.
"I'm fine." The lie tasted like ash.
"That's a lie," May replied, a ghost of a knowing smile touching her lips, "and we both know it."
The silence stretched between you, heavy and thick with unsaid things. When no answer came, May let out a long, defeated sigh. She lifted her hand from your shoulder, shifting her stance to face you fully, anchoring you with her presence.
"I remember years ago when you were a child," she began, her voice drifting back through the currents of time. "How Peter and MJ used to bring you home every Saturday. You were so little—too young to remember, really. Six, maybe five."
Your eyes snapped to hers, a jolt of genuine surprise piercing through your numbness. Your breath hitched, but you didn't interrupt. You let the words wash over you, desperate for any tether to a past you couldn't see, hoping this might finally be the key to the questions no one else dared to answer.
"I don't know if it's my place to say all this," May admitted, her gaze faltering as a shadow of doubt crossed her face. "But I don't like seeing the little girl who used to be so full of hope and happiness feel so... down, lost. I—ugh." She broke off with a sharp intake of breath, a sudden wave of regret pulling her back as if she feared she had already crossed a line.
Before she could retreat into caution, you reached out, your fingers catching her hand—the very one that had offered comfort just moments prior. You held on tightly, a drowning soul claiming a lifeline.
"N-No, please," you pleaded, the raw vulnerability in your voice scraping against the quiet air. "I don't care if it's your place or not. I need answers. And it looks like you are the only person who is willing to give me anything."
You were practically begging, the last remnants of your pride dissolving. You didn't care. In the grand tapestry of this confusing world, all you wanted was to know how you fit into the weave—and, more than that, who you actually were.
May looked down at your locked hands, a profound sorrow softening the lines of her face. She looked entirely lost herself, caught in the heartbreaking cycle of watching children inherit wars they never asked for. It was a grief she knew intimately. She had watched Peter transform from a boy into a titan, a hero destined to bleed for a world that would rarely offer gratitude in return. Now, she could see the same tragic horizon waiting for you and Miles.
Slowly, she made her choice. It was better to grant you the painful grace of the truth than to let you be consumed by the ghosts in your own eyes.
Taking a deep, stabilizing breath, she anchored herself. "Your mother and I, Dr. Olivia, were friends when she was working at a company called Oscorp. She was one of the brilliant minds there." A fragile, nostalgic laugh escaped her, a momentary escape to a simpler past. "She met your father there; his name was Norman Osborn. They had an affair, and your mother fell pregnant with you. But after you were born, she decided she never wanted anything to do with you—with love, or with children. She was too terrified of motherhood. So, she buried herself alive in her science and her experiments, leaving you entirely to your father."
May's expression warmed, a genuine tenderness breaking through the tragedy. "And he loved you so, so very much. It was as if you were the brightest thing that had ever happened to his world. He took you in, raised you, and introduced you to Harry, his son from his previous marriage. Harry adored you just as deeply. Harry was Peter's best friend at the time, and that... that was how Peter learned you existed."
She paused, a heavy hesitation hanging in the air as she weighed the weight of the next words. Ultimately, she pushed forward.
"Some experiments went terribly wrong at Oscorp. Your dad... he turned into something far too terrifying to ignore. In a catastrophic fight with Spider-Man, he died..."
A sharp gasp caught in your throat. Pieces of a shattered mirror were suddenly flying together, locking into a devastating, cohesive picture. The strange anomalies, the lingering shadows—it all aligned. Yet, the mosaic was still incomplete. A gaping void remained at the centre of the story.
"And... what happened to Harry?" you whispered, your voice trembling as the reality of a brother materialized in your mind. "My brother... what happened to him?"
May's eyes pooled with a devastating sorrow. "Harry was only eighteen when he inherited Oscorp from his father. He was barely a man himself, driven mad by grief, trying to hold his shattered life together for the sake of his five-year-old sister. You were so small—too young to understand why your father was suddenly so far away."
May's eyes finally brimmed over, and the sight of her tears caused your own to spill, burning hot against your cheeks. The phantom ache of a life stolen from you throbbed in your chest. You had been fiercely, deeply loved by people you couldn't even remember.
"He believed Spider-Man was the one who murdered his father," May continued, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper. "He hunted the masked hero relentlessly, never realizing the man beneath the mask was Peter all along. While he searched, he would leave you with Peter and MJ to babysit. But the obsession consumed him. Harry struck a dark deal with Alchemax to recreate the very anomaly that had corrupted his father, offering his own body up for human experimentation to accelerate the process. It worked, for a time... until the darkness swallowed him completely, and he became the Green Goblin."
She reached out, gently wiping a tear from your cheek. "By then, you were practically living with us. Peter was carrying a mountain of guilt. At first, he protected you out of a sense of duty for what happened to your father, but as time went on, he loved you as his own. When the day came that he had to fight your brother, it nearly broke him. Harry vanished into the shadows after that battle. When Peter and MJ finally talked about building a life together, about getting married, they wanted to formally adopt you. But Olivia intervened. She reclaimed custody of you, only to abandon you yet again to your adoptive parents. And that... that is how we ended up here."
When the chronicle ended, the silence of the room felt deafening. You were shaking violently, the sheer weight of your identity crashing down upon you.
Before the vertigo of the truth could pull you under, the world narrowed to the comforting embrace of the old woman. May drew you into her arms, and slowly, the tension began to drain from your spine. You wrapped your arms around her, burying your face into her shoulder as her quiet words brushed against your ear.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you when you were here before."
"It's okay," you breathed back, the forgiveness automatic, born from the sheer relief of finally knowing.
She pulled back just enough to look at you, her hands still resting tenderly on your arms. "Wi—Will you come back here once all this is over?"
"Of course, May. I'll—"
The heavy click of a door latch cut through the emotional stillness. The sound of Miles stepping out of the changing room broke the spell, pulling both of you back to the reality of the present. Moving quickly but gently, you both stepped apart, hurriedly brushing away the stray tears before the world could see the marks the truth had left behind.
"Are you okay?" Miles asked.
He stepped directly into your path, his gaze instantly locking onto the rim of your eyes, which were still dangerously raw and red from the tears you had shed. You offered a quick, dismissive nod, deliberately averting your gaze before the eye contact could linger long enough to expose the cracks in your armor.
A few quiet minutes later, you and Miles stood at the threshold, bidding Aunt May goodbye. Her parting words were a solemn command to watch each other's backs, and both of you offered a quiet, fiercely earnest promise that you would keep each other safe.
Once outside, the reality of the coming battle settled in. With your suits hidden beneath the heavy fabric of your jackets and baggy pants, the two of you slipped past the iron gate and onto the quiet pavement. But the moment Aunt May's house faded from view, a sudden, firm grip closed around your hand, pulling you backward a few steps until your momentum ground to a halt.
What is it with him and pulling me today? you thought with a flicker of weary irritability, spinning around to face him.
Miles stood there with a deeply conflicted expression, a heavy crease marring his brow that made you scowl slightly in return. "Miles? We have to go. What's wrong—"
"What happened?" His voice cut through your deflection like a blade, sharp and unyielding.
You stared at him, your expression blank with confusion. Seizing the silence, he pressed forward, the words tumbling out with a desperate urgency. "You've been completely out of it since you went to find Charlotte. What happened?"
The question struck an exposed nerve. You winced unconsciously, your body physically freezing in its tracks, which forced him to stop dead in his tracks right in front of you.
Behind his intense gaze, Miles's mind was racing at a terrifying speed. With the weight of the city pressing down on them, he hadn't possessed a single second to process the cosmic changes that had rewired their genetic makeup—especially after the devastating revelations regarding your parents. He had no baseline to measure how deeply that trauma had hollowed you out. He only knew, with a fierce and desperate certainty, that he needed to know you were going to be fine. He couldn't bear the agonizing thought of you being broken by a curse neither of you had ever asked to carry.
It hadn't been long since your paths had crossed and a friendship had been forged in the fire of anomaly, but he was already deeply susceptible to the gravity of your presence. He had begun to realize how his eyes automatically searched for yours in a crowded room before anything else, how the simple warmth of your embrace felt like a temporary ceasefire, and how the touch of your hand possessed an uncanny ability to ground his fraying instincts.
At the thought of your touch, his mind drifted back to the agonizing stillness of the morning, when you had pulled away from his embrace in the dorm room. It had stung, a sharp prick of rejection, but a mature, bitter part of him understood that it was no time to linger in each other's arms and watch the world burn—as much as a selfish, hidden part of him wished he could do exactly that.
"What's happening to you, Y/n?" he asked, his voice dropping to a fragile register. "I want to know that you're fine. No—I need to know you're okay. You haven't been yourself, and I know everything is falling apart right now, but you seem... so much sadder since you left Charlotte."
At the mention of her name, another visible wince rippled across your features. Your gaze dropped to the cold concrete beneath your boots, refusing to meet his eyes.
Miles's brow furrowed with deep concern. Moving with an exquisite, uncharacteristic gentleness, he lifted his hand, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair away from your cheek. Then, his knuckles slid beneath your chin, applying a feather-light pressure to tilt your face upward, forcing you to look directly into the amber depths of his eyes.
"Come on, beautiful," he murmured, the words smooth and earnest. "Talk to me."
Your breath hitched sharply in your throat. Hearing the nickname slip from his lips so naturally, so effortlessly in the quiet of the street, sent a sudden fracture through your defenses. It made you want to hear it just one more time; it made you want to unspool the entire tangled web of secrets that had been suffocating you for the past forty-eight hours. You wanted to tell him about the looming shadow of Kingpin, about the monstrous legacy of your mother, about the family you had never been allowed to know, about Peter's lingering ghost, and—most brutally—about how Charlotte was fading away, leaving you more fundamentally lost than you had ever been in your entire life.
"I—I..." The syllables withered on your tongue, refusing to form even though every fiber of your being desperately yearned to give him the truth.
"Take all the time you need," Miles whispered, his thumb brushing against your jawline. "We can stay right here."
A bittersweet wave of irony washed over you. The multiverse was ticking down to its final hours, yet here he was, offering to freeze time itself, as if the salvation of the world weren't half as important to him as the preservation of your comfort.
"Charlotte..." you finally choked out, the word breaking like glass. "She's dying."
The confession was immediately followed by a raw, violent sob that struck straight to Miles's heart before his brain could even fully process the medical horror of what you had just uttered. Once the floodgates opened, there was no stopping the torrent. Everything came rushing out in a chaotic, breathless stream—the dark truth about Peter, the tragic fates of your father and brother, and every terrifying secret you had unearthed about your own bloodline over the last two days. The words spilled into the open air without a single pause for breath, continuing relentlessly until your strength gave out entirely, and you collapsed forward, sobbing uncontrollably into Miles's chest.
His arms instantly locked around you, wrapping your frame in a tight, protective embrace that offered his shoulder as a sanctuary for your grief. One arm anchored itself firmly around your waist, while his other hand found its way to the back of your head, his fingers threading through the locks of your hair in a steady, rhythmic motion designed to soothe the tremors racking your body.
"I wish I could take your pain away," Miles rasped, his own voice thick with a rising tide of emotion. "I wish... I wish any of this was easier. But I need you to stay strong with me tonight. And I promise you, after we destroy that collider and save the spiders, you can walk away from all of this. You can start entirely new. Because as much as I hate dragging you into this fire... I don't think I can do this without you beside me."
The admission cost him dearly; the boy was barely holding back the weight of his own oncoming tears. He squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face deep into the scent of your hair as a wave of profound guilt washed over him.
"How could I be so blind?" he whispered into the dark, blaming himself for not seeing the shadow that had been consuming you.
"It's okay," you breathed back against his chest, the sound of your voice a microscopic whisper that barely cleared the space between you.
In response, Miles simply tightened his hold, pulling you impossibly closer into his space, as if he could physically shield you from the truth of who you were and the storm that awaited you both in the dark.
Back at Alchemax, the air still smelled faintly of ozone and burnt metal when Olivia returned to Kingpin's side. Your parents stepped up beside her, their lab coats spotless, their faces disturbingly calm—as if nothing monumental had just happened.
Kingpin's massive frame was rigid with fury. "I killed Spider-Man," he growled lowly. "So why did I just see three more?"
Olivia didn't flinch. Her voice stayed even, professional. "There are four, actually."
Silence stretched, heavy and dangerous.
Then your mother smiled.
"No, sir—this is good." She brushed imaginary dust off her shoulder, as she'd just finished a tedious chore. "This means you're getting exactly what you wanted. Our collider works. We killed one Spider-Man." She tilted her head, eyes sharp. "Who says we can't kill a few more?"
Olivia nodded along, unfazed.
Kingpin exhaled through his nose, a slow, thoughtful huff. He turned away, hands clasped behind his back. He trusted the three scientists as much as a man like him could ever trust anyone. "Tomorrow," he said at last. "At my collider."
As he walked off, the echo of his footsteps swallowed the room.
Your father scoffed quietly, following after him. "—Our collider."
The bus ride back into the city was eerily empty. No chatter, no music, just the low hum of the engine and the distant glow of passing streetlights. Peaceful, almost—but the kind of peace that comes before a storm.
You sat alone in the very back, knees pulled close, staring at nothing. Gwen's soft laughter floated through the bus as she talked with Miles, and Peter's quiet snoring filled the pauses in between. It should have been comforting.
It wasn't.
Miles leaned a little closer toward Gwen. She giggled, warm and easy, and something sharp twisted in your stomach.
No.
You straightened, forcing the thought away.
You won't let this bother you.
But Miles noticed anyway.
He glanced back, concern flickering across his face. He murmured something to Gwen, then stood, awkwardly stepping over Peter's long legs before making his way toward you. When he sat down beside you, the seat dipped slightly under his weight.
You turned your head toward the window.
"Hey," he said gently. "Are you gonna look at me?"
Slowly, reluctantly, you turned. His eyes caught the dim light, glowing like warm gold. For a second, your chest hurt just looking at him.
"Sorry," you whispered. "I'm just... shaken up, Miles."
"You don't have to do this alone," he said softly. "You can talk to me."
Your lip trembled as you bit down on it, trying to keep everything from spilling out all at once.
"Miles," you finally breathed, voice cracking, "my parents work for Kingpin. I saw them. They were there. They had guns pointed right at us." Your hands clenched in your lap. "I'm scared. I don't know what'll happen if they find out I'm with you—if they find out I know. W-what if they kill me?"
His answer was immediate.
"They won't." He slipped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close, grounding you. "They won't even touch you. Not as long as you have me." His voice softened. "Like I have you. And Gwen. And Peter."
A shaky laugh escaped you, half-sob, half-relief, as you leaned into him and rested your head against his shoulder. A tear slipped free despite your best efforts.
"Thank you, Miles."
"Of course," he murmured.
After a moment, you shifted slightly and reached into your bag. "Oh—also. I found this."
You handed him the small jar you'd stolen from Olivia's desk.
His eyes widened. "Is this—?"
"Yeah," you said quietly. "The spider that bit you. I don't even know why I took it. I just... feel better knowing Olivia can't get her hands on it."
He smiled faintly and placed the jar back into your hands. "You planning on hanging it on the wall for decoration?"
You snorted despite yourself. "Never go into interior design, Miles."
"Why are we here again?" you asked later, standing beside the others in front of a small green house. The yard was cluttered with Spider-Man merch—masks, action figures, faded posters. Among them were a few cards tucked carefully near the door.
Sorry for your loss.
Your chest tightened.
"Shhh," Gwen whispered. "She's coming."
"We should probably go," Peter muttered, already turning away.
A web shot out, yanking him back. Gwen shot him a look. "No."
The front door creaked open.
An older woman stepped out, gripping a baseball bat. When her eyes landed on Peter, the bat slipped from her fingers and clattered to the ground. She stared at him like she was seeing a ghost.
Slowly, she walked forward, trembling hands reaching up to cup his face.
You watched your breath catch in your throat as her voice broke.
"Oh, Peter..."
He swallowed hard, eyes glassy.
"Hey," he said softly. "Aunt May."
Oh, you thought distantly, that's who lives here.
The realisation settled in your chest with a strange mix of warmth and grief.
"So... this is gonna sound crazy," Peter began, rubbing the back of his neck, his voice rough with exhaustion, "but I'm pretty sure I'm from an—"
"An alternate dimension," Aunt May finished gently.
All the air seemed to leave the space around you.
You stared at her. How did she know?
She stepped closer, eyes soft as she studied him more carefully. "You look tired, Peter," she said quietly. "And older." A pause, then a fond, almost teasing smile. "And... thicker."
"Yeah," Peter muttered. "I've heard that."
Miles shifted beside you, the computer tucked tightly under his arm like a shield. He took a step forward, his voice steady but heavy. "We were there," he said, glancing briefly at you before looking back at her. "When it all happened. I'm really sorry."
Aunt May nodded, her smile small but sincere. "Thank you." Then she turned to Miles, curious. "And what dimension are you from?"
"Brooklyn," he answered simply.
You barely registered it.
Instead, your fingers were already curling around the broken USB in your pocket. You pulled the goober out, holding it up like it weighed more than it should. "Did Peter have somewhere we could make another one of these?" you asked, your voice tight. "I mean... if that's even possible."
Aunt May's eyes flicked to the device, understanding dawning immediately. "A goober," she said. Then she turned on her heel. "Follow me."
The four of you trailed after her, stepping into her backyard—quiet, cluttered, ordinary. She stopped in front of a small, unimpressive shed.
"Oh yeah," Peter said casually. "I've got one of these. Just a little old shed where I keep all my Spider-gear."
You opened your mouth to respond—
And then she unlocked it.
The shed doors slid open with a smooth whirr, revealing a sleek elevator tucked inside. Your jaw dropped. You glanced at Peter just in time to see his expression completely collapse into stunned disbelief.
As the elevator descended, the space opened up around you. Gear lined the walls—weights, monitors, weapons, bikes, a motorcycle gleaming under soft lights. Even a plane sat off to the side as it belonged there.
Miles nudged your arm, leaning in as if this was the most normal thing in the world. "Dude," he whispered to Peter, "was yours anything like this?"
Peter squinted, taking it all in. "Mine was exactly like this," he said slowly. "But take away the jeep. And the plane. And... imagine it smaller. Like, way smaller. With a futon." He sighed. "I feel sad for this guy."
You couldn't help it—you giggled.
Miles turned toward you instantly, his face lighting up like that had been the real victory. For all the talk about Spider-Men and dimensions and saving the universe, making you laugh still felt like his favourite mission.
You both stared in awe at the massive collection of suits, each one more impressive than the last—until you noticed Peter B lingering behind.
He stood quietly in front of a framed photo of Mary Jane.
Something in his posture shifted—shoulders heavy, eyes distant. Miles caught it too. Without hesitation, he grabbed one of the suits and held up a cape attached to it.
"Hey, Peter," Miles said brightly. "Look. I think... this is a cape."
Peter B glanced over, then smiled—small, sad, but real.
It was enough.
When you all regrouped in the centre of the room, you noticed Aunt May staring upward, her expression calm, almost amused.
"Uh," you said, following her gaze. "Why are you looking up?"
She smiled knowingly.
"You think you're the only ones who thought to come here?"
You squinted up at the ceiling, at the yawning dark that swallowed the light whole. For a moment, it felt endless—like staring into the void and waiting for it to stare back. Then something shifted.
A silhouette peeled itself away from the shadows.
You blinked hard, unsure whether your eyes were lying to you. The figure looked... wrong. Flat. Grainy. As if someone had drained the colour from reality itself.
"Hey, fellas," the man said, his voice low and rough around the edges.
He tipped a black fedora—because of course he did—and somehow, impossibly, it stayed put.
As he dropped lightly to the floor, your breath caught. He wasn't just dressed in black and white. He was black and white. No gradients, no warmth. Just shadows and sharp contrast, as he'd stepped out of an old film reel.
He introduced himself as Peter Parker.
Another one.
Before you could process that, movement rustled behind him.
You nearly screamed.
A pig. A literal pig—upright, wearing clothes, eyes bright with cartoonish cheer—strolled toward you and stuck out a hand.
"Hi! I'm Peter Porker. Spider-Ham," he said proudly. "My hand is definitely wet because I washed it, and not because of any other reason."
You stared at the hand. Then at the pig. Then back at the hand.
"Cool," you muttered, shaking it anyway.
The second your fingers pulled away, you wiped your palm on Miles's jacket.
"Dude!" he protested.
You just smiled sweetly.
Then the shadows shifted again.
A girl stepped forward—young, quiet, eyes too knowing for her age—followed by a massive robot that hummed softly behind her. But the robot wasn't what stole your breath.
She looked like she'd walked straight out of an anime. Sharp lines. Soft colors. Unreal in a way that made your brain stumble over itself.
"I'm Peni Parker," she said gently. "From the year 2145."
Her robot beeped, almost shyly.
She explained the psychic link between herself and the spider living inside the machine, and somewhere in the middle of it, you realized your mouth was still hanging open.
Could this get any weirder?
Peter stepped forward, rubbing the back of his neck. "So... how did you all get here?"
Noir spoke first, his voice heavy, like every word carried the weight of regret. He explained the portals, the collider, the way they'd been ripped from their worlds and dropped into yours like cosmic mistakes.
"And now," Peni finished softly, "we're trying to find a way home."
Her robot let out a sad, mechanical whine.
"The only way back," Noir said, "is through the collider."
He paused.
"The problem is—"
"One of us has to stay behind and destroy it."
"I'll do it."
Every Spider-Person spoke at once.
The room went still afterwards, the weight of their words hanging in the air like a verdict.
You turned to Miles. He was already looking at you.
No.
"No," you said together.
They frowned, confused.
"You don't get it," Miles said, stepping forward.
"What do you mean—?"
The answer came before you could explain.
One by one, they dropped.
Hands clawed at the floor—bodies spasmed. Static crackled through the air as reality rejected them, tearing at them from the inside out. The glitching was worse than before—violent, unforgiving.
Your chest tightened.
You didn't know exactly what would happen if one of them stayed behind, but you knew one thing with brutal certainty.
It would kill them.
"If one of you stays here, you'll die!" you shouted, your voice breaking as you waved your hands helplessly. "We're the ones who'll destroy the collider. Us. We'll get you home."
"We promised," Miles said firmly, his jaw set. "And we don't break promises."
Silence fell.
They stared at you—really stared this time—as if seeing you for the first time.
Hope fluttered in your chest.
Maybe they understood.
Maybe—
"Who are you again?"
The words hit harder than any punch.
Your stomach dropped.
For a moment, you couldn't breathe.
Damn, you thought bitterly. Didn't realize I was that easy to forget.
Before the ache could settle, Peter hurried forward, planting his hands on your shoulders like you were something precious, something real.
"Come on, guys!" he said, grinning widely. "This is Y/N and Miles. These are the kids who are going to save the multiverse."
Miles straightened beside you.
"Yeah," he said.
And for the first time since this all began, the weight on your chest eased—just a little.
Your gaze flicked desperately from face to face, searching for something—belief, curiosity, hope. Gwen's eyes were bright, almost eager, like she wanted to trust this. She gave a small, encouraging smile that made your chest tighten.
But the others?
Noir's expression was unreadable, carved from shadow and scepticism. Spider-Ham tilted his head, one brow raised in polite doubt. Peni stood quietly beside her robot, her face gentle but distant, as if she were already calculating the odds—and finding them lacking.
"This guy can turn invisible!" Peter blurted out, clapping his hands together like an overexcited presenter. "Go on, do it, Miles!"
All eyes snapped to him.
Miles stiffened.
You could practically hear the pressure settle on his shoulders as he glanced up at Peter, then back at the others. He squeezed his fists. His brows knit together in concentration. His body went tense, like he was trying to will himself to disappear through sheer force of panic.
Nothing happened.
The silence stretched—thin, awkward, unforgiving.
"Okay!" Peter said quickly, laughing a little too loudly. "That's okay! Totally okay."
You winced.
He turned to you like a lifeline. "She—" he pointed, "—has natural webbing!"
Your heart skipped. Oh. Great.
You lifted your wrist, praying—begging—that it would cooperate. Just a little. Enough to prove something. Anything.
A thin strand of web sputtered out, weak and crooked, shooting forward—
—and nearly smacking Noir straight in the face.
You froze.
The web dangled uselessly in the air.
"...Come on," you muttered under your breath. "Really?"
Noir didn't react, just stared at the strand like it was another disappointment in a long, joyless life.
Somewhere behind you, Spider-Ham made a quiet, unimpressed noise.
You lowered your arm slowly, heat creeping up your neck, wondering if saving the multiverse was supposed to feel this humiliating.
"That's it?"
The words landed like a slap.
Miles swallowed hard. "I—I've got electric... um... electricity," he blurted, the sentence tripping over itself. "I just—let me—"
He squeezed his fists. Drew in a breath.
Nothing happened.
You reached for his hand before he could shrink any further into himself. Somewhere behind you, Peter kept talking, layering enthusiasm over panic, trying to dress disappointment up as charm. It wasn't working.
Miles flinched at the sudden contact, then relaxed, his fingers curling around yours like he needed the reminder that he wasn't alone.
"Look," Gwen said at last, stepping in. Her arms crossed over her chest, her voice steady. "I've seen them in action. Both of them. They have... potential." She hesitated, then added, "I think they can get us home."
A beat.
"Okay," Noir said. "Do you two know how to fight?"
The next ten minutes dissolved into chaos.
Questions came faster than you could answer—shouted instructions, sharp corrections, voices overlapping until they blurred together. You barely had time to react before you were on the ground again, air punched from your lungs.
"Get up, Miles."
"Get up, Y/N!"
"You have to get up—no matter what!"
Your vision swam. The floor felt cold against your cheek as you dragged in breath after breath, each one burning. You turned your head just enough to see Miles a few feet away.
He wasn't moving.
"What... the hell..." You whispered, more disbelief than pain, as the spiders gathered a short distance away, their voices low, serious. Judging. Deciding.
You forced your body to listen to you. Muscles screamed as you pushed yourself upright and staggered toward Miles, holding out your hand.
He took it.
And the moment you pulled him up, he vanished.
Invisible.
Without a word, he tugged you gently by the sleeve, guiding you back onto the elevator platform. You couldn't see him, but you felt the weight of him there—arms hanging limp, shoulders slumped, defeat heavy in every movement.
You sat as the platform began to rise, metal groaning softly. Below, the spiders watched, disappointment etched clearly across their faces.
When they disappeared from view, you stood and grabbed Miles's hand again, pulling him forward, through Aunt May's house and out into the quiet.
"Miles," you said once you were moving, your voice firm despite the ache in your chest. "Let me see you."
He hesitated.
Then his invisibility faded.
You stopped walking.
"Come on, Y/N..." he started, but the words died before they reached the air.
"This sucks," you said plainly. "It really, really sucks." You swallowed. "But you know what?"
He looked at you. "What?"
"I know we can do it. I know I can do it—because I have you." You slipped an arm around his shoulders, grounding him there with you.
"I don't know..." he murmured.
"Well, I do." You gave a small, determined smile. "It won't be perfect. It'll probably be a mess. But I think we've got a real chance." You nudged him gently. "Have some faith in us."
He smiled back, just a little.
Only then did you realize how close you were. His breath. His eyes. The moment is stretching thin.
"Y/N, I—"
His phone buzzed, loud and sudden.
You turned away quickly as you both started walking again.
Miles listened to the message, his shoulders sinking with every word. Guilt clung to him—how distant he'd been, how worried his dad sounded. No one knew where he was.
You couldn't hear the words clearly, but you recognized the voice. Your thoughts drifted, uninvited, to your own family.
You checked your phone.
Nothing.
No missed calls. No new messages. Nothing since that last text on the night Peter Parker died.
Miles shoved his phone into his pocket and glanced at you.
"My parents haven't said anything," you said quietly, stopping again. "Do you think they know?"
"Know what?"
"When they were there—at Alchemax," you let out a hollow laugh. "Do you think they recognized me?"
He didn't answer with words. He pulled you into a hug instead, arms solid and warm.
"I don't know," he said softly. "But I'm here. If you need me."
You closed your eyes. "Thank you, Miles. I'm here for you, too."
He took you back to his uncle's apartment. You climbed the fire escape, slipping through the window, hoping—quietly—that Aaron might be home.
"I still haven't heard from him," Miles said as you sank onto the couch. "Before I had you... He was the only one I could talk to. He let me be myself. You know?"
Your breath shook as Charlotte's face flashed in your mind.
"I know," you whispered.
Miles left a note out on the table, hopeful in that fragile, aching way that comes when you don't want to believe someone is really gone.
You sat in silence, the apartment heavy with it, until something moved outside the fire escape window.
A shadow.
"Miles—look," you whispered.
His head snapped up, eyes lighting with sudden hope. For half a second, you let yourself believe it too—that it might be Aaron, that this night would soften instead of sharpen.
Metal scraped against glass.
Claws slid beneath the window frame and began to pry it open with a slow, deliberate screech.
Your stomach dropped.
Prowler.
Miles didn't hesitate. He grabbed your hand and pulled you down behind the television stand. The world shimmered beside you as he vanished, his invisibility snapping on just as Prowler's boots hit the floor.
Your heart hammered so loudly you were sure it would give you away.
Prowler rounded the corner.
You waited for the crushing weight of his hand around your wrist.
It never came.
He moved closer.
Miles scrambled backwards on his hands, panic radiating off him, and you toppled with him. Your noses brushed—barely—and you sucked in a silent breath.
You couldn't see him.
But you felt him.
His breath ghosted across your lips as Prowler drew nearer, each step heavy and measured.
Can't he see me?
Your arms trembled as you held yourself up, hovering over Miles, muscles screaming. If you fell—even an inch—you were dead.
Prowler stopped.
His phone buzzed.
The sound cut through the room like a blade.
He stood inches from the back of your head.
"Hello, Mr Fisk," Prowler said. His voice was low, distorted, stripped of warmth. "I got the security tapes from that tunnel right here."
Your arms burned. Sweat slipped down your spine.
"If those kids are out there," he continued calmly, straightening, "I'll find them."
Miles tilted his head, eyes locked on the man you still couldn't see. Prowler reached up and removed his mask.
You felt Miles's body go rigid beneath you.
A sharp, silent gasp.
"You know me, sir," Prowler said quietly. "I don't ever quit."
He walked away, deeper into the apartment.
Miles's lips brushed your ear as he whispered, barely a sound.
"Follow me."
You nodded, even though he couldn't see it, and the moment he moved, you moved with him—out the window, into the night.
Your spider-sense flared, guiding you through the dark, letting you track the invisible boy beside you so you wouldn't crash into him. Leaves rustled as you passed the plant by the fire escape.
Prowler heard it.
The chase began instantly.
You leapt from the fire escape, grabbing the side of the next building in a clumsy sprawl, fingers scraping brick as you hauled yourself down. Miles landed hard in a pile of trash bags below—but he was already moving.
Running.
His invisibility flickered out somewhere along the way, and you weren't even sure what your own body was doing anymore. You followed him through the crowded Brooklyn streets, weaving through strangers, murmuring rushed apologies as fear surged in your chest.
For half a second, you thought you'd lost Prowler.
That's when he cut you off—roaring past on a black-and-purple motorcycle, engine screaming like a warning.
You and Miles burst into the street, leaping onto the roof of a passing cab. Your heart lodged in your throat.
Time fractured.
You flipped cleanly between a car and a truck, the world blurring as metal collided behind you. You hit the ground hard, pain blooming along your side.
Miles was there instantly.
He grabbed your arm and hauled you up, gripping you like he was afraid you'd vanish. He didn't let go—not until the noise faded, not until the city swallowed the chaos behind you.
Only when you were far, far away did he slow.
Your lungs burned.
Your hands shook.
What the hell just happened?
"Pr—Prowler, he's my—"
"Miles."
"He—he tried to kill us," Miles choked, his voice breaking apart in real time. "He tried to kill my Y/N!"
"Miles, calm down!"
He shook his head violently, eyes wild, breath coming too fast. "Prowler is my uncle," he said, the words sounding unreal even to himself. "My uncle tried to murder us."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
This was news to you, too.
You tried to ask him questions on the way back to Aunt May's—quiet ones, careful ones—but he couldn't answer. Every time he opened his mouth, fear swallowed the words whole.
"Whoa," Noir said eventually, breaking the tension. "That's one heck of an origin story."
You yanked your mask up just long enough to glare at him, then dropped it back down.
You were barely standing. The sun had crept up without permission, pale and unforgiving, and exhaustion weighed on your bones. You hadn't slept. Not even close.
But you couldn't stop now.
"Alright, kid," Peter said gently. Gwen stood beside him, arms crossed, sharp-eyed. "Were you followed?"
Your stomach dropped.
You hadn't even thought about that.
"I—I don't know," you stammered.
Your spider-sense screamed.
"...Okay," you corrected quietly. "We were followed."
The door exploded inward.
A green mechanical tentacle tore through the wood, flinging Aunt May's tray of cookies across the room. They shattered on the floor, crumbs scattering like something fragile breaking beyond repair.
Olivia Octavius stepped inside, her metal arms lifting her with effortless menace.
"Cute place," she said cheerfully. "Real homey."
Her eyes locked onto your mask.
She smiled.
"Oh," she purred. "Your parents are very disappointed, hun. Your mother especially."
Your breath hitched.
What?
Confusion rippled through you—but you shook it off. Whatever game she was playing, it didn't matter. She was trying to unbalance you. To guilt you.
Your parents didn't get to choose your side.
"Go!" Peter shouted to Miles.
But Miles didn't move.
Olivia's tentacle wrapped around you and yanked you off your feet. The room spun as you were lifted into the air, helpless.
Miles froze.
He couldn't leave you.
"Shame they've lied to you for so long," Olivia continued smoothly. "Do you even know who your mother is?"
She dropped you hard onto the floor.
No explanation. No answer.
Instead, her attention snapped to the USB hanging around Peter's neck.
She hadn't come for you.
She'd come for that.
The apartment erupted into chaos—tentacles clashing, punches thrown, walls cracking under the force of too many superpowered beings in too small a space.
You stood frozen.
What did she mean by that?
The thought burrowed deep, clouding everything—until movement snapped you back.
Miles.
Scorpion.
He was struggling, losing ground.
You moved.
You fought the best you could, aiming mostly for Olivia, careful not to destroy May's home any more than it already was. Every hit felt sloppy, unfocused—your mind still tangled in her words.
Then the door blasted open again.
Prowler.
Miles ran upstairs, the goober clutched tight in his hand.
You threw a punch at Olivia, stunning her just long enough to bolt outside after him.
"I don't know what your deal is with my parents," you snapped as she followed, tentacles scraping the pavement, "but you don't know anything about my family."
She stopped.
Smiled.
"They're not your parents, bug," she said coldly. "You really think you look even a little alike? No."
"Shut up."
Your eyes flicked between her and the roof.
Prowler had Miles by the throat.
At the edge.
Your heart seized.
Olivia crept closer, voice lowering, deliberate.
"She isn't your mother, Y/N."
Your blood went cold.
"I am."
The world tilted.
And before your mind could catch up—
BANG.
A gunshot cracked through the air.
You snapped your head up just in time to see Prowler fall backwards, hitting the roof hard.
Your eyes searched wildly—
Kingpin stood near the house, gun smoking.
"Get out of here!" Peter yelled, slamming Olivia aside.
You didn't hesitate.
You ran.
Miles was already holding his uncle, hands shaking as he fired a messy web and swung you both down into a nearby alley.
"Uncle Aaron..." Miles whispered, breaking. "This is my fault."
"No," Aaron rasped. "No, kid." His breath hitched. "I wanted you to look up to me. I... I let you down."
Miles shook his head, tears spilling freely now.
"Miles," Aaron said weakly. "You and her... You keep going. You're the best of us."
And then—
He was gone.
"Put your hands up!"
Jefferson Davis.
Miles's father.
"Turn around," he commanded.
Miles started to obey—then stopped.
He vanished.
In seconds, he was on the roof, unseen, watching as his father found Aaron's body and dropped to his knees, grief tearing through him.
Jeff didn't know what to think.
But he knew what to do.
"All units," he said into his communicator, voice tight with pain. "I want an APB on a new Spider-Man."
The sudden shout snapped you out of your daze. Instinctively, you jerked away from Miles, yanking your mask down in one sharp motion. Cool air hit your flushed cheeks like a slap.
The man hanging in front of you—Peter, or whoever he was—was stirring, muttering incoherently as his head lolled forward.
Then his eyes opened.
And the world seemed to hum.
That familiar, electric tingling surged through your veins, making the tiny hairs on your arms stand on end. Your eye twitched, but you forced yourself to stay still as his gaze swept over you and Miles.
"You're... like me," he whispered, voice rough but eerily sure.
Miles puffed up his chest, dropping his voice in what he probably thought sounded intimidating. "We got some questions," he said, squaring his shoulders.
But Peter wasn't listening.
He suddenly convulsed against the ropes, twisting and thrashing like a wild animal caught in a snare. The chains rattled above him with a sharp metallic clank.
Miles flinched back. You instinctively took a step away, hands lifting slightly, ready for anything.
After a few desperate jerks, Peter sagged forward, panting hard. The punching bag swung lazily, turning him out of view. Even from behind, you could feel the irritation radiating off him.
Miles shot you a worried look, the bravado slipping from his face. He tugged his mask up to his eyebrows and tried again, voice trembling just enough to betray him.
"Why do you... look like Peter Parker?"
The man used the tips of his mismatched shoes to spin the bag back toward you, slow and deliberate. His eyes locked on Miles.
"Because I am Peter Parker."
The words hit like a spark to dry kindling.
Miles exploded. "Then why aren't you dead? Why's your hair different? Why are you older—and why is your body a different shape?!" He jabbed a finger toward Peter's gut.
Peter blinked at him, unimpressed. "Pretty sure you just called me fat."
Miles stumbled over his words. "No! No, you're just—"
Peter cut him off with a sharp turn of his feet, spinning the bag again to face you. His gaze was suddenly harsher, colder. Miles nearly backed into you, but you shifted aside, eyes wide as Peter studied you.
"You know what, kid?" he said, voice laced with biting sarcasm. "You don't look so great either. Most superheroes don't wear their own merch. And you—" his finger jabbed at you "—haven't said a single word since I woke up."
Miles flushed and tugged at his cheap costume. You stepped forward slowly, shaking your head, determination replacing your hesitation.
"Okay," you said, cracking your knuckles as you spun the punching bag to face you again. "I'll talk. I've got questions too."
Your voice came out steady, but your heart was hammering.
"Are you a ghost?"
Peter rolled his eyes. "No."
"Are you a zombie?" Miles added, dead serious.
"Stop it."
Miles froze mid-step. "Am I a zombie?"
Peter didn't miss a beat. "Not even close."
A thought flickered in your mind, sharp and wild. You narrowed your eyes, watching him carefully.
"...Are you from another dimension?"
The room went still, the question hanging in the air like a held breath.
"Like... a parallel universe," you said slowly, piecing the thought together. "Where everything's kind of like this one, but... different. And you're Spider-Man there, but somehow you ended up here—and you don't know how?"
Miles jumped in, finishing your sentence in a rush, eyes wide with the thrill of the theory.
Peter raised an eyebrow. "You read my mind, Morales."
His voice carried a hint of surprise.
Miles grinned proudly. "Nah. Just physics class." Then his grin softened into something more hopeful. "Anyway, the point is... you're what we need. You can teach us—like he said you would."
The air grew heavier at the mention.
"—Before he died," you added quietly.
"Yeah, exactly!" Miles said, but confusion clouded his face as he searched Peter's expression for agreement.
Peter muttered something under his breath, dripping with sarcasm. You glanced down, hearing the bitterness in his tone. But Miles, stubborn as ever, pressed on.
"We made a promise to him, Peter," Miles said, his voice cracking with the weight of it.
Peter's demeanour shifted. "Yeah, lesson number one—" His tone snapped like a whip. He leaned forward in the ropes, gaze hard. "—Don't watch the mouth."
Then, with one smooth motion, he twisted his wrists.
"Watch the hands."
The ropes hit the floor with a thud.
Before you could react, Peter kicked the punching bag like a wrecking ball. It slammed into you and Miles with brutal force, knocking the air from your lungs as you crashed against the wall.
"Peter—wait!" you shouted, but your words were cut short as he shot a web straight at your face. It plastered across your mouth like a sticky gag. You stumbled back, clawing at the adhesive.
"Mmmph! Miles—get him!" you tried to yell, muffled and desperate.
Miles understood but hesitated, glancing at you instead of charging after Peter.
Peter let out a long, tired sigh. "Trust me," he said, voice rough. "This'll only make you a better Spider-Man."
He didn't look back as he fired a web toward the next building, ready to swing away—
—but then it happened.
His voice suddenly fractured, becoming choppy and distorted, like a broken radio. His body flickered, glitching in jagged bursts of neon colour—cyan, magenta, yellow—like reality itself was struggling to hold him.
Instead of soaring away, Peter's momentum failed. He dropped like a stone, crashing onto the fire escape below with a metallic clang.
"Miles!" You ripped the web from your mouth and rushed to the edge.
Miles was already leaning over. "Hey! Are—are you okay?" he shouted down.
Peter groaned, rolling onto his back. "No. I'm not."
You climbed down after Miles, heart pounding. "What happened?"
Peter dragged a hand down his face. "I don't think my atoms are real jazzed about being in the wrong dimension."
Your eyes widened. You'd seen this before—or rather, you'd read about it. "He's glitching..." you whispered.
Peter struggled to stand, glitching again as if the universe itself was rejecting him. But through the pain, he still managed to snap, "Look, I'm not here to babysit a couple of wannabe superheroes. I've got a lot going on in my dimension. Like..."
Miles followed him down another level, relentless.
And then it came to you. That one quote. The one that had shaped Spider-Man's very identity.
"With great power comes great—"
Peter whipped his head around, cutting you off with a snarl. "Don't you dare finish that sentence. I'm sick of hearing it. Every. Single. Day."
He fired another web mid-glitch and tried to swing off again. It fizzled. He fell—but caught the edge of the lower fire escape effortlessly, hanging one-handed like it was nothing.
The ease of it—the instinct, the control—took your breath away.
He stared up at you both, expression hard. "Want my advice?" he said. "Go back to being regular kids."
His words lingered like a slap, sharp and final, as his glitching form disappeared further down the fire escape.
Miles huffed, voice tight with urgency. "We can't! Kingpin's got a super collider—he's trying to kill us!"
Peter, who'd been half-glitching and half-ignoring you both, suddenly straightened. In a heartbeat, he was standing on the side of the building like gravity didn't apply to him.
"What did you just say?" His tone cut through the night air like a knife.
"Kingpin's trying to kill us—" Miles started.
"Who cares about that?" Peter snapped, groaning impatiently. "Where's the collider?"
"Brooklyn," you answered, still catching your breath. "Under Fisk Tower?"
Peter didn't even blink. "Goodbye."
He turned, already walking along the wall like he'd made up his mind.
"Where are you going?" Miles demanded.
"When it runs again," Peter said flatly, "I'll jump in and get back to my life."
You pinched the bridge of your nose, irritation simmering under your skin. "You can't just let them run it," you argued.
Miles' voice grew distant as he climbed onto the wall beside Peter. "We're supposed to destroy the machine so it never runs again. Or else everyone's gonna die!"
Peter didn't slow down. "That's what they always say," he tossed back, his voice laced with weary sarcasm. "But it's almost never true. There's always a little window before everything blows up. And that's when I do my best work."
Miles slipped a little, his sneakers scraping against the wall. You crouched, instinctively ready to catch him even though you both knew you couldn't.
Miles recovered, determination sparking in his eyes. "Aren't you gonna need this?!" he called out, holding up the broken USB like a prize.
Peter stopped. Raised his eyebrows. "A goober. Give it to me."
"A... what?" you asked, confused.
"There's always some kind of doohickey," Peter explained impatiently. "A stick, a USB, an override key—whatever. Too many names to remember, so I call it a goober. Happy? Now give it."
Miles shook his head, stepping protectively in front of you. "No. We need it to destroy the collider."
"I need it to go home." Peter's voice was clipped. Final.
You felt a pang of sympathy. He was clearly broken in ways he didn't want to admit. But you'd made a promise—to Peter, to this city. And you weren't backing down.
Without warning, you snatched the goober from Miles and shoved it into your mouth, muffling your words. "Wha?" you mumbled defiantly, cheeks puffed.
Peter didn't hesitate. Thwip!
In less than a second, the web snatched it from your lips and into his palm.
"Hey!" you yelled, wiping at your face.
Peter ignored you, scaling the next building with practiced ease. "The collider created a portal and sucked me out of my dimension into yours," he said as he climbed. "And I don't know what kind of chaos goes on here, but I've got my own to deal with. So I'm gonna use this—"
He paused mid-step, staring at the broken USB like it had just insulted him. "Did you break this?"
Miles looked away guiltily.
"He did!!" you blurted, dramatically pointing.
"Dude!" Miles exclaimed.
"Sorry," he muttered.
Peter exhaled through his nose and resumed climbing. "Great. Just great. Now, thanks to you two, I have to re-steal what this dimension's Peter stole from Alchemax." He tossed the USB casually over his shoulder.
Miles launched himself to the other building, snatching it out of the air. You followed, heart pounding, landing beside him with a soft thud.
Miles' voice rose, anger lacing his words now. "If we don't turn off the collider after you leave, everyone in this city—my parents, my uncle, Y/N—millions of people will die. And you're just gonna leave us alone, with zero experience, to figure it out ourselves? You're good with that, Spider-Man?"
Peter landed on the rooftop, his figure silhouetted against the glow of the city. "Yeah," he said simply. And then he was gone over the ledge.
Miles sagged, his shoulders falling. He dropped down to sit on the rooftop, the weight of reality hitting him.
You crouched beside him, offering a small, sad smile. "It's okay, Miles. There's gotta be a way. We'll figure it out."
From above, Peter's voice rang down. "What are you two doing?"
You looked up at him with a frown. "Making you feel guilty."
"Is it working?"
His face twisted. "What? No. No, it's not—"
He buried his face into his elbow, muffling his frustration into his jacket. "NO!" His yell echoed against the nearby buildings.
Then he sighed. Defeated.
"Fine," he muttered. "Come on. We don't have a second to lose."
Your eyes met Miles'. A spark of hope lit between you both. You scrambled to your feet, energy renewed. For the first time, it felt like you weren't alone in this.
"This is the best burger I've ever had!"
Peter's muffled declaration came between messy mouthfuls, ketchup threatening to drip onto his suit.
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. You had expected some secret base or a crucial training montage. Instead, you were crammed into a squeaky vinyl booth at Hugo's Diner, forced to shield yourself from Peter's barbaric table manners.
The booth was small, so you ended up squished next to Miles, while Peter insisted on the opposite side—"needing space." You didn't complain.
"So, Peter," you said flatly, watching him wipe his mouth with his sleeve. You grimaced. "How exactly is this not wasting time?"
He shrugged, crumbs scattering. "I work better on a full stomach."
You exchanged a helpless look with Miles. He raised his hands as if to say, Hey, guy's gotta eat.
Miles leaned forward eagerly. "So, do you have any cool Spider-Man tips you can give us now?"
Peter froze mid-fry, looking off to the side as if considering whether to actually answer. "Yeah," he said finally. "Don't run around takin' your mask off in front of everybody. Trust me—it doesn't end well. But hey," he shrugged, "you probably figured that one out already."
He took another monstrous bite of his burger.
Miles sighed, then perked up again. "Alright... Alchemax. What's the plan?" He pulled out his phone, reading quickly. "Private technological campus, Hudson Valley, New York. Hey! Maybe you can teach us how to swing on the way there!"
He grinned and mimed shooting webs from his wrists.
Peter just laughed, brushing him off as the waiter dropped off the bill.
"By the way," Peter said casually, "I'm a little low on cash."
The excitement you'd been clinging to slowly deflated as reality set in. Minutes later, you found yourself wedged onto a crowded bus, the smell of ramen and unwashed coats thick in the air. You'd paid for both the meal and the bus fare.
Peter had claimed, with zero shame, that he couldn't swing "on a full stomach."
You were crammed into the back row between a man drooling in his sleep and another loudly slurping noodles. Miles was perched on the edge of his seat, staring at Peter like This cannot be my mentor.
When the bus finally hissed to a stop, the three of you slipped off and found cover behind a massive boulder overlooking Alchemax's sleek, high-tech campus.
The three of you peeled off your jackets and pulled down your masks. Miles, for some reason, had put on a cape.
"No, take that off," Peter said immediately, tugging at the yellow fabric.
"Miles, where did you even get that?" you asked, bewildered.
"Spider-Man doesn't wear a cape," Peter added sharply, yanking it off. Miles nearly choked on the string.
Peter turned toward the Alchemax building, eyes narrowed, chin resting on his hand in deep concentration. Miles mimicked the pose.
You mimicked Miles.
For a second, the three of you stood there like some weird, mismatched superhero trio.
Then Peter snapped his fingers. "I got it!"
His words tumbled out fast, like his brain was ten steps ahead. "I'll swing in, grab a bagel, snag what we need, and get out. Easy."
Miles coughed. "Okay... but what are we supposed to do?" He pointed between himself and you.
Peter didn't even look at you. "You guys stay here. Lookouts. Very important job."
You stared at him, deadpan. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Nope," Peter said, already adjusting his half-zipped suit and sweatpants combo.
"Peter," you said firmly, stepping forward. "You have to start teaching us Spider-Man stuff. We can't just sit around like backup dancers."
He sighed, exasperated. "Watch and learn, kids. You'll catch on. I'll be back! And if I'm not—" He laughed to himself, "nah. I'm way too good at this to not come back."
And with that, he swung away into the night, looking less like a legendary hero and more like a sleep-deprived dad in spandex.
Miles slumped against the boulder. "Why did we have to get stuck with the janky old hobo Spider-Man?" he muttered, shoving his elbow into the rock.
To both your surprise, the top of the boulder cracked and slid off into the snow with a heavy thunk.
"That's new," he whispered.
You slammed your fist down experimentally. The boulder split clean in two with a sharp crack.
Miles grinned and raised his hand for a high five. You were just about to return it when—
A sound. Low. Mechanical.
You froze.
From the direction of the parking lot, the hum of an approaching engine cut through the night.
"What?" Miles asked, confused.
"There." You pointed.
A sleek black car rolled up to the front of the Alchemax building, tinted windows reflecting the floodlights.
Miles followed your gaze. His eyes widened.
The car door opened.
And a familiar man stepped out.
Kingpin.
The name alone sent a chill through your veins. You and Miles froze as the hulking figure emerged from the black car, his presence swallowing the snowy parking lot like a storm cloud. He walked toward the building with slow, deliberate steps—each one crunching into the snow like a warning bell.
Your instincts kicked in. You shot to your feet, heart pounding.
"We have to warn Peter—"
Miles yanked you down by the arm before you could take a step.
"Are you insane?!" he hissed. "You're gonna get us caught!"
You glared at him, whispering fiercely, "If we don't move now, Peter's walking straight into a death trap!"
He didn't argue long. With a quick nod, he grabbed your wrist and started pulling you through the snow.
"This way," he whispered. "We run, but keep it light. No loud crunching."
You crouched low. "You first."
Miles inhaled sharply and darted across the snow, feet gliding more than stomping. It was almost graceful, the way he ghosted past the parked cars and disappeared behind a snow-covered barrier.
Then it was your turn.
You scanned the lot—five men in black coats, each built like a tank, stationed near the entrance. Their eyes were sharp. One wrong sound and you were finished.
Miles waved you on.
You sprinted. Breathe shallow, heart hammering. For a second, you thought you were in the clear—until your boot caught a buried rock.
You pitched forward, biting back a yelp. Miles lunged, catching you just before your face met the snow.
"Thanks," you mumbled, cheeks burning as you scrambled upright.
Miles rubbed the back of his neck, a shy smile tugging at his lips. "It's cool."
Your blush deepened, heat rising beneath your mask. You quickly turned away. "We should, uh—keep moving."
"Right."
He pried open a metal hatch, revealing a dark, vertical tunnel.
"You first this time," he whispered.
He didn't wait. Miles slid down the duct with a clumsy thud that echoed faintly through the metal. You followed immediately, misjudging the distance and landing squarely on his back.
"I told you to wait!" he groaned.
You snorted, stifling a laugh. "Sorry, I thought you said go!"
He rolled his eyes but grinned despite himself as the two of you crawled through the narrow, dusty vent.
A few turns later, you nearly collided with someone's legs. Peter's legs.
"What are you guys doing here?!" he hissed. "I told you to stay behind!"
"Kingpin's here," Miles blurted, wriggling past you to get closer.
Peter's voice was sharp. "Then all the more reason for you to go back outside before you get in the way!"
But you weren't backing down.
"No. We can't just sit in the snow and let Spider-Man die without doing anything. Not... not again."
"Not again."
The weight in your voice made Peter pause. His eyepieces widened. For a moment, the snark vanished, replaced by something softer.
"...Most people I meet on the job try to kill me," he muttered. "You two are a nice change of pace."
You smiled under your mask, but the moment was shattered with a voice you recognized.
"Mr Fisk, look at this data! I know it's hard for you to understand it, but these are great numbers!"
Charlotte's aunt. Olivia.
You strained to see through the vent, but Peter and Miles blocked the view. Her voice was enough.
"If we fire again this week, there could be a massive black hole under Brooklyn. You see this? This is multiple dimensions beginning to crash into each other."
Your stomach dropped.
Peter waved a hand dismissively. "Blah blah blah, pretty standard Spider-Man stakes. You'll get used to it."
You shot him a look. Used to what? A black hole under Brooklyn?!
"Watch this," Peter whispered, deepening his voice, "He's gonna say, 'You've got twenty-four hours...'"
Right on cue, Kingpin's muffled baritone echoed through the vents:
"You've got twenty-four hours."
Your eyes widened. "Okay, that was freaky."
Peter sighed. "Alright, everything she said was bad. I was lying before."
He pushed the vent hatch open and slipped into the lab below with effortless agility, landing like a pro. You and Miles exchanged a look of mutual panic.
How the hell were you supposed to follow that?
Miles tried first, crawling out of the duct and latching onto an octagonal ceiling light. The moment he tried to drop down—his fingers stuck. And so did his shoes.
"I can't move!" he whisper-yelled, wiggling like a bug on tape.
Not wanting the same fate, you swung down feet-first and hit the ground hard, landing in a half-roll. Pain shot through your arm, but at least you were free.
"You okay?" Peter asked, glancing over.
"Fine," you grunted, rubbing your arm. "But look at him."
Miles was flailing on the light fixture like a human chandelier.
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. "What are you doing there, bud?"
"I said I can't move!" Miles hissed.
"Relax your fingers. Be in the moment. Just... let go!" Peter urged.
Miles shook the light violently. "I am in the moment! It's a terrible moment!"
The fixture flickered, buzzing loudly. Outside the lab window, Kingpin and Olivia were right there.
Peter's voice cracked in a panic. "Miles! They're right there! They're gonna see you!"
You froze, heart hammering. If he didn't unstick in the next second, you'd all be caught.
"What do you do to relax?" Peter asked.
Miles froze. Then, of all things, he started to sing.
"🎵 Needless to say, I keep her in check—🎵"
Peter blinked at you. "What—what is he doing?"
You gave a helpless shrug, turning away quickly to hide the heat rising in your cheeks. Of course he'd pick now to be adorable.
One by one, Miles's fingers popped off the light. You glanced up just in time to realize where he was going to land.
Right. On. You.
Thud!
"Revenge," Miles grinned, offering you a hand as you groaned and dusted yourself off.
"Ha. Ha," you deadpanned, but couldn't help the small laugh that escaped as Peter's mask shifted in alarm.
Then—Miles vanished.
"Miles?" Peter called, climbing over the desk. "Where'd you go?"
"I'm right here."
You spun around. Nothing.
"What? We can't see you," you whispered.
"I swear I'm right in front of you guys... Can Spider-Man turn invisible?"
Peter shook his head. "Not in my universe."
You reached out cautiously until your hand met the fabric of his suit. A shiver ran through you.
"Miles, this is incredible."
Peter patted the empty air like a proud dad. "Yeah, kid, this is huge."
Just then—footsteps.
Miles disappeared fully, and before you could even whisper, a hand shoved you under the desk. Olivia Octavius entered the room.
The space was tight. All you could see was the underside of the desk, Miles's chair shifting slightly as if someone had just sat down. You figured he was handling the data, but then his foot tapped your hand. The clicking had stopped.
He forgot the last part of the password.
You couldn't whisper it—Olivia would hear.
Heart hammering, you stretched your hand out from beneath the desk, praying your web-shooters wouldn't misfire.
Click—thwip!
A thin strand shot perfectly toward the keyboard. Miles tapped your hand in thanks. A grin spread beneath your mask. For once, you nailed it.
But that pride was short-lived. Above you, Miles started mumbling anxiously and moving the mouse frantically. You couldn't see the screen, but you imagined it—hundreds of messy desktop icons, a digital jungle.
He wouldn't find anything in time.
So he did the next best thing.
He stole the entire computer.
You heard him whisper, "Come on," but shook your head helplessly. You didn't have his new party trick. He hesitated, then began to slip away with the computer floating invisibly through the room.
You started to crawl out, but something on the desk caught your eye—a small glass jar with a dull purple glow.
A spider. The spider.
It wasn't glowing anymore. Its body was shrivelled, burned out... but unmistakable. Olivia had it.
Before you could process why, a deafening CRACK filled the room.
Olivia had slammed Peter into the floor with one of her four mechanical tentacles. You hadn't even seen her change suits.
"I got this, run!" Peter yelled, webbing the door's security pad.
The door slid open, and you bolted after Miles, jar in hand. He was struggling with the weight of the monitor.
"Leave the monitor!" you shouted.
Peter's voice echoed behind you—"I got it!"—as Olivia tossed him like a rag doll.
Miles ran backwards down the hall, turning the corner—and slammed into someone. Both yelped.
Miles lost his invisibility.
You skidded to a stop. A blonde girl lay on the ground, papers scattered. She wore an Alchemax intern badge.
Gwen.
You didn't have time to ask questions—whether she was friend, foe, or something in between.
A wall exploded behind Peter as Olivia's tentacles burst through.
"Sorry!" you called to Gwen, sprinting after Miles as he flickered invisible again.
Peter caught up, swinging through the corridor, but Olivia was right on his heels. She snatched him midair and slammed him into the ground.
"Oh, Peter," she cooed, perching above you with terrifying grace. "You didn't tell me you had a little friend."
Miles flickered back into view.
"Two friends!" he said, voice cracking. "The more the merrier!"
You began backing away, every instinct screaming. But Olivia struck like a snake, grabbing you in two of her tentacles and hoisting you up.
Peter fired a web, yanking you free just as the doors sealed behind you, trapping one of her limbs on the other side.
You gasped out a shaky breath. Relief lasted exactly three seconds.
Because you had just burst into the Alchemax cafeteria.
And it was packed.
Hundreds of employees froze mid-bite, staring at the three intruders. Peter glanced around, unbothered, and grabbed a bagel.
"Wow," he muttered. "This would be a great time to turn invisible."
"Yep," Miles replied, very much not invisible.
Peter stared. "...Okay then. Not gonna turn invisible. Cool."
You scanned the room anxiously—and then froze.
In the center of the cafeteria sat two people you knew better than anyone.
Your parents.
Your heart clenched painfully. You knew they were scientists, but... here? Working for Kingpin?
As recognition dawned in their eyes, everyone jumped to their feet. Guns and high-tech blasters were drawn.
Including the ones pointed at you by your own parents.
Tears pricked at your eyes, but you shoved them down. There wasn't time.
Peter swapped the bagel with Miles for the computer.
"Run!"
Miles grabbed your hand, grounding you as you tore through the cafeteria, dodging gunfire.
Behind you, a lone bagel arced through the air and hit a guard square in the face.
“Okay, time to swing, just like I taught you guys!” Peter shouted over the crack-crack-crack of gunfire. Bullets sparked against the metal railings behind you.
“When did you teach us that?!” you yelled, eyes darting between Peter, Miles, and the growing army of goons pouring out below.
Peter was fumbling with his wrist shooters, frustration clear. “Wait a second—he only has two shooters!” you blurted.
“Yeah, so?!” Peter snapped back.
Realization hit him mid-yell. He tore one of his web-shooters off and slammed it onto Miles’ wrist. “Wait, Y/n, what are you saying?!”
Your throat tightened. “Miles… I don’t know if I can do this!”
Peter scoffed, breath puffing white in the cold. “Well, figure it out fast, kid! If you can’t—grab onto him or something!”
Your pulse was hammering. You looked down at your empty wrists, then up at Miles as Peter fired a web and flung him off the ledge. Miles screamed, swinging into the open air.
The gunfire was louder now—closer. You swallowed hard, stepped back, and leapt.
The wind punched the breath out of your lungs. Instinct kicked in at the last second—your wrists snapped forward and thwip! A webline shot out, sticking to a tree. Your body jerked forward violently, legs flailing as you swung clumsily through the snowy branches.
You nearly smacked into a trunk—but then something shifted. Your rhythm found you. Shoot—release—swing.
Miles looked over, grinning widely. “You made it!”
“Sure did!” you yelled back.
Except Miles didn’t make it for long. WHAM. He collided straight into a tree and crashed into the snow, sending up a white spray.
“Miles!” Your momentum wouldn’t let you stop. He scrambled to his feet, just in time to dodge a burst of gunfire. Olivia’s mechanical tentacles slithered through the forest after him like hungry snakes.
Peter swung down behind her, yelling a string of “helpful” tips that Miles could barely hear over the chaos. But Miles—somehow—started to get it. He pushed off a trunk, fired a web, and swung again. It wasn’t graceful, but it worked.
The three of you fell into a chaotic rhythm. The wind howled in your ears; branches blurred past like streaks. Peter’s voice echoed, guiding Miles. For a brief, incredible moment, it felt… fun.
“Wait a second,” Peter called over the wind, staring at you, “how is she doing that?”
A grin spread across your face beneath the mask. “It’s my power! I have natural webs!”
Peter actually looked impressed. “This is amazing!”
“We’re a little team!” Miles whooped.
Peter chuckled. “Me as the master who can still do it… and you two as the students who can also do it, just not as good. I’m proud of us!”
Then—glitch.
Peter’s body flickered like a corrupted file. The computer slipped from his hands and plummeted through the trees.
“Peter!” you screamed.
He fell too, smashing through branches. Miles tumbled down after him, catching the computer’s cord mid-fall. It yanked free from the device as it spun through the air—right into Olivia’s waiting tentacle.
You perched on a branch, breath caught, watching everything unravel in seconds.
And then—a blur of black and white.
Someone zipped past you, moving like a razor through the red and orange forest. Rock music echoed faintly. In a flash, the figure webbed Olivia’s tentacles to tree trunks, snatched the computer mid-air, and landed gracefully on a branch beside Peter and Miles.
They pulled off their hood. Blonde hair with a shaved side. Cool as hell.
“Hey, guys,” Gwen said, smirking.
You gasped, swinging over to perch beside her. Up close, she was even cooler—confident, sharp, with an eyebrow piercing that gleamed in the fading light. You hated how instantly you liked her.
“And girl,” she added, nodding at you.
“Gwen?!” Miles blurted, eyes wide.
“Ohhh, you know her,” Peter teased, grinning.
You clenched your jaw, looking away as Miles stared at her like he’d just discovered a new galaxy.
Gwen explained quickly—another universe, another Spider. She’d saved her dad but lost her best friend, Peter Parker. “So now, I save everyone else. And I don’t do friends anymore. Just… less distractions.”
You listened, quietly. She was clearly strong. Good. Even if jealousy stung, you weren’t about to hold it against her.
“My spider-sense told me to head to Visions. I didn’t know why… until I met you,” she nodded at Miles. Then at you.
You smiled faintly.
“I like your haircut,” Miles blurted.
She shot back instantly, “You don’t get to like my haircut.”
You winced. Before anyone could say more, Gwen launched herself into the trees. “Come on!” she shouted.
And just like that, you were swinging again—this time chasing the coolest Spider-Woman you’d ever met.
📝 Author’s Note:
I had way too much fun writing this sequence — I wanted it to feel like a full-on action scene straight out of the movie 🎬✨
Reblogs, comments, and tags mean the world to me, so if you liked it, don’t be shy 💌
Thank you so much to everyone who helped me reach 500 likes! 💖 Your support means the world to me. If you’ve been enjoying my posts, don’t forget to give them a like and a repost—it helps more people find my work and keeps me motivated to share even more with you all! ✨
The next morning dragged itself into existence, heavy and unkind. Your eyelids felt like lead, tugging downward with every blink, and the shadows etched beneath them mirrored the hollow ache inside your chest. Sleep hadn't come for you—only fragments of restless tossing, half-formed dreams that soured into dread, and the constant temptation to reach for your phone.
Charlotte had woken once in the middle of the night, her patience worn thin. She hurled a pillow at you, muttering for you to please stop moving. You froze, guilt tightening your chest, and after that, you only turned when you couldn't bear the pressure of lying still.
The hallways of the school reflected your own exhaustion. Students shuffled past like ghosts, faces pale, shoulders slumped. Even the usually loud group—the ones whose laughter and chatter grated on your nerves every morning—were subdued, dragging their feet and muttering complaints. Their silence left a strange ache in you. You realized, almost bitterly, that you missed their obnoxious noise.
By the time you slid into your seat, your head felt unbearably heavy, as though a weight had been chained to your neck. Thoughts came sluggishly, like they had to swim through syrup before reaching you. Every scrape of a chair, every click of a pen, every cough stabbed into your skull like needles. The unfinished paper in front of you blurred at the edges, words refusing to line up no matter how hard you tried to focus.
Then, from the corner of your eye, you saw him.
Miles slipped into the desk beside you with the kind of quiet efficiency that shouldn't have surprised you—but did. How is he even on time? The question drifted across your tired mind as your gaze lingered on him longer than it should have. You noticed the way his hands moved with practiced care as he set up his things, the way his expression stayed calm even in the morning gloom.
Your eyes clung to him, maybe because everything else in the room felt too sharp, too loud, too heavy. Miles didn't look back at you until he'd finished arranging his notes and pencils in a neat line.
Finally, he turned.
"Hi," he murmured, voice so soft you almost thought you imagined it.
"Hi, Miles," you managed, lips pulling into a weak grin that cost more energy than it should have. Still, he seemed to notice the effort. His own smile ghosted across his lips—small, private—before he busied himself with the pencil between his fingers.
You opened your mouth, words balancing on the edge of your tongue. You wanted to tell him about the night, the exhaustion, the gnawing unease sitting heavy in your chest. Maybe he'd understand. Maybe he wouldn't. But just as your courage gathered, the classroom door swung open, and the teacher strode in, cutting through the fragile moment like a blade.
Another lecture. Another endless morning. And the words you'd wanted to say dissolved in your throat, leaving only silence—and the quiet comfort of Miles's presence beside you.
Maybe you blacked out. Maybe your brain just refused to process anything. Whatever the reason, you couldn't remember a single thing from any of your classes today.
By your last period, your eyes roamed the walls restlessly, desperate for distraction. The classroom was crammed with the same miserable teenagers you'd been stuck with all day, their faces sagging with exhaustion, their eyes hollowed out.
The physics teacher shuffled in, wobbling under the weight of her own fatigue. She looked just as broken as the students she was about to lecture. Guilt threatened to claw at your chest, but you pushed it down—until she mentioned Spider-Man.
Just hearing his name snapped your focus for a fleeting second. The room seemed to tighten. Spider-Man. Every class today had been the same, teachers weaving him into their lessons, kids whispering his name in hushed voices. And every time, your eyes betrayed you, sliding toward Miles.
And every time, you found him staring back.
It became routine. The teacher spoke, your heart lurched, and his eyes found yours. Then the class ended. You shoved your books into your bag, head down, shoulders hunched, and walked away through a silence that felt unbearable.
The silence was suffocating now, too. You were shivering and burning up all at once, like your body couldn't decide whether to freeze or combust. Your chest rose and fell too quickly, though you didn't realize it at first. Not until your pencil tapped violently against your notebook, the only sound anchoring you as the walls pressed closer.
You thought you had the panic under control. You were wrong.
"Hey, Y/N?"
The voice barely pierced through the storm in your head. Your pulse drummed louder than anything else.
"Y/N!"
The shout cracked through your trance like glass shattering, and you flinched back into reality. Your eyes darted around the room. Empty. Everyone was gone. All except—
"Miles?" Your voice came out raspy, so small it almost wasn't yours.
He was already pulling a chair from the desk in front of you, planting himself right across from you. Concern softened his face as he reached forward, nudging your stack of books to the floor like they didn't matter. "Are you okay?" His tone was warm, steady, like he could will your panic into calm if he tried hard enough.
You stared at him. Blinked. Swallowed hard.
And then the word slipped out, bare and unpolished. "No."
Warmth spread through your chest, soft and dangerous. Not the suffocating burn of panic—something else. Something like a fire on a winter night, flames licking gently at frozen skin. Just admitting it, letting the truth fall into the open, lightened the weight you'd been dragging all day.
Miles's lips curved faintly, though his eyes still shone with worry. "I know."
You blinked. "Then why'd you ask?" The laugh that escaped your throat was fragile, half-formed, but real.
"For... research purposes?" His eyebrows lifted, his voice lilting uncertainly, like even he wasn't sure of the excuse.
A laugh bubbled out of you again, louder this time, startlingly genuine. And for the first time all day, you felt your lungs expand without resistance. Miles was the fire. He was the warmth cutting through the frost, the reason you could breathe again.
You couldn't keep pretending. You couldn't shove your feelings into some hidden corner anymore—not with the chaos in your life, not when his presence was the only thing holding you steady. You liked him. God, you liked him so much it hurt.
When your eyes finally lifted to meet his, it was like being caught in a spotlight. His brown eyes sparkled with an intensity that made your chest clench. You looked away too quickly, heat rushing to your cheeks. But no—you couldn't shrink now. Not when he was the one tethering you back to the world.
So you forced yourself to look. Really look. Straight into his eyes, into the warmth, the steadiness, the promise you wanted so badly to trust.
"D'you wanna leave?" he asked suddenly.
You blinked, caught off guard, your throat dry. "What?"
"I asked if you wanted to leave." His gaze searched yours, a crease of concern forming between his brows. He leaned a little closer, like he could read the shift in your body language, like he knew how badly you wanted to disappear. "Are you sure you're okay?"
You shrank into yourself, pulling your legs tight against your chest and wrapping your arms loosely around them like you could hold yourself together that way. Your voice came out thinner than you wanted. "I'm sure, I'm sure," you murmured, glancing at Miles before forcing a faint smile. "Let me just clean this up and I'll come with you, okay?"
Miles nodded quickly. "I can help—"
"No!" The word burst out too sharp, too loud. Your eyes went wide, and you scrambled to soften it. "I– I mean... no thanks. I can do it."
Miles blinked, confusion clouding his face. You never snapped like that. He swallowed down the sting, reminding himself you'd been through a lot—Spider-Man, everything that followed. If you didn't want to talk about it yet, he'd respect that. He admired your strength, even if it hurt watching you carry it all alone.
And then his thoughts betrayed him.
Because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop noticing you—your laugh, your fire, your eyes. Those sparkling (E/C) eyes that made him feel like gravity was pulling him closer every time you looked at him.
Yeah. There was no denying it anymore. Miles had a crush on you. A big, stupid, heart-thudding crush. And what was he even thinking? You probably hated him—hated that he dragged you into that stupid place, the one where everything began. The bite. The secret. The weight neither of you should've had to carry.
"Hey."
Your voice pulled him out of the spiral. Calm. Gentle. Your hand settled on his shoulder before you even realized what you were doing. Heat rushed to your cheeks—because of course you'd just pulled a "shoulder touch," the same move Miles had practically made a trademark.
"U-uh, I..." you fumbled, pulling your hand back, embarrassment burning through your exhaustion. "I'm sorry for yelling. I just—" You sighed, shoulders sinking. "I'm so exhausted, you know?"
Miles's lips twitched, but he didn't tease you. He didn't even mention the shoulder touch. Instead, he stood up without a word and pulled you into his arms.
The hug caught you off guard, freezing you in place for a moment. Then, slowly, your arms lifted and wrapped around him, returning the embrace. You hated how much you needed it. You hated how vulnerable it made you feel. But God, you loved it too. Loved the warmth, the safety, the way it quieted the storm in your chest.
"I think we should go," you whispered, loosening your hold.
Miles nodded, stepping back, scratching the back of his neck as if to cover the intensity of what had just passed between you. He slung his bag over his shoulder, and together, you slipped into the nearly deserted hallways, footsteps echoing in the stillness.
"So..." he began cautiously, glancing sideways at you. "Do you wanna come with me? To, uh, hear Mary Jane Parker talk about Spider-Man?"
You blinked. "Wait—Peter's wife?"
He nodded, eyes darting away. "Yeah."
You tightened your grip on your backpack straps, then loosened them again with a small nod. "Alright. Okay."
"So... you'll come?" Miles asked, his voice careful, like he was bracing for disappointment.
You hesitated just a beat, then exhaled, grounding yourself. "Yes. I'll come."
Miles's smile flickered—quick, shy, and brighter than anything you'd seen all day.
And in that quiet moment, with the two of you walking side by side, you realized it wasn't just Spider-Man or secrets holding your chest tight. It was him. Always him.
Before you and Miles left to see Mary Jane Parker's speech, you ducked back into your dorm to check for Charlotte. The room was empty, her bed already made. The only sign of her was a yellow sticky-note stuck to your desk lamp. In her familiar, looping handwriting it read:
"Went to see Mom and Ben. Don't cause chaos while I'm gone. Oh, and this is how you write a proper note, by the way. Take notes."
You rolled your eyes, though a small smile tugged at your lips. Typical Charlotte. With a huff, you tossed your backpack onto the floor, the thud echoing in the quiet room, and returned to Miles. There was nothing left at school today worth staying for.
The two of you walked side by side, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. Miles seemed quieter than usual, his hands shoved into his pockets, his gaze flicking toward the ground every few steps. You were about to ask what was on his mind when he suddenly froze, his eyes catching on a shop window.
A costume shop.
Through the glass, Spider-Man suits lined the walls—bright red and blue fabric staring back at you from every angle. Masks dangled from hooks like solemn faces waiting to be chosen. You didn't miss the way Miles's expression shifted, his lips parting slightly, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and longing.
Before he could stop you, you grabbed his wrist, your fingers curling tightly around his skin, and tugged him inside.
The shop smelled faintly of plastic and dust. The walls practically glowed with all the scarlet and cobalt on display. You and Miles sifted through racks until you each pulled down a packaged suit, the glossy plastic crinkling loudly in your hands. At the counter, the cashier—a middle-aged man with laugh lines etched deep into his face—rang you up with a grin that was far too knowing.
Miles, chewing nervously on the inside of his cheek, asked, "Uh... can we return them if they don't fit?"
"It always fits—eventually," the cashier replied, voice warm but mysterious.
You glanced at the "No Returns" sign taped crookedly beside the register, and let out a short, amused laugh. His words weren't just a refusal. They felt like something heavier, something meant to stick with you.
Clutching the suit in your hands, you muttered, "I'll go change," but when you turned, Miles was already slipping toward the bathroom, his excitement written all over him. You shook your head with a smile and headed into the girls' restroom.
Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. You tore open the package, the suit sliding out in a ripple of red and blue. Pulling it on felt strange—the fabric clung tightly, second skin snug against every curve. The legs barely reached your ankles, but it wasn't unbearable. You tugged your jacket and pants back on overtop, trying to pretend your heart wasn't beating faster at the sight of yourself in the mirror.
When you stepped out, Miles was waiting. He wore the same suit, stretched tighter across his frame, his hoodie and shorts layered on like yours. He looked at you, and for a second, you both just... laughed. Like kids playing dress-up. Like you weren't carrying the weight of something much bigger than yourselves.
You linked your arm through his, the fabric of his jacket brushing your skin, and together you pushed through the swelling crowd outside the venue. Everywhere you looked, people wore Spider-Man masks, painted their faces red, or sported full-body costumes just like yours. It was surreal—like the city itself had decided to breathe as one.
Mary Jane Parker stood at the front, her voice steady but her eyes glassy with a grief she tried desperately to keep hidden. The microphone caught every word, carrying her strength over the hushed crowd.
"We are all Spider-Man," she declared, her tone both fierce and fragile. "And we're all counting on you."
Her words sliced through the air, and for a moment you felt your chest tighten, a sharp breath pulling itself into your lungs. You turned your head slightly, realizing Miles's fingers had slipped between yours at some point, warm and steady.
And you didn't let go.
Elsewhere, Charlotte’s palms were slick with sweat. The sterile office light above her buzzed faintly, making the air feel even heavier than it already was.
“And you’re sure the spider was an unusual color?” the woman across from her asked, voice sharp but smooth, like someone trying too hard to sound casual. “It didn’t just look different in the light, right?”
Charlotte’s grip tightened on the metal arms of the chair until her knuckles blanched. Her throat was dry, every swallow scraping like sandpaper. Finally, she exhaled through her nose, shaky and uneven.
“I’m sure,” she whispered. “It was… pink. Neon pink. And it was glowing.”
The woman’s brows lifted ever so slightly behind her octagon-shaped glasses. She turned back to her computer, nails clicking against the keys as if every word Charlotte spoke was confirmation of something she already knew. Then she faced her again, lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” she pressed, leaning forward now. “Was there anyone with you? Did they get bitten too?”
Charlotte’s stomach twisted. The walls of the office felt like they were closing in, the shadows lengthening. She gulped, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“Yes,” she murmured.
The woman stilled, her smile sharpening. Charlotte wished she hadn’t said it.
Meanwhile, across the city…
“You’re telling me… you want to jump off a building?” Your voice cracked, halfway between disbelief and panic.
Miles grinned nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “He does it in the comics! If you want, I’ll let you go first.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but your stomach lurched as your eyes slipped down the dizzying drop beneath your feet. The street looked impossibly far away, the cars and people reduced to toy-sized dots.
“In my defense, you’re the one with webs,” Miles said, holding up his hands like it excused everything.
Your throat felt tight, but you nodded slowly. “You’re right. As much as I hate to admit it… Let’s do it.”
Miles stepped up beside you, the gravel crunching under his sneakers. The snow was falling harder now, sticking to his jacket, melting on your lashes. “On three? At the same time, okay?” His voice was steady, but you could hear the tremor underneath.
You inhaled sharply, the icy air burning in your lungs. Tilting your head up, you shut your eyes against the vertigo. “One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
Nothing.
Your knees locked, your body refusing to listen. Sweat trickled down your temple despite the cold, your heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the wind. You cracked one eye open—Miles was still rooted beside you.
“Why aren’t you moving?” you asked, your voice shaking.
He shifted, sheepish, and looked away. “Well… you’re not moving either.”
A short, panicked laugh escaped your lips. “This building is way too high.” Your pulse raced, but determination surged past the fear. “I have an idea.”
You bolted, your footsteps echoing against the stairwell as you and Miles thundered down the dirty metal steps. The air smelled like rust and dust, every landing a blur. You shoved open the door and burst back out onto the street, your breath visible in frantic clouds.
The next building loomed ahead—shorter, closer, possible.
“This one,” you panted, pointing to the rooftop. “This one’s doable.”
Miles followed your gaze, nodding. His jaw clenched, but a flicker of excitement lit his eyes.
“On five this time?” you asked, flexing your fingers, cracking your knuckles to mask the tremor in your hands.
Miles rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the tension. “On five.”
You stood together at the edge, the world suddenly too quiet, too expectant.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Five.”
You sprinted, the pavement blurring beneath your feet. The ledge vanished, and for one terrifying, glorious second, you were weightless. The city rushed up toward you, the wind screaming in your ears, snow slashing across your cheeks like icy needles.
Tears welled in your eyes, blurring everything. Your brain shrieked at you to stop, to turn back, but instinct took control. You curled your fingers, thrust out your wrist—
And felt the sharp tug as a strand of web snapped free, shooting into the night and latching onto the building’s edge.
Your stomach flipped, your scream torn from your throat—half terror, half exhilaration.
You weren’t falling anymore. You were flying.
The sound of Miles groaning tore through the air, sharp and unsteady, yanking your focus away from your own freefall. Your heart lurched as your gaze darted around desperately, searching for him. When you finally spotted him, the sight nearly made your chest collapse—Miles was flailing helplessly, crashing into walls, ricocheting off flagpoles, his movements frantic and uncontrolled like a bird with broken wings.
The panic building inside you left no room for thought. You didn’t even realize the ground was rushing up until it slammed into your body with a brutal thud, knocking the breath from your lungs. Pain shot up your side as you lay sprawled in the snow-dusted pavement, the sting making your vision blur for a moment.
Your eyes darted to your wrist—your webbing had sputtered out pathetically, barely stretching past your fingertips. Still, with trembling determination, you flicked another one, your hand stinging with the effort.
Forcing yourself upright, you staggered to your feet, your legs shaking under you. Across the way, Miles was half sprawled between the edge of the road and the sidewalk, his body folded awkwardly, his groans more ragged now. Fear for him shoved the ache in your own body aside as you rushed to his side, slipping your hands under his arms to steady him.
“Thanks,” he muttered hoarsely, rubbing the side of his masked head as if the impact was still ringing in his skull.
And then—his whole posture changed. He froze. You saw his chest rise sharply as his hand shot to his pocket. Confusion twisted in your gut until he slowly opened his palm.
Bits of plastic and metal gleamed dully in the pale streetlight. The USB. The only one.
Your stomach dropped, your hands flying up to cover your mouth. “Oh no…” The words were fragile, cracking under the weight of panic.
Miles’ shoulders sagged, his breath leaving him in a shudder. He stared at the broken fragments, the realization crashing down on him heavier than the fall had been. Then, with a helpless exhale that bordered on a sob, he sank back onto the pavement, head tipped toward the sky as if searching for an answer that wouldn’t come.
“I messed up,” he whispered, the words trembling, soaked with guilt.
And just like that, the night seemed colder, the snow falling heavier, pressing against the weight of both your hearts.
Hours later, the world was hushed under a fresh layer of snow. Flakes drifted lazily from the sky, settling over headstones and branches until everything gleamed silver beneath the dim light. Your boots crunched softly along the narrow path, the only sound besides the whisper of the wind. A red lamp swung gently overhead, its glow spilling across the ground like a wound against the cold white.
You stopped when the name came into view.
PETER PARKER
1991 – 2018
The grave was smothered with tributes—hand-drawn sketches, crayon-colored cards from children, wilted flowers pressed into the snow. The sight hollowed out your chest, stealing the breath from your lungs. It wasn’t just grief, it was reverence—like standing before the monument of someone larger than life.
Miles dropped to his knees beside you, his mask pulled up just enough to bare his face to the night. His hands trembled as he reached into his pocket, and when he pulled them out, shards of plastic and metal glinted dully in his palm. The broken USB.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Parker,” Miles whispered, his voice cracking like ice under weight. “That thing you gave us… that key… I think I really messed it up.” His fingers clenched tight, the shards digging into his skin.
Snowflakes melted against his lashes as he hung his head. “We want to do what you asked. We really do, but…” His voice broke completely. “I’m not sure I’m the guy.”
You knelt down beside him, placing a steady hand against his back, feeling the tremor of his breath beneath your palm. “We can’t do this without you, Mr. Parker,” you murmured softly, as if Peter himself might still be listening.
Before either of you could say more, a voice cut through the stillness.
“Hey, kids.”
Miles’ sharp gasp tore from his throat as he shoved you back instinctively. A spark leapt—electric and violent—snapping up his body and along the arm of the figure behind him. Miles was yanked off his knees and flung to the ground. You scrambled forward, heart slamming against your ribs, and froze when you saw the man.
Graying brown hair. A green coat. Sweatpants. His chest rose and fell faintly, unconscious. But it wasn’t just that.
He looked exactly like Peter Parker.
Your stomach twisted as Miles stirred, his eyes going wide when he glanced down at his chest. A strand of web clung to him.
“Is that a web?!” you blurted, disbelief ringing in your voice.
Miles touched it gingerly, and that familiar sensation screamed through you again—that buzzing, fiery pull in your veins, the same as the night it all began. Your gaze snapped to the man’s hand, frozen in the unmistakable position of someone firing a web.
“No way…” you breathed, your lips trembling.
Miles slid closer on his knees, carefully tugging at the man’s jacket until the fabric fell open just enough to reveal red and blue beneath. A Spider-Man suit.
“Who are you?” Miles whispered, awe and terror tangled in his voice.
Headlights flared suddenly, sweeping over the scene. A voice barked from the dark.
“Hey! What are you doing over there?!”
Your chest constricted. PDNY officers emerged from their patrol car, their shouts hard and sharp.
“Freeze, PDNY!”
You raised your arms instinctively, the blood roaring in your ears. But before you could even process, your legs moved on instinct—you ran. Behind you, Miles cursed as a strand of webbing snapped taut, pinning him to the man still lying unconscious in the snow.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” he shouted, dragging the man’s limp body over his shoulder with shocking strength. His knees buckled slightly under the weight, but he didn’t stop.
You sprinted beside him until he perched the both of you on the edge of a well. Miles gritted his teeth, clutching the unconscious man’s wrist, aiming the web-shooters.
“Hang on!” he yelled.
You wrapped your arms tightly around his torso, bracing yourself as the web fired and caught. The world lurched violently, swinging you through the air—until your bodies slammed mercilessly against the side of a church.
“Alright, people, hands up!”
Floodlights blinded you. Miles slowly raised his arms, but you were tangled around his chest, unable to move. Panic clawed up your spine as footsteps pounded closer. Desperate, you grabbed the man’s hand and curled his fingers into the familiar trigger pose.
A line of web shot into the night, snagging onto a passing train.
“Yes!” you shouted, relief bursting through you—
“NO!” Miles groaned, eyes widening in horror.
“Uh… adiós?” he offered weakly, waving to the stunned policemen before the train yanked you all forward, dragging you into the night.
The speed was unbearable. Your grip began slipping, the freezing wind tearing at your mask. The weight of three bodies strained the web like it might snap at any moment.
“Miles!” you cried, your voice cracking in the rush of air. “I have to let go!”
“Are you crazy?!” he shouted back, twisting his neck just enough to look at you. “Just hang on!”
Tears pricked your eyes from the sting of the wind—or maybe fear. You buried your face against his shoulder, arms tightening around him. “I’m trusting you!”
Then came the chaos.
Your bodies slammed against a delivery truck, scraped across a parked car, plowed straight through a snowman. Pain bloomed along your ribs and arms with each impact until finally, mercifully, your grip gave out.
You tumbled hard onto the icy street, rolling until you landed flat on your back. Dazed civilians stepped around you, barely sparing you a glance. The city never stopped, not even for someone falling out of the sky.
Gasping, you pushed yourself onto your elbows just in time to see Miles swing away with the unconscious man still clinging to him.
“I can’t believe you made me hang on,” you muttered bitterly, though the sting in your voice couldn’t quite mask the tremor of relief.
Back at the dorms, Charlotte slammed her fists into her pillow, the muffled thuds doing nothing to quiet the storm raging inside her. She buried her face in the fabric, letting out a frustrated groan that vibrated against the cotton. Guilt gnawed at her stomach like a living thing, coiling tighter and tighter until she could barely breathe.
It all went back to the spider bite. The tiny marks on her hand had been easy enough to dismiss—at least until her mother noticed. Just her luck, her family had a scientist in their circle. A scientist Charlotte should never have trusted.
Her aunt, Olivia Octavius.
At first, Olivia had been kind, even reassuring. She’d promised Charlotte she could trust her, that it was all just curiosity and routine research. But the moment Charlotte shared too much, everything shifted. The warmth drained from Olivia’s voice, replaced by a sharp edge that cut through Charlotte’s defenses.
Olivia demanded samples. She pressed for details, asked questions that dug too deep, too fast. And when Charlotte hesitated, her aunt’s mask slipped completely.
“You need to give me all the information you can dig up, alright, Charlotte?”
Charlotte’s jaw had clenched as she spat back, “What makes you think I’ll do this for you?”
The look Olivia gave her then still made her blood run cold. Calm. Calculating. Cruel.
“Because if you do,” Olivia said smoothly, “I’ll keep her identity to myself. I’ll make sure your friend doesn’t die.”
The words had struck like a dagger. Her friend. You.
From that moment, Charlotte was trapped. Every step she took felt like a betrayal—feeding her aunt scraps of information, watching you vanish more often with Miles, piecing together the truth she wished she didn’t know.
Maybe it was all just a misunderstanding, Charlotte told herself desperately. Maybe the strange glow of the spiders was just a trick of the light, a coincidence. Maybe she was wrong. But Olivia didn’t believe in coincidences. She had her heart set on one explanation: superheroes. And she was willing to tear through anyone to prove it.
If her aunt weren’t involved, Charlotte would’ve been proud of you. Happy for you. She understood why you kept it secret—how could you not? It would be terrifying to carry something like that alone.
But now… now everything was poisoned.
Charlotte hugged her pillow to her chest, nails digging into the fabric as hot tears stung her eyes. To protect you from Olivia, she’d have to change. She’d have to keep her distance, treat you differently, even if it killed her inside.
Even if it shattered her heart into pieces.
After a long and humiliating trek through the freezing streets, you and Miles finally stumbled into Uncle Aaron’s apartment. The place smelled faintly of oil paint and old wood, lived-in but warm, a strange comfort after everything you’d just been through. Miles had wasted no time tying up the unconscious Peter-lookalike to a punching bag, his limp body swaying slightly with each knot Miles tightened.
When the man was secured, silence filled the room—thick, heavy, almost suffocating. For the first time in what felt like hours, there was nothing to run from. Just the two of you and your tangled thoughts.
“Your uncle has a nice place,” you murmured, lying flat on the hardwood floor, your cheek pressed against the cool boards. The sound of your own heartbeat thudded faintly in your ears as you let your gaze roam across the apartment—family photos tucked into corners, a few dusty records stacked by the stereo, and shadows that seemed to cling to the walls.
Miles, sitting upright beside you, tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mask tugging with a faint smile. “Thanks. He hasn’t been answering me lately, though. But…” He shrugged, tugging absently at his shoelaces. “He told me I could come here whenever.”
You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes drifting to the bound figure in the corner. The man groaned in his sleep, shifting just enough to remind you he was real. “I’m sorry about your uncle,” you said softly. “D’you think he’s just… busy with work?”
“Dunno,” Miles muttered, his voice smaller now. He kept his head down, staring at the floor like it might hold the answer.
A pang of guilt struck you. “I’m sorry for bringing it up,” you blurted, biting your lip when you saw the way his shoulders tensed.
His head whipped toward you, urgency sparking in his dark eyes even through the mask. “Oh, no—don’t apologize. It’s okay, really! I just… don’t really know what’s going on.”
The spotlights in the back of the room hummed faintly, their glow painting him in sharp light. You tilted your head slightly, hoping he could see the warmth in your eyes beneath your mask. “I’m sure he’ll come around. Being an adult must be… hard. You’ll figure it out together, I promise.”
Miles blinked at you, and for a moment his smile was so genuine it almost made your chest ache. “Thanks, Y/n. Seriously.”
“You’re welcome,” you whispered, the words barely louder than the hum of the lights.
Then the room went still. A silence heavier than the one before crept in, filling every corner. You found yourself staring at the ceiling, the walls, anywhere but him. Your throat felt tight, and the air buzzed with something unspoken.
“It’s not snowing anymore,” you said quietly, as if the observation might cut the tension.
But when you finally turned your head, Miles was already staring at you. His mask was tugged up above his nose, his lips parted slightly like he’d been caught mid-thought. Your heart skipped, and with trembling fingers, you pulled your mask up too, your breath quickening.
Slowly—so slowly—you began to lean toward him. He mirrored your movements, cautious but drawn in, as though some invisible thread pulled the two of you closer. The world seemed to shrink until it was just the heat of his breath mingling with yours, your eyelids fluttering shut as your heart pounded in your chest.
And then—
“Hey! Hey, kid!”
The voice snapped through the moment like shattered glass. You both froze, flinching back as the spell between you broke, reality crashing in around you.
he tension snapped in half with that one line. Talk about timing, huh? 😭
I’d love to hear your thoughts—would Miles and Y/n have actually kissed if they weren’t cut off? 👀💫
👉 If you enjoyed this, please like, reblog, and drop a comment in the tags or replies! Reblogs especially help so much in getting the story out there 💜 thank you for supporting this little world I’m building ✨
Hey hey! I’m creating a general tag list for anyone who wants to be notified whenever I post a new story — no matter the fandom 💌
That includes:
🌸 Demon Slayer (KNY)
💥 My Hero Academia (BNHA)
🪄 Harry Potter
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🦸 Marvel
…and any others I might explore in the future!
Whether it’s fluff, angst, comfort, romance, drabbles, or full oneshots — you’ll get tagged in everything I write unless it’s a fandom-specific or private request 💕
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🦸 WANT TO BE TAGGED IN MY MARVEL X READER WRITING? 🦸
Hi hi! I’m putting together a tag list for all of my Marvel x Reader content! From Peter Parker sweetness, Bucky Barnes angst, chaotic Avengers banter, or emotional slow burns — you’ll be tagged in every new Marvel story I share 💌
This tag list covers all Marvel characters I write for — not just one hero!
You can check out some of my past Marvel drabbles and fics right here!
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Hey hey! I’m setting up a tag list for all of my Attack on Titan x Reader stories! That includes Levi, Eren, Armin, Jean, Reiner, and any other AOT faves you can’t get enough of 💌
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This tag list is for all my BNHA character x Reader content, not just one ship!
You can peek at some of my previous fics and drabbles right here!
🖋️ I usually write everything from sweet fluff to emotional angst, comfort fics, soft romance, and the occasional tear-jerker (you’ve been warned 😭). If that’s your jam...
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Hi hi! I’m making a tag list for all of my Demon Slayer x Reader stories! That means whether it’s Tanjiro, Zenitsu, Inosuke, Giyuu, Sanemi, or any other fave — you’ll get tagged in every new post I share 💌
This tag list is for all my Demon Slayer character x Reader content, not just one ship!
You can peek at some of my previous fics and drabbles right here!
🖋️ I usually write everything from sweet fluff to emotional angst, comfort fics, soft romance, and the occasional tear-jerker (you’ve been warned 😭). If that’s your jam...
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Hey lovely people! 💕 This post is your one-stop shop for all my taglists — so if you enjoy my x Reader stories and want to get notified whenever I post something new, just find the fandom you’re interested in below and follow the instructions!
Each taglist is fandom-specific, so you’ll only be tagged in the stories you actually want to see. Feel free to join more than one! 💌
🌸 Demon Slayer (KNY) Taglist
Sweet fluff with Tanjiro, chaotic drabbles with Inosuke, emotional Giyuu angst, and more!
👉 Click here to join my KNY x Reader taglist!
💥 My Hero Academia (MHA) Taglist
From Bakugou soft moments to Todoroki drama and Dabi chaos — you know the vibe.
👉 Click here to join my MHA x Reader Taglist!
🪄 Harry Potter (HP) Taglist
Includes Marauders era, Golden Trio era, and AU/family-based x Reader stories.
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⚔️ Attack on Titan (AOT) Taglist
Levi, Eren, Armin, Jean and more — expect emotional battles, quiet moments, and survival angst.
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🦸 Marvel Taglist
Whether it’s Peter Parker fluff, Bucky comfort, or chaotic Avengers x Reader fun, it’s all here.
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📖 General Taglist
Want to be tagged in every x Reader story I write — no matter the fandom? This one’s for you!
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Like, comment, or reblog the linked taglist post(s) to be added
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Please don’t interact if you don’t want to be tagged (even a like counts!)
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It's been a few weeks since the events that unfolded at the Kamado household, and now you sit on the patio, gazing at the vast expanse of the sky, a gentle smile gracing your lips. It feels surreal to finally have a moment of peace, especially after managing to convince those around you to stop harbouring ill feelings about your life choices. The weight of guilt that once pressed heavily upon you has lifted, leaving an unexpected void—both liberating and unsettling.
In this quiet moment, vivid memories flood back of that fateful day. You remember the chaotic swirl of emotions as you packed your belongings, each item a reminder of both joy and pain. You had been careful, trying to slip away unnoticed, avoiding the curious eyes and probing questions from those in the house. The creaking floorboards seemed louder as you tiptoed past the familiar rooms, each step echoing the bittersweet memories you were leaving behind. It was a moment filled with tension, hope, and apprehension about what lay ahead.
Now, as you reflect on that day, you can't help but feel a mix of nostalgia and relief, grateful for the newfound freedom that came with such a difficult choice. The wind brushes against your skin, carrying with it the faint scent of pine—just like the mountains you once called home. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of the sun wash over you, and for the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to simply breathe.
The sky outside was beginning to pale, a gradient of cold blue light creeping through the wooden slats of the window. Upon closer inspection, the light seemed to dance across the dust motes suspended in the still air of the room. The fire in the hearth had long gone out, leaving a lingering chill that seeped into your bones. The Kamado home was wrapped in an unsettling stillness, quiet in the way that made your heart ache—like the poignant silence that follows the final note of a song, leaving echoes of emotion hanging in the air.
Moving slowly, you began to fold your clothes with meticulous care, the fabric catching in your fingers as your hands turned numb—not from the cold but from something deeper, darker. Fear, guilt, dread—they all swirled within you, creating a suffocating grip. The early hour had given you a sense of urgency, a small respite from the potential fallout of your decision. You had awoken before the others, hoping to escape unnoticed, clutching the fragile hope that you could leave without disrupting their lives any further.
The bag on your bed crinkled softly as you packed away pieces of your life here—each item a fragment of the memories and warmth you had known. One shirt, neatly folded; the delicate hair ribbon Nezuko had made for you, a token of sisterhood that felt heavier than it should; and Takeo's drawing, a messy but endearing representation of your time together, tucked gently into the corner. And then, there was Tanjiro's old scarf—the most precious item of all.
You paused, staring at it for a moment. It was worn at the edges now, a testament to the time it had seen, and faintly carrying the comforting scents of charcoal and pine. Memories flooded back unbidden: the day he had wrapped it around your fingers, the day you had nearly frozen in the woods, his warmth enveloping you even in the coldest moments. He had given you something without knowing your name, a gesture of kindness that had forever altered the course of your heart.
You placed it gently into the bundle, your breath shaking as the weight of your decision loomed larger. Standing up felt like moving through water, every step heavy with impending loss. You glanced nervously at the doorway leading to the main room, hoping—praying—you hadn't disturbed anyone. But when you turned back—
He was there.
Tanjiro.
Framed in the doorway like a shadow pulled from the depths of your heart. His figure seemed to shimmer in the pale light, the contours of his face softened by an expression of deep concern. His eyes were red-rimmed, puffy, as though he had awoken from troubled dreams, and there was a rawness in them that made your throat close painfully. He was only partially dressed, the inner layer of his yukata cascading around him in disarray, a testament to how quickly he had rushed out of bed.
"Tanjiro..." you whispered, startled at the sight of him. "You're awake—"
He didn't respond immediately, a heavy silence stretched between you, thick with the weight of unspoken feelings. His gaze drifted down to your packed bag and then back up to your face. You could see the tremor in his lips, a silent reflection of the turmoil raging within him.
Then, softly, his voice breaking in the stillness, he said,
"I don't want you to go."
Your heart twisted painfully in your chest. You forced a weak smile and turned your body slightly, trying to put a modicum of distance between you—between your pain and his. "I'm only going to Kazuko-san's. She offered to take me in. It's not far—"
"That's not what I mean." He took a step closer, his voice growing firm, each word heavy with sincerity. "I don't want you to leave this house. Our home. Not now. Not ever."
"Tanjiro..." you began cautiously, aware of the impending conflict. "Your Okāsan said it's for the best. People talk. They say I'm not family. That it's improper for me to stay here. It's hurting your reputation. It's—"
"I don't care what they say," he interrupted, his voice louder than intended, then softened, almost pleading. "I don't care about any of that."
You shook your head desperately. "But I do! I don't want to bring shame on your family. I've already stayed here too long. I've already taken too much—"
"You've never taken anything," he countered suddenly, his tone firm and unwavering. "You've only given. You made Nezuko smile when she missed Otōsan. You helped Takeo with his reading. You stayed up with me when the firewood ran out and we had to replace it. You brought light into this house, (Y/n), and we... I..."
He faltered again, the raw honesty in his expression making you ache. He looked down at his feet, fists clenching at his sides, as if wrestling with his own emotions. "I've never said it properly. I didn't think I had to. But I realise now—maybe I do."
Taking a deep breath, he summoned the courage to continue. "I love you."
In that moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Time suspended, each heartbeat echoing the truth of his words. Tanjiro raised his head, and despite the wetness in his eyes, they remained steady, filled with a fierce resolve. "I love you, (Y/n). I don't know when it happened. Maybe it was the day you fell into the snow and still smiled at me. Maybe it was when I started watching you sing with Okāsan while cooking. Or maybe... It's always been there, lurking beneath the surface. But I do know that every time you leave the room, it feels like I've left something behind. I know that I worry about you before myself. That I think about a future, and you're always in it."
You couldn't breathe. Your throat tightened in disbelief, and the scarf you'd packed earlier found itself back in your hands, crumpled from how hard you gripped it. The truth of his confession washed over you like a tidal wave, pulling you under.
"I know this is sudden," he continued, "and I'm not asking you for anything. Not right now. Not pressure. Not promises. Just... just don't walk away thinking I'm okay with it."
Stunned, you blinked, the world around you starting to blur through the moisture in your eyes. "I thought you didn't feel the same. That maybe you only saw me as... part of the house. A sister. A friend."
"I thought maybe I shouldn't say anything," he admitted quietly, the vulnerability in his voice cutting through the lingering tension. "I didn't want to ruin what we had. But hearing you say you're leaving—it was like something inside me broke. I can't let you go, not without telling you what's in my heart."
He stepped forward, hesitating just outside of your reach. "If it will protect you... if it'll give you a place here without shame... then yes. I'll marry you one day. I want to. Not because we have to. But because I mean it."
His hands hovered, unsure like leaves caught in the wind. "But if you don't feel the same, I'll let you go. I swear. I'll never hold you back."
You were trembling now, tears spilling down your cheeks in hot, confused rivers. The reality of his words settled like a weight deep in your chest. "Tanjiro..." Your voice cracked under the strain of emotion. "I—how could you think I don't feel the same?"
He looked taken aback, the surprise evident in his expression.
"I've been in love with you for years," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper, but each word resonated with all the truth you had kept hidden.
The weight that lifted from his shoulders in that moment felt as if it had the power to move mountains.
Then, without overthinking it, you reached for him.
He caught you in his arms, and it was everything you had yearned for—warm, real, grounding. His hand sank gently into your hair as your forehead nestled against his chest, the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat mirroring your own. It was a heartbeat that spoke of a promise, of shared dreams, and a future intertwined.
"I'm sorry I packed my things and tried to leave when you were asleep," you whispered, feeling the flood of warmth surround you.
"I'm sorry I waited so long," he murmured softly against your hair, his breath warm and filled with a mixture of relief and hope that washed over him like a gentle tide. The weight of unspoken words hung in the air, but in that moment, all that mattered was the connection between the two of you.
He pulled back just enough to search your eyes, their depths reflecting a world of emotions. "Stay. Please. With us. With me," he urged, his voice steady yet tinged with vulnerability.
You nodded, feeling the lump in your throat tighten, words failing you in the face of such raw sincerity. "Okay," you managed to whisper, the promise resonating deeper than the mere syllables.
As the soft golden dawn spilt its light into the room, wrapping you both in its warmth, you realized with a profound certainty that, no matter what the world outside whispered or declared, this was home. You were enveloped in a sanctuary built on love and understanding, and in that embrace, you found everything you had been searching for.
The morning sun spills honey-gold light through the open shoji doors, filling the engawa with a warm, inviting glow. (Y/n) sit cross-legged on the smooth wooden planks, feeling the gentle caress of the breeze as it dances around her. her fingertips trace the delicate golden band encircling her finger—a cherished family heirloom passed down from Kie.
"Mine and Tanjuro's," she had whispered softly, the memory of that night flickering in her mind like the candlelight that had illuminated the dim room. She had pressed the ring into her palm with a tenderness that felt both heavy and light, as if she were bestowing upon her a piece of their shared history. "Now yours and Tanjiro's."
The delicate band hums with the resonance of memory—laughter that once filled the air, tears shed in moments of vulnerability, and promises made in the quiet of night. Each glance at the ring anchors (y/n) to the love and legacy that it represents, a symbol of connection that binds the past to the present, intertwining her fate with Tanjiro's in ways that are still unfolding.
Tanjiro's soft footsteps creak gently across the engawa, a familiar rhythm that's woven into the fabric of her mornings. (y/n) don't look up right away; instead, she let the warmth of his presence wash over her like the gentle morning sun, its rays filtering through the trees and casting dappled patterns on the ground.
"Ah... you're up early," he says quietly, crouching beside (y/n). His voice carries a gentle note of surprise, but there's a deeper warmth too, like fondness tucked delicately between the syllables.
Finally, (y/n) turn her gaze to him. His hair is still tousled from sleep, soft strands falling across his forehead, and there's a slight crease on his cheek—a remnant of the pillow that cradled him through the night. Yet it's his eyes—those deep, kind, steady pools—that draw her in, already reflecting the soft light of the morning and a myriad of unspoken emotions.
(y/n) notice his attention drifting to her fingers, which are tracing the delicate contours of the ring on her hand. His gaze flickers to it for just a moment before returning to her face, a faint smile lifting the corners of his lips as if something precious has caught his eye.
"I was going to head into the village soon," he continues, his tone light but laced with an underlying sense of responsibility. "The usual errands... Hisa-san wanted more herbs, and Takeo mentioned we're out of millet flour again."
He pauses for a heartbeat, as if wrestling with his own thoughts, then adds more hesitantly, "Would you like to come with me?"
His fingers scratch the back of his neck, a shy gesture, but there's a hopeful glimmer in his eyes that makes her heart flutter. "I mean, if you want to. You usually come along, and I—well, I was hoping we could go together. Like always."
A soft breeze stirs, rustling the leaves of the nearby trees and sending a shiver through the folds of her clothing. Tanjiro regards her closely now, as if bracing for her response—the kind of yes or no that feels monumental in the quiet of the morning.
His voice drops into a softer register, earnest and just a tinge unsure: "It's just that... it feels nicer with you there. The road seems shorter, and I can't help but smile more when you're walking beside me."
There's nothing grand or theatrical in his delivery—just pure, sincere Tanjiro, his heart laid bare for her like an open book, as if it's the most natural expression in the world.
Then, a flicker of mischief ignites in his eyes, and he tilts his head slightly. "Also... if I forget anything, you remember it better than I do. So I really kind of need you."
He offers a sheepish smile, and in that moment, everything feels easy and warm, just like home.
she giggled softly, a light, airy sound reminiscent of wind chimes dancing in a gentle breeze. Tanjiro's clumsy yet earnest words manage to wrap around her heart in the gentlest embrace, filling her with a sense of belonging.
"You're getting better at saying things like that," she tease, tilting her head toward him with a playful smile that brightens her features.
A faint blush creeps across his cheeks—rosy and endearing—but this time he doesn't shy away. Instead, he lets out a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture she has come to adore when he's feeling embarrassed yet proud of his vulnerability.
"Well... I'm trying," he admits with a sheepish grin. "I don't want you to ever doubt how I feel. Not now. Not ever."
her eyes lock onto his, and in that brief moment, a silence envelopes her—heavy yet brimming with unspoken promises, with memories of mornings like this one, and the hopeful path of a future thier gently crafting together.
(y/n) reach out, her fingers brushing against his with a tender hesitance. "Then yes, Tanjiro," she respond softly. "I'd love to go with you."
The instant she said yes, he brightens like a lantern suddenly ignited, his joy spilling into the space around her—an infectious light that chases away any lingering shadows of doubt.
"Alright!" he exclaims, already reaching for her hand with a boyish enthusiasm that hasn't dulled since the day they first met. "Let's leave after breakfast. Oh, and we should bring that little pouch of herbs for Hisa-san—she always lights up when you give them to her."
(y/n) laughed again, the sound wrapping around him like a warm blanket, letting him help her to her feet. His hand feels warm and grounding in hers, the sunlight catching the ring once more as they walk side by side—each step drawing them one heartbeat closer to forever.
Or so they believed...
(y/n) stood outside the warm, familiar embrace of the Kamado household, waiting anxiously for Tanjiro to emerge. Clutching the woven satchel filled with her wooden crafts from the week, (y/n) felt a mix of excitement and nervousness about presenting them to Kazuko-san.
After what felt like ages, the door finally creaked open, and Tanjiro stepped out, his face breaking into a soft, reassuring smile as he took (y/n)'s hand in his. With a shared glance, they both began thier descent down the snow-covered mountain toward the village.
Just as they started down the path, a familiar voice called out, halting both thier steps.
"(Y/N)! Tanjiro!"
(y/n) turned to see Kie, approaching with a towel draped casually over her shoulder. Her warm, caring demeanour shone through as she wiped her hands with a cloth, the sweet scent of the dishes she had been preparing lingering in the air.
"Tanjiro, your face is pitch black!" she exclaimed, concern etched on her features. Without hesitation, she lowered herself to his level, gently removing the smudges of soot that had accumulated on his cheeks during his morning chores.
"You both shouldn't be going out; it's snowing and quite dangerous," Kie continued, her voice laced with maternal worry.
Tanjiro sighed, glancing up at his mother with a determined expression. "I know, Okāsan, but I really want to make our New Year's feast special. I promise I'll be careful and return as quickly as I can."
(y/n) watched as Kie's expression softened, yet a hint of sadness flickered in her eyes. It pained her to see her children, still so young—barely fifteen—taking on burdens of responsibility that they never asked for. Nevertheless, she nodded in understanding.
"I understand, dear. Just be safe," she replied, her voice gentle but firm.
"And I'm going to help Kazuko-san at the shop today," (y/n) interjected, eager to ease her worry. "I'll also be bringing some herbs to Hisa-san."
A faint smile graced Kie's lips; she appreciated her being thoughtfulness. Just then, the sound of excited footsteps interrupted the moment as Hanako and Shigeru darted into view, their faces glowing with enthusiasm.
"Onīsan! Onēsan! Are you going to town today?" Hanako chirped, her eyes sparkling as she tugged at (y/n)'s sleeve with urgency.
"I want to go too!" Shigeru added, bounding toward them with a wide grin while Takeo trailed behind, an axe resting confidently on his shoulder.
Kie's voice turned soft yet carried a note of authority as she responded, "No, you can't keep up with Tanjiro and (Y/N) on foot, my darlings." The little ones whimpered in protest.
"But Okāsan!" Shigeru persisted, clinging to Tanjiro's arm, his disappointment palpable.
"No," Kie replied, her tone gently resolute as she looked down at them, the warmth fading just a fraction from her expression.
"They aren't taking the cart today, so none of you can ride when you get tired."
Despite their pleading eyes, Kie held her ground. (y/n) smiled down at Hanako, who was clasping her hand tightly, and offered her a reassuring pat on the head. "I promise I'll take you with me next time, okay?" (y/n) said gently, hoping to soothe her disappointment.
Tanjiro glanced at Takeo, who stood quietly with his axe, a sense of longing in his eyes.
"Takeo... I know you're still growing, but could you chop a little wood today?" Tanjiro encouraged him, his voice filled with brotherly support.
Takeo nodded slowly, his gaze momentarily drifting away as if searching for the right words. "I will," he said finally, his voice low and thoughtful, "but I was hoping we could do it together."
Tanjiro's expression softened at Takeo's quiet request. He reached out, ruffling his younger brother's hair with a fond smile. "I'll help you as soon as we get back," he promised. "We'll make a pile so big, it'll last all winter!"
Takeo's shoulders lifted slightly, a small but genuine smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah," he agreed, tightening his grip on the axe.
Hanako, still clinging to (y/n)'s hand, gave it one last squeeze before releasing her with a dramatic sigh. "Okay... but you have to bring us treats from town!" she declared, her pout melting into mischief.
Shigeru, ever the opportunist, perked up instantly. "Candy! The sticky kind!"
Kie chuckled, shaking her head. "If they have time," she reminded them, though her eyes twinkled with amusement.
Tanjiro adjusted the straps of his basket, then turned to (y/n). "Ready?" he asked, his voice warm.
she nodded, giving Hanako one last pat before stepping toward the path.
"Be safe," Kie called after them both, her voice laced with quiet strength.
"We will!" Tanjiro replied, waving.
"Onīsan!" called Nezuko, her voice soft but clear as she approached with careful steps, a blanket-draped bundle secured to her back. Rokuta, the youngest Kamado sibling, lay curled up against her, cheeks rosy from sleep, his little fists tucked beneath his chin as his breath came slow and warm.
(y/n) turned at the sound, a gentle smile already on her lips. The sight of the two of them—Nezuko's slender form carrying her baby brother with such natural grace—made something tender flicker in her chest. Stepping forward, she reached out instinctively, brushing a fallen leaf from Rokuta's hair. The sleeping boy shifted slightly, snuggling deeper against Nezuko with a quiet sigh as her fingers passed over his forehead.
A soft chuckle escaped her.
"I was putting Rokuta to sleep, but I heard all the commotion," Nezuko said, addressing her brother with a fond, tired smile before her gaze drifted to (y/n).
She watched the peaceful way the little boy responded to her touch—how he calmed even more, as if reassured just by her presence.
"They've been so lonely since Otōsan died... so they've started clinging to both of you."
Tanjiro stepped forward at her words, resting his hand lightly on Rokuta's small head. His touch lingered, eyes warm with emotion. He didn't speak, but the look on his face said enough—love, protectiveness, and that lingering ache of loss.
"I'll head back to the house," Nezuko said with a nod, adjusting the blanket gently over her brother. "See you later!"
With that, she turned and walked slowly back up the narrow path, Rokuta safe against her back.
The two of them stood in silence for a moment before beginning thier own path toward the village. The cold mountain air brushed past them, carrying the faint smell of pine and woodsmoke. (y/n)walked close beside Tanjiro, her hands gripping the strap of her satchel, but her eyes were fixed on him—on his downcast gaze, the thoughtful furrow between his brows.
(y/n) reached out gently, tugging on the sleeve of his haori.
"Huh?" he blinked, gaze lifting as though pulled from a deep train of thought. His eyes met hers, and the crease in his brow softened at the sight of her concern.
"Are you alright? Is your bag heavy?" he asked, voice careful, gentle. "I can carry it for you if that's the case."
her heartbeat unevenly as he said it, the cold biting her cheeks more than the warmth threatening to creep up her neck. Still, (y/n) held his gaze, trying to be braver than the flutter in her chest allowed.
"You've been quiet today..."
The worry in her voice made Tanjiro's expression shift—he smiled, faint but real, as if wanting to assure her that everything was okay. But he didn't speak right away. Instead, he reached out and took her hand in his, tucking both of their hands into the wide, warm pocket of his haori. His fingers tightened around hers, grounding and sure.
"It's just..." he began softly, his gaze on the path ahead, "I know we're happy, but I just can't seem to stop thinking about how long we'll stay like this. The snow won't always keep falling for us to keep selling charcoal."
His words struck her like a slow, quiet wind—melancholy, but real.
(y/n) looked down, fingers curling tighter around the strap of her satchel. her feet crunched softly in the snow, and for a moment, neither of themspoke.
"But I don't want you to worry about it," Tanjiro continued, squeezing her hand, "We are going to find something else. I know we will."
(y/n) shook her head, then met his eyes with determination.
"No," (y/n) said, voice steady now, "I want to be with you like how I am now. I've been thinking about the same thing... and I have something to show you."
He slowed his steps, eyes curious. she reached into her satchel and carefully pulled out a small wooden doll—hand-carved and painted with care. Its design was familiar, and Tanjiro's eyes lit up in recognition. It was the same type Kazuko-san had brought to the house before, gifts for Nezuko and Hanako.
"I've been making these for Kazuko-san," (y/n) said, brushing her thumb gently across the doll's painted face. "She sells them to people in other villages... not just ours. I thought maybe we could sell them ourselves too—maybe in nearby towns. I can learn to make other things too, not just dolls. And we can use the cart as a small moving shop, until we can build something bigger later on."
(y/n) looked down, fiddling with the doll, unaware of how Tanjiro had gone utterly still beside her.
He didn't speak, but his eyes were wide, lips parted slightly. He looked at her like she were the most radiant thing he'd ever seen. Like she had just pulled the sun itself out of her satchel and offered it to him.
His heart thudded in his chest—hard, fast, and full.
(y/n) started to mumble again, nervousness returning in her hands as she turned the doll over.
But Tanjiro reached out with his free hand, brushing his fingers gently through her hair to stop her. The simple, wordless touch made her breath catch. (y/n) looked up, and he was already looking at her—blushing faintly, but eyes overflowing with affection.
"Thank you," he whispered, so softly that it nearly melted into the breeze.
Then, without letting go of her hand, he gave the slightest tug, guiding her forward.
(y/n) smiled. A warm, slow smile that bloomed from her chest and reached her eyes as she felt him intertwine thier fingers once more—safe and steady in the pocket of his haori—their shared warmth tucked between layers of cloth and heartbeats.
And so, the two of them continued toward the village, side by side.
By the time the two of them reached the village, the snow had thinned into a soft flurry, melting gently against the warmth of thier cheeks. The familiar dirt paths, half-covered in slush, were alive with morning bustle—children carrying baskets, shopkeepers brushing snow off awnings, smoke curling from chimneys like threads weaving the village into the sky.
As always, the villagers greeted Tanjiro with bright smiles and calls of welcome.
And as always, (y/n) was mostly the shadow by his side.
The rumours had faded with time, like smoke on a winter wind, but the sting of their aftertaste still lingered. (y/n) could feel it in the subtle looks—the hesitation in some women's greetings, the stiff nods from a few elderly mothers who had once whispered that she'd "trapped that poor Kamado boy after those engagement rumours started."
Some still thought (y/n) had taken advantage of his kindness. That she clung to him like snow on his sleeves, weighing him down.
It wasn't all of them, of course. Some had come around, recognizing her kindness, quiet strength and hard work. But others? Their eyes still flickered with something sharper than doubt—envy, perhaps. Especially from the girl who now stood near the apothecary's stall, arms crossed, her gaze narrowed as if still trying to unravel the mystery of why someone like him would choose someone like her.
But Tanjiro didn't seem to notice, or maybe he just didn't care. His presence beside (y/n) remained gentle, warm as ever, the pressure of his hand in hers never faltering. That was all the reassurance she needed.
"Oh, Tanjiro! (Y/n)!" came a familiar voice.
Hisa, the older woman who always asked for mountain herbs, shuffled up to the two of them. Her back was slightly stooped from age, but her eyes were sharp, framed by thin strands of silver hair that peeked out from under her scarf. She wasn't as old as Kazuko-san, but she acted older—perhaps to avoid going up the mountain herself.
"You came down the mountain on a day like this? You two work so hard!" Her tone was a mix of admiration and worry, like a grandmother who scolded out of love. "You'll catch a cold!"
(y/n) smiled softly at her, the affection in her voice easing something tight in her chest.
"You don't need to worry, O bāchan, we are going to be alright," (y/n) said gently, and she meant it—because as long as she had Tanjiro walking beside her, the cold wasn't so bad.
Still, (y/n) slowly slipped her hand from his, even though a part of she didn't want to let go. The warmth of his palm lingered against her skin like a farewell kiss. But there was work to be done.
Turning to him, (y/n) gave a small, reassuring smile, the one only he seemed to truly understand.
"I'll go with O bāchan, and then to Kazuko-san's shop. Will you meet me there?"
Tanjiro nodded, eyes soft as he looked at her. "Of course."
Then, with one last glance, he turned toward the center of the village where others had already started calling for him. People pressed forward to greet him, thanking him for firewood, asking for help with repairs or to deliver more firewood. They trusted him. Needed him. He responded with the same humble smile each time, sleeves rolled up as if already prepared to help.
As (y/n) watched him from the edge of the road, Hisa tugged lightly at her sleeve, and she followed. Still, for just a second, (y/n) looked back—her eyes meeting Tanjiro's briefly through the crowd. His smile reached her even from a distance, as though he was reminding her that no matter what anyone thought...
He had already chosen her.
And she smiled back, the warmth of his haori still lingering against her skin like a promise.
The afternoon sun hung low, casting a soft golden hue over the slushy roads and snow-dusted rooftops. (y/n) adjusted the woven satchel on her hip—filled with a few more of her handmade dolls—and picked up her pace. The walk to Kazuko-san's shop wasn't long, but the wind was sharp, and her hands were beginning to numb despite the scarf wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
(y/n) had just passed the edge of the square when a familiar voice rang out, too sweet to be sincere.
"Oh, (Y/n)... still running errands?"
(y/n) paused and turned to see Sayo, the daughter of a shopkeeper in town, standing beneath the shade of a roof. She wore her hair perfectly braided, her clothes pristine despite the muddy snow. A forced smile pulled at her lips, but her eyes betrayed it—sharp, calculating, full of something unspoken.
(y/n) met her gaze with quiet politeness. "Yes, I was just headed to Kazuko-san's."
Sayo took a slow step toward her , her arms folded loosely.
"She's lucky to have someone like you to carry her things, don't you think?" she said, voice light but edged with something bitter. "Even after all the talk, you still go around working like none of it matters. I suppose that's one way to survive..."
(y/n) held her stare, her knuckles tightening around the handle of her satchel. (y/n) had no desire to argue. She wasn't worth it—and deep down, she knew it too. But before she could walk away, another voice cut in, slurred with mockery.
"Oi, Sayo," laughed a boy—Daichi, one of the older teens who helped his uncle at the lumber yard. He leaned lazily against the post behind her, hands in his pockets. "Why waste your breath? Everyone knows she only got Kamado to marry her 'cause of that rumour."
her spine stiffened.
"She clung to it like a leech. And now she walks around pretending like it's all sweet and innocent." His lip curled, voice louder now, enough to draw the attention of a few passersby. "You sure you're not putting something in that tea you bring him, (Y/n)? Maybe slipping him a spell while he sleeps?"
Sayo snickered behind her sleeve, clearly enjoying the moment, but (y/n)'s feet didn't move. her lips were pressed into a thin line, her was breath slow—but inside, (y/n) could feel the cold rising from the street wasn't from the snow.
she opened her mouth to say something—but didn't have to.
Because in that moment, (y/n) felt a sudden shift in the air behind her.
"Daichi."
The voice was low. Calm. But it landed like the sharp strike of an axe.
Daichi straightened immediately, paling slightly as he looked past her.
Tanjiro.
He stood not five steps away, sleeves rolled up, his haori still dusted with sawdust from helping repair a roof near the shop. His face was unreadable—no anger, no shouting—but his eyes were hard, his jaw tight. It was the quiet kind of fury. The kind that didn't need to be loud to be terrifying.
Tanjiro stepped beside her, close enough that her arm brushed his. Without breaking eye contact with Daichi, he gently took the satchel from her hands and passed it to his other side—so he could slip his hand into hers.
A simple gesture. But a clear message.
"She's been nothing but kind to everyone in this village," Tanjiro said, voice even. "She's helped families who didn't have enough for winter, watched your little cousin when your sister was sick, and walked through snowstorms to bring back medicine for elders who couldn't climb the mountain."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "You'll speak to her with respect."
Daichi swallowed, the smirk wiped clean off his face. "I– I was just teasing—didn't mean anything."
"You did," Tanjiro replied, tone still controlled, but now edged with steel. "But this is your warning. Don't speak to her like that again."
(y/n) felt her breath catch in her throat—not from fear, but from the overwhelming gentleness beneath his protectiveness. He wasn't defending her because he thought she were fragile—he was standing beside her because he knew her strength, and still chose to carry the weight with her.
Sayo scoffed quietly and tried to turn away as if none of it mattered, but not before Tanjiro's gaze fell briefly on her, sharp as frost.
"And if you think I chose her to be my future wife because of a rumour," he said to no one and everyone, "then you don't know me at all."
That silenced everything.
Without another word, Tanjiro tugged (y/n) gently forward. The moment her feet started moving, the tension ebbed away like melting ice, left behind only in footprints.
(y/n) didn't say anything for a while. Not until they were halfway down the road, her hand still in his, the satchel swaying lightly at her side.
"...Thank you," (y/n) finally whispered, eyes still ahead.
He looked over, smiling gently. "You don't have to thank me."
"But I still want to," she said quietly, "You always... see me."
Tanjiro stopped walking for a heartbeat and turned to face her fully, brushing a bit of windblown hair from her cheek with a tenderness that made her chest ache.
"I always will."
And with that, he led (y/n) the rest of the way to Kazuko-san's, fingers still intertwined, warm against the fading winter light.
The wooden door creaked open with a soft chime of bells overhead as (y/n) and Tanjiro stepped into Kazuko-san's shop. The warm scent of dried herbs, old cedarwood, and fresh ink filled the air, wrapping around them like an old wool shawl. The space was familiar—lined with narrow shelves full of hand-sewn charms, jars of dried flowers, paper lanterns, and polished stones that glowed under the amber lamplight.
(y/n) balanced the satchel in her hands, looking around for the old woman, but before she could call out—
"Well, well, if it isn't my favourite pair of lovebirds!"
Kazuko-san stood behind the wooden counter near the back, grinning from ear to ear like a cat that had just caught two canaries. Her silver hair was pinned up in her usual messy bun, and her hands were on her hips, leaning forward with delight practically radiating off her.
(y/n) froze. Tanjiro stiffened beside her.
She waved them closer, eyes twinkling with mischief. "I was wondering what was taking you so long, and then I heard the commotion right outside!"
(y/n)'s heart sank. Tanjiro's ears were already turning red.
Kazuko-san leaned over the counter, her grin widening. "Tanjiro Kamado! Standing up for your sweetheart like that in front of the whole street? Oh, bless you, boy. I've never been more proud!"
Tanjiro let out a soft, strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a dying cough. "K-Kazuko-san, please..."
She waved him off with a cackle. "Don't you dare be embarrassed! I've lived in this village long enough to know what those two brats are like. That Sayo girl walks around like she's still ten and trying to catch fireflies with a fishing net. And Daichi?" She snorted, "If you stacked his brains end to end, you still wouldn't make a full thought!"
(y/n) bit down a laugh, one hand over her mouth, but she was on a roll now.
"And yet there he was," she went on dramatically, "poking at you like a drunken chicken. I almost marched out myself to give him a good whack with my broom, but then you, dear Tanjiro, stepped in, cool as winter wind—took her hand right there in the street and put that boy in his place!"
She sighed dreamily, resting her chin in her hand like a proud aunt watching a play unfold.
Tanjiro covered his face with one hand. "Kazuko-san..."
"And you!" she turned her sharp, loving gaze to (y/n) now, voice softening a touch. "You're strong, but you've carried too much alone for too long. I knew from the moment that boy started helping you carry my deliveries that he was the one. You may not be my blood, girl, but you're mine all the same—and I couldn't be happier that he's the one looking out for you."
(y/n)'s eyes stung a little at her words, but before she could thank her, she turned her teasing back on full force, pointing a gnarled finger at the both of them.
"Now, don't just stand there blushing like turnips! Let me see those dolls!"
(y/n) practically shoved the satchel onto the counter just to hide her face, and Tanjiro busied himself sorting the contents like his life depended on it. Kazuko-san picked up one of the dolls and examined it with exaggerated seriousness, clicking her tongue in approval.
"You're getting better," she muttered, then added slyly, "Bet it's love. Love makes the curve smoother."
(y/n) and Tanjiro simultaneously groaned.
"Do you want us to melt from embarrassment?" (y/n) whispered.
"That's my job," she said sweetly. "Now come on, both of you—help me organize the new stock before I start matchmaking the rest of the village out of spite."
(y/n) spent the next hour helping her sort herbs and arrange trinkets, both of them still pink-faced but laughing under her breath. Every so often, Kazuko-san would hum or sigh with great satisfaction, muttering things like, "He called her his future wife... right there in public! My back may be crooked, but my standards are straight!"
By the end of it, the little shop was filled with the gentle scent of dried lavender and the warm traces of laughter that still lingered in the air. The shelves gleamed—dolls carefully arranged in tidy rows, charms straightened with care—and somewhere in the back, Kazuko-san muttered about giving Daichi a piece of her mind and maybe her broomstick too.
(y/n) wiped her hands on her apron and glanced over at Tanjiro, a triumphant glint in her eye. "Told you I could stack more dolls on the top shelf without them falling."
He folded his arms, standing next to a slightly crooked display of good-luck charms. "Only because you distracted me halfway through!"
(y/n)laughed. "I distracted you? You were the one making weird faces!"
His eyes darted toward the tiny carved fox sitting innocently near the edge of the counter—the same one he'd almost dropped when shhe had poked fun at his concentrating face earlier.
"Was not," he said, feigning indignation.
"Were too."
And just like that, the two of them broke into another round of quiet giggles, the kind only shared between people who knew each other's hearts well. Outside, the sun had slipped low in the sky, casting a rose-gold haze through the windows, catching the dust in the air like glitter.
(y/n) reached for her scarf from the stool and tossed it around her shoulders. "Come on," (y/n) said, grabbing her satchel. "Before it gets too dark. I won our little bet, so..."
Tanjiro arched a brow, bracing for impact. "So?"
"So," (y/n) said with a little smirk, stepping toward him, "you owe me something hand-carved. No backing out this time."
He blinked, caught off guard. "Wait—that was the prize?"
(y/n) nodded, clearly pleased. "Something small, something made by you. I want to carry it around with me."
Tanjiro's ears flushed bright pink.
(y/n) shrugged casually, as if it wasn't a big deal but the heat crawling up her neck betrayed her. "It doesn't have to be perfect. Just something that's yours."
His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but the words didn't quite make it. Instead, he just gave her that smile—that genuine, tender smile that made her feel like she'd just asked for the moon, and he was already trying to carve it for her.
As they stepped outside into the cooling air, thier hands were warm from the shop and the day's work. He caught (y/n)'s pinky in his.
"You're really hard to say no to, you know that?" he murmured.
"I know," (y/n) said, trying to hide her own grin.
Still a little red in the ears.
Still recovering from Kazuko-san's earlier teasing.
But beside them, with the sky deepening into twilight and the path ahead glowing faintly with the last of the sun's light, Tanjiro looked at (y/n) like he wouldn't trade this moment—or the bet he lost—for anything in the world.
Not when it meant making something just for her.
The air was crisp, the quiet crunch of footsteps against the snow-covered trail the only sound between them. Twigs snapped softly under their weight, and the trees, dark and skeletal in the fading light, swayed slightly in the breeze.
Tanjiro walked ahead, scarf fluttering behind him as he glanced up at the darkening sky.
"Whew! It's getting late!" he called over his shoulder, picking up his pace.
(Y/n) jogged to catch up, clutching the edge of her cloak tighter around her. Her breath came out in soft white puffs.
"We should head back soon," she said, glancing nervously toward the shadows thickening beneath the trees. "It's going to get dark fast."
They quickened their steps until the small outline of a wooden house came into view—smoke curling from the chimney and a dim orange light glowing from within. Old Man Saburo's house sat hunched at the edge of the woods, like a quiet guardian watching the forest breathe.
As they approached the gate, the old door creaked open, and Saburo leaned out, his face lined with years and worry.
"Hey, Tanjiro! (Y/n)!" he called, his voice edged with concern. "You aren't... going back up the mountain, are you?"
His gaze settled on them, heavy and searching. There was a weight in his voice, a tension that made the moment stretch.
(Y/n) froze, the snow crunching softly beneath her feet. Her eyes flicked to the sky—dusky purple now, with clouds slipping over the last rays of sunlight.
Something about the stillness in the trees, the way the shadows seemed to lean in... it made her skin prickle.
She looked at the old man's face—creases deepening around his eyes, brows drawn in tight.
"I..." she started, then swallowed hard. Her fingers tightened around her scarf.
"I feel strange," she whispered, barely audible. Her voice trembled slightly, not from cold, but from something deeper. A tight feeling in her chest, as if the forest was holding its breath.
Tanjiro turned quickly to her, his eyes full of quiet concern. His hand reached out, steady and warm against her back.
Old Man Saburo stepped further onto the porch, now serious. "It's not safe past sunset," he warned, eyes flicking toward the trees.
The wind rustled the branches, and somewhere in the distance, a low creak echoed—just enough to stir the unease already curling in (Y/n)'s chest.
The air had this aura that seemed very familiar to her.
Tanjiro glanced once toward the path that led home—then back to her.
He could feel it too.
The wind picked up, whispering through the trees like a warning, carrying with it the faint, bone-deep chill of approaching night.
Snowflakes drifted down in slow spirals, dotting the path with silvery white, melting the moment they kissed the skin. Behind them, the forest loomed—still, breathless. No rustling of wings.
No chirp of birds. Even the creaking of branches had fallen silent, like the woods themselves were holding their breath.
Old Man Saburo stepped forward from the threshold of his cottage, the warm light spilling out behind him in stark contrast to the growing dusk.
His brow furrowed, and he folded his calloused hands into the wide sleeves of his faded haori.
"You can stay here," he said, voice gravelly but firm. "Please, come back inside."
Tanjiro paused, his foot half-turned toward the trail that led home. His jaw tightened, the weight of duty pressing down on his shoulders. His family was waiting—there was always something to do, someone to care for.
But then his gaze flicked to (Y/n) beside him.
The soft frown tugging at her brows, the way her fingers clutched the edge of her scarf with just a little too much tension—it made something in his chest ache.
Snowflakes caught in her lashes, melting into tiny droplets, and her breath came out in faint clouds.
He offered a quiet smile, trying to mask the uncertainty rising in him.
"I've got a good nose for trouble," he said, with a small huff of a laugh. "We'll be fine."
But (Y/n) reached out, her fingers gently tugging on the edge of his sleeve—enough to stop him, enough to anchor him.
Her voice was calm but firm, the kind of tone that came when she was scared but hiding it well.
"Tanjiro... We should stay here tonight. It's too dangerous in the woods after dark."
He looked at her—really looked. The determination in her eyes didn't waver. And when she squeezed the fabric between her fingers just a little tighter, he knew she was right. He opened his mouth, ready to argue, but all that came out was a weak,
"But—"
Saburo stepped closer, the lines of his face softening with understanding.
"It's all right," he said, quieter now.
"You're welcome here. Truly."
Inside the cottage
The interior of the home was modest, worn with age, but every corner radiated comfort. Tatami mats stretched across the floor, well-loved and slightly frayed. Woven baskets hung from the rafters, filled with dried herbs and winter vegetables. A low fire crackled in the sunken hearth at the center of the room, casting amber light across the walls and washing the space in gentle heat.
(Y/n) knelt near the fire, her hands stretched out to the warmth. Her cheeks were still pink from the cold, and the flickering firelight danced over her features, softening the curve of her expression. She exhaled, finally allowing her shoulders to relax.
Tanjiro sat beside her, the sleeve she'd tugged still slightly rumpled. His gaze moved slowly, taking in the small space: the hanging ladle, the clay bowls, the faint whistle of wind just beyond the paper screen door.
Saburo moved with quiet purpose, settling down across from them. He stirred the pot above the fire with a practiced hand, the aroma of simmering rice porridge rising between them. When he set the ladle down, his hands rested heavily on his knees, and his expression turned grave.
"You don't want to run into any demons," he said, voice low and deliberate.
The word lingered like smoke.
(Y/n) blinked, startled. Her gaze darted from Saburo to Tanjiro, but the boy beside her didn't flinch. She leaned forward slightly, her voice hushed.
"Demons? Are they... real?"
Saburo nodded, his eyes fixed on the shuttered window, as if staring into a memory too old to fade.
"For ages," he said slowly, "man-eating demons have roamed these woods after dark."
The fire crackled. A log shifted, popping sharply as if reacting to his words.
"People call it folklore," he continued, his voice growing heavier. "Stories to scare children into staying in their beds. To explain the disappearances, the sounds in the night. But those stories came from somewhere." He swallowed, gaze narrowing. "I've seen what's left behind. The claw marks on trees. The blood. Sometimes, I still hear the screams."
(Y/n) sat frozen, the weight of the room pressing in around her. She wasn't sure what unnerved her more—Saburo's conviction, or the way she feeled something familiar.
Without thinking, Tanjiro shifted a little closer to her. His hand brushed against hers on the tatami, warm and steady. She didn't pull away.
"but..." Tanjiro said, sitting up slightly on the futon, his brows furrowed in concern. "Can't the demons come inside houses?"
The old man paused for a moment before answering, his voice low and grim, "Yes...they can."
Tanjiro's eyes widened. "But... then," he asked, his voice soft, "...why don't they eat everyone?"
The man looked into the fire, his expression unreadable. "Because demon slayers cut them down," he said.
"Have for ages..."
Outside, the wind picked up, howling louder as it lashed against the walls of the small cottage. The wooden frame of the door rattled with every gust. From the depths of the forest, something groaned—low, drawn-out, and hungry.
It didn't sound human.
Inside, the fire blazed steadily in the hearth, but the flickering flames only deepened the shadows that danced on the walls.
Each shape cast by the light seemed to stretch farther than the last, reaching into corners that hadn't been dark before.
After finishing the simple but warm meal the old man had given them—rice and miso with a few slices of dried fish—Tanjiro and (Y/n) lay down beside each other on the futon, wrapped in borrowed blankets.
The room had gone quiet, save for the crackle of the fire and the distant, eerie rustling of the trees.
Tanjiro was half-asleep, his breathing slow but still light enough to stir the strands of hair across his forehead. Beside him, (Y/n) remained wide awake.
Her eyes were fixed on the wooden beams above her head, unmoving. She blinked slowly, her thoughts a swirl of confusion and unease.
The old man's words repeated in her mind like an echo chamber:
Demons can come inside...
They can eat anyone...
A shiver rippled down her spine.
She didn't know why the word "demon" made her chest tighten and her hands tremble. She couldn't remember when she had first heard that term—at least, not clearly. Her memories before meeting the Kamado family were like broken glass scattered across a forest floor: sharp, unclear, and dangerous to piece together. She remembered running—barefoot, breathless, bloody. Torn, burned clothes clinging to her. Smoke in her nose. The forest was swallowing her.
But from what?
From who?
She didn't know.
The fire popped in the hearth, and she flinched slightly.
Tanjiro, though drifting toward sleep, shifted. His sharp senses, even dulled by exhaustion, picked up on the subtle wave of emotions rolling off of her—grief, fear, confusion. It clung to her like mist. He opened one eye slowly, then turned his head toward her.
Without saying anything, he reached out and gently took her hand in his.
She startled at the touch, blinking, and turned on her side to face him.
Tanjiro gave her a small, sleepy smile, his warm fingers tightening slightly around hers."There's no need to fear," he whispered, his voice softer than the wind outside. His eyes—gentle, steady—met hers. "There's no such thing as demons."
His words were a sweet, meant only to comfort. She could hear it in the way his voice soften ever so slightly, feel it in the way he held her hand like she might vanish.
"You don't need to worry about it," he added, brushing his thumb gently across her knuckles.
"Not tonight. I promise."
(Y/n) stared at him for a long moment, the flickering firelight dancing in his eyes. Something about his presence—the scent of pine and charcoal, the warmth of his hand in hers—was grounding. It didn't erase the fear, but it softened it. Gave it shape.
And as the wind howled again and the shadows stretched farther across the wooden walls, she squeezed his hand back, finally letting her eyes close.
Even if she didn't remember where she came from, or why demons filled her with such dread—right now, she wasn't alone.
Not anymore.
But she should have knowen then that what she felt wasn't just a feeling.
The snow crunched beneath their feet as they hiked back toward the mountain. The sun had barely begun to rise, bleeding pale gold across the horizon like the softest wound, but the forest still clung to night like a dying breath.
Tanjiro walked slightly ahead, a woven basket of newly bought supplies strapped securely to his back. His pace was steady, quiet, but not relaxed. Behind him, (Y/n) followed closely, wrapped tightly in her scarf, her gloved hands buried in the folds of her coat. She hadn’t said much since they left the old man’s cottage. Neither had he. Not because there was nothing to say—but because something hung thick in the silence between them. Something neither could name.
The wind had settled. No rustling. No creaking of branches overhead. The trees stood eerily still—watchful, even.
"Strange," Tanjiro muttered, his voice just above a breath. "It's too quiet this morning. No birds."
(Y/n) looked up sharply, as if seeing the forest for the first time. No wings fluttering. No chirps or trills hidden in the pines. Just the dull crunch of snow under their boots and the distant, almost ghostly whisper of wind sliding through bare branches.
Something in her chest tightened—tight enough to steal her breath for a heartbeat.
They rounded a ridge, and the Kamado home came into view—a small, familiar shape in the clearing, roof dipped under the weight of snow, looking just as they’d left it.
Tanjiro smiled faintly in relief, shoulders easing just a little. “Finally. I bet Nezuko already started the fire.”
But then—
He stopped. Dead still.
The chimney was cold. No smoke rose from it.
No footprints in the fresh snow leading to the door.
No laughter echoing from the yard. No familiar tiny voices shouting to greet them.
Then—
The smell hit.
Rotting copper. Thick, metallic. Soaked into the snow and the earth like it belonged there.
Tanjiro froze mid-step. His hand shot out, gripping (Y/n)'s wrist so tightly it nearly hurt. His face went ghost-pale, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks.
“(Y/n),” he whispered, voice so quiet it barely made it past the air between them. “Stay here.”
But (Y/n) didn’t listen. Couldn’t. Not when his voice sounded like that—like the world had dropped out from beneath him.
Together, they ran the last stretch to the house.
The snow became slush beneath their feet, stained pink at the edges. The scent grew stronger—unmistakable.
They saw Nezuko’s small body curled protectively over baby Rokuta in the snow just before the front steps. Tanjiro dropped to his knees beside them without a word, hands already moving to check for breath, for warmth, for any sign of life.
(Y/n) didn’t pause. Her heart in her throat, she bolted to the door of the house, her boots slipping slightly on the blood-slick threshold. Her hands trembled as she reached for the handle, but she forced it open—
And froze.
The air inside was heavy. Still. A house that had once been filled with warmth and laughter was now drowned in silence and blood.
She let out a shaky breath, bile rising to her throat.
"T-Tanjiro..."
Her voice cracked.
At the broken tone of her voice, Tanjiro's blood ran cold. He didn’t turn right away—he didn’t need to. Her voice told him everything.
His heart sank to his knees.
Still, he rose. Still, he went to her. Still, he looked.
What he saw was worse than anything he could have imagined.
The bodies of their family members lay scattered across the room—bloodied, mangled. Slaughtered.
The air was thick with the stench of death. Blood painted the walls, pooled on the floor, soaked into the tatami mats like ink. Furniture lay overturned, shattered in places.
(Y/n)’s knees buckled slightly. Her head spun. Her legs felt like they might give out beneath her. It was happening again—again. Her lungs seized in panic, her breath coming too fast and too shallow. The memories hit like shrapnel.
Her first family—gone. Just like this. She hadn’t been there either. She had come home to the same silence. The same scent. The same stillness. She had found the blood. The broken bodies.
This time, she wasn't alone.
But that didn’t make it better. It made it worse.
Tanjiro, sweet Tanjiro, the boy who had only ever wanted happiness for his siblings—who had worked through blistered hands and aching muscles just to bring home rice and kindling and sticky candy for Shigeru—was now standing in the center of a nightmare.
He clutched the bag of candy in one hand, his knuckles turning white, the crinkling paper suddenly loud in the quiet.
“Wha-what happened?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, more to himself than to anyone. His eyes brimmed with tears, the horror of the scene unfolding before him.
“Okāsan... Hanako...” He stepped forward as if sleepwalking, gaze scanning the bloodied room. “Takeo... Shigeru... Nezuko... Rokuta…”
His voice cracked with every name. The blood made it difficult to recognize them—his beloved siblings and mother—faces pale, eyes glassy, unmoving.
Then—warm fingers touched his arm. A trembling hand reaching out, grounding him.
He blinked and turned.
(Y/n) stood there, tears welling in her eyes, voice tight and urgent.
"Tanjiro! Ne-Nezuko, she is still breathing!"
Everything inside him snapped back into focus.
He ran. Dropped to his knees beside his sister again.
“Help me move her on my back,” he said, voice choked but steady.
And without hesitation, (Y/n) nodded. They worked together—hands shaking, breaths trembling—but there was no time for fear. Only urgency.
Only the flicker of life left in Nezuko’s fragile body.
(Y/n) dropped to her knees beside Nezuko, her breath catching as she saw the faint rise and fall of the girl’s chest. Blood soaked her kimono, smeared across her cheek, and matted her hair. But her chest… it moved.
“She’s alive,” (Y/n) breathed, barely trusting her own voice. It came out cracked and hollow, but there was no mistaking it—Nezuko was breathing. Weak, shallow, but alive.
Tanjiro didn’t hesitate. He tore the basket from his back and tossed it aside, snow puffing up where it landed. "I’m not putting her in there. I’ll carry her myself."
His arms moved fast but carefully, cradling Nezuko’s limp body as though she were made of glass. He shifted her gently over his back, her arms hanging loosely over his shoulders, her face resting near the crook of his neck.
"Help me," he said, voice hoarse.
(Y/n) moved quickly despite her shaking hands, wrapping Tanjiro’s scarf more securely around Nezuko’s small form. They worked silently, urgently, with practiced familiarity—two people who knew the weight of life and the threat of losing it.
Once Nezuko was secure, Tanjiro tightened his grip on her legs and stood upright. His knees trembled beneath the weight—not from her body, but from everything else pressing down on him. The blood. The silence. The smell.
Behind him, (Y/n) stood frozen for a moment. Her eyes drifted back toward the door of the house, toward the broken bodies, toward the blood that had painted the walls like it was part of some sick, twisted mural. It hit her again—the memory.
The first time this had happened.
The first time she'd walked into a home that wasn’t a home anymore.
Her mother’s shawl soaked in red.
Her father’s hand stretched out, reaching for nothing.
The silence.
The cold.
She could almost smell it again, the copper tang thick in the back of her throat. She remembered the numbness that followed—how her heart had felt too big for her chest, and too hollow all at once.
But this time—this time she couldn’t let herself spiral.
She squeezed her eyes shut, fists clenched tight.
'Not now. Not again. Nezuko needs us. Tanjiro needs me.'
She forced the memories back, like slamming a door shut. Later, she could fall apart. Later, she could break. But now? Now they had to run.
“Tanjiro,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Let’s go. We don’t have time.”
He nodded, jaw clenched, tears frozen on his cheeks. The weight of Nezuko’s unconscious body pressed against his back, but he didn’t falter.
They turned their backs on the house—on the blood, the silence, the lives that had been stolen from them—and stepped back into the snow.
The cold wind bit at their faces, but they barely felt it.
Step after step, they descended the mountain, their breaths heavy, fogging in front of them. The forest, still eerily silent, watched them pass. The snow muffled their footsteps, the world around them eerily detached, like it too had gone into mourning.
Tanjiro’s arms held firm around Nezuko’s legs, his fingers trembling with more than cold. (Y/n) stayed close beside him, ready to catch him if he stumbled—not just physically, but emotionally. She knew that edge. She’d lived on it.
And this time, he wouldn’t have to fall alone.
They ran. For help. For hope. For the one life they could still save.
And behind them, the smoke still didn’t rise.
The descent was brutal.
The wind howled around them like a wounded beast, hurling snow against their faces with sharp, stinging force. The trail vanished beneath their feet more than once, hidden under fresh layers of white. Tanjiro’s breath came in ragged gasps, each step heavier than the last. His arms trembled as he held Nezuko on his back, her head resting limply against his shoulder. The cold gnawed at him. His body was screaming for rest, but he refused.
(Y/n) was right beside him, stumbling through the snow, trying to shield him from the wind when she could, pressing a hand against Nezuko’s back to steady her. But Tanjiro—
He wouldn’t let her carry more than she already had. Not after she had run after him. Not after she saw what he had seen.
Then it happened.
Nezuko let out a low, guttural moan—a sound that didn’t belong in this world. Her body twitched. Then jerked. She began thrashing violently on her brother’s back.
“Nezuko! Tanjiro!” (Y/n) shouted, trying to grab her.
But then—
Nezuko let out a scream—high and unholy, like something primal had taken hold of her—and Tanjiro lost his footing.
The snow crumbled beneath him.
“Tanjiro!!” (Y/n) lunged forward, hand outstretched, her fingers brushing the fabric of his haori—just barely.
But it wasn’t enough.
He and Nezuko went tumbling over the edge, swallowed by the trees and the white void below.
Gone.
"No—no no no no—!" (Y/n) scrambled to the ledge, the cold forgotten, her knees sinking into the snow.
“TANJIRO!! NEZUKO!!”
Only silence answered her.
She leaned over, eyes wild, searching the woods below—but the snow-covered trees had hidden them away. She called again, screamed their names until her throat burned—but no reply came.
Her heart cracked.
Then shattered.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.
Was she alone again?
Was it happening all over again?
Why? her mind screamed. Why always me?
She had lost everything once. And now—again.
Her vision blurred. Her hands shook violently, clenching at her sides. And then the tears came—heavy, hot, merciless—falling like rain down her frozen cheeks.
She fell forward, knees buckling beneath her. Her palms slammed into the snow. It felt like the world had tilted, like everything inside her was tearing itself apart.
“Why…?” she choked out, voice hoarse and broken. “Why does it always end like this…?”
Then the headache hit—blinding, searing pain at the base of her skull. Images crashed into her like waves.
A memory. No—a nightmare she’d buried.
She was nine.
It was supposed to be a simple day. She was out picking flowers in the garden, the ones her mother used to dry and blend into fragrant tea. A soft breeze had whispered through the leaves. She remembered thinking how warm it felt.
And then—
She came back to the house.
And everything was wrong.
A man stood inside the threshold. A stranger. Not human.
Her father stood on one side of the room, sword drawn and trembling in his grip. Her mother on the other, wounded, clutching her side as blood soaked through her kimono. Her brother—missing.
The man turned to her slowly when he noticed her frozen in the doorway.
“Oh… another one of you.”
Then chaos.
Her father lunged, blade flashing—but the man moved faster.
A sickening thud.
Her father’s arm hit the floor.
The girl screamed.
Both her parents’ heads snapped toward her. Horror, panic, love—all in their eyes.
“Run!!” they both cried.
She ran.
She didn’t know how she did it, how her legs carried her through the trees for hours. She didn’t know where the strength came from—how her senses sharpened, how her fear turned into raw survival.
But he followed.
He played with her. Toyed with her like a cat with a dying bird.
She bled. She fell. She clawed her way back.
Back home.
Back to—
Hell.
Her parents lay crumpled in blood-soaked tatami. Her father’s stump was barely bandaged. Her mother’s side split open.
Frozen in the doorway again, she didn’t breathe—couldn’t.
Then her mother’s voice—weak, a breath from nothing.
“(Y/n)... come here, sweetheart…”
She stumbled forward, tears already pouring. “O-Okāsan…”
“Hush, my love,” her mother whispered. “We don’t have much time. You need to listen.”
“I’m not leaving you—!”
“You have to,” her mother interrupted gently. “Take your Otōsan’s sword. Focus on your breathing. Remember what we taught you. You must survive.”
Then, almost pleading—“Before you go… please, move me to his side. I want to die with your Otōsan.”
“No!” the girl sobbed. “You’re not dying! Please don’t—!”
But her mother only smiled, shaking, tears welling in her eyes. “It’s alright, baby. It’s alright.”
She dragged her mother across the floor with trembling arms, laying her beside her dying father.
“You’re alive…” her mother whispered through tears. “Thank god…”
She buried her face into his neck, sobbing quietly. His arm wrapped around her shoulders with what little strength he had left, resting his chin on her head
“Not for long, my love…” he whispered.
“He’s watching,” he added darkly. “He’s enjoying this. But we have now. We have each other. That’s what matters.”
The child clutched at their robes, crying openly.
“Chi-Chi… I’m scared…”
“I know, baby…” her father said, smoothing her hair. “But you’re strong. You’ll make it.”
He handed her the sword.
She could barely lift it.
“Don’t fight unless you must. Get out. Find your brother. Live.”
Then her mother removed her necklace—a silver charm with a samll key at its center. She fastened it around the girl’s neck with trembling fingers.
“Take this. And come back to the garden… Three days a year. Just like always.”
“And one more thing,” her father added, voice turning sharp, fiery with fury.
He looked her in the eyes.
“I need you to burn this house to the ground. Burn it with him inside.”
The memory shattered.
Back in the snow, (Y/n) screamed.
A ragged, broken sound, torn from somewhere deep in her soul.
Still on her knees at the cliffside, snow falling silently around her. Her eyes stared blankly into the trees below, breath ragged, skin soaked with cold.
She wasn’t just crying now.
She was breaking.
Piece by piece.
And yet—
She stood.
Because she had to.
Because she wasn't that little girl anymore.
And Tanjiro and Nezuko—her family now—had just fallen into the dark.
She would not let it end this way.
Not again.
That was when it hit her.
A fire in her chest—fierce and unrelenting—burned hotter than anything she had ever felt. Not grief. Not fear.
Rage.
Rage at the world. Rage at the twisted fate that kept yanking the people she loved away from her. Rage that the only thing she had ever wanted—a normal life—had always been denied.
The world was broken? Fine.
She would break it back to shape her own.
If the universe thought it could rip Tanjiro and Nezuko away from her, it had another thing coming.
She would fight. She would never let them go.
Not again.
Her heart was a war drum, but her breathing—steady. Her body, alert.
Suddenly, everything sharpened.
It was like something deep inside her had finally awakened. Her sight—clearer than it had ever been. She could see between the branches, deep into the trees miles ahead. Every scent in the forest—wet bark, animal musk, the iron tang of blood—each hit her nose with surgical clarity. Her muscles coiled beneath her skin like a panther ready to strike.
She had been here before.
But this time was different.
This time she didn’t just run.
This time—she hunted.
Just like her father taught her...
She snapped out of her thoughts when she heard it—
A shout.
A voice she knew better than her own heartbeat.
“TANJIRO!”
And she was off.
Running again—but this time not from fear.
This time, it was for love.
For fury.
Her body launched forward like a bolt of lightning, tearing through the trees in a blur. Wind howled past her ears. Snow flurried around her, barely touching her skin as she leapt from tree to tree. She darted across the forest floor, bounding over rocks, roots, and fallen branches, her speed no longer human.
And then—she saw it.
The clearing.
And the horror.
A tall man with black hair tied back stood with Nezuko restrained, her arms pinned behind her. She was snarling, thrashing, eyes wide in panic. And nearby—
Tanjiro.
Collapsed in the snow. Face-down. His hair—his beautiful long hair—now chopped and uneven, crusted with blood. His hatchet was airborne, frozen mid-flight in a desperate final act. His body lay limp.
(Y/n)’s chest caved in for a second.
Her Tanjiro.
Something inside her snapped.
The man—Giyuu—narrowed his eyes when he noticed the hatchet coming toward him. He moved slightly to avoid it.
That was his mistake.
Because suddenly—she was there.
(Y/n) burst from the shadows, snatching the hatchet midair before it even touched him. His eyes widened in shock.
She didn’t give him time to react.
With a feral scream, she spun and kicked the arm restraining Nezuko, forcing him to release her. In the same breath, she aimed the hatchet straight for his neck.
He barely dodged.
But he felt the wind of her strike graze his skin, and he stumbled backward, drawing his sword.
Giyuu gritted his teeth. 'Just before passing behind the tree… he threw a rock... then the hatchet?' He stared at Tanjiro’s motionless form, connecting the pieces. 'He faked me out… even while unconscious.'
But now wasn’t the time to be impressed.
Because this girl—this blazing whirlwind of fury—was already on him again.
Their weapons clashed—his sword against her hatchet, over and over again. The sound of metal meeting metal echoed through the forest. She was fast—too fast. Faster than any human should’ve been.
Giyuu was sweating.
Not from exertion—he was a Hashira, after all.
But from confusion.
Because he couldn’t sense her at all. Her aura was completely hidden. Her energy, unreadable.
Like a ghost.
Or a monster.
Or—
“Why didn’t I sense her presence?!”
Her eyes glowed with fury. Her movements were chaotic, unpredictable, but not untrained.
She wasn’t aiming to kill.
She was aiming to teach him a lesson.
One he wouldn’t forget.
She managed to push him back, pinning him against a tree, the blade of the hatchet grazing his neck just enough to draw blood.
Her aura was terrifying. Not just deadly—personal.
Her voice was low. A death sentence.
“How dare you.”
Her eyes locked with his. He couldn’t move. Not from fear of the blade—but from the sheer intensity in her gaze.
“How dare you lay a hand on them.”
She turned to Tanjiro’s fallen form, her voice thick with grief and venom.
“He was aiming to kill, which is unlike him. That means you’re a threat. And since you are…” she raised the old hatchet, spinning it effortlessly in her hand.
“…I’m going to finish what my husband started.”
Giyuu’s brain short-circuited.
‘HUSBAND?!’
He blinked hard. 'Who ARE these people?!'
For the first time in years, an ill feeling squirmed in his gut.
But he took a breath, trying to compose himself.
“I don’t think you understand,” he said, voice low. “The other girl—your husband is protecting a demon. One that’s going to eat the both of you if not taken care of—!”
His voice died mid-sentence.
Because Nezuko was now crouched over Tanjiro’s body—arms outstretched, hands twitching. Her eyes glowed, jaw trembling, fangs bared.
Giyuu’s heart dropped.
‘No! I’m too late—!’
He drew his blade and moved to strike.
But again—
He was stopped.
The hatchet struck his neck again—barely breaking the skin, but pinning him.
(Y/n) had him locked against the tree, her face inches from his. Her eyes burned into him. He swore her glare alone could kill him a thousand times—and it still wouldn’t be enough.
He couldn’t breathe.
But then—
She backed off.
And sighed.
“Just watch.”
Giyuu blinked, brain still buffering. He watched as Nezuko—just inches away from Tanjiro—froze.
Then slowly, she turned to face him.
Her hands lowered.
And she stood.
Protectively.
Between Tanjiro and the man.
His jaw slackened.
“You… she…” he stammered, completely lost.
(Y/n) looked over her shoulder, her voice calm, but firm.
“I think my husband already told you—she would never eat a human. But you didn’t listen.”
She stepped toward him, retrieving her hatchet with a soft metallic ring.
“But I understand. It’s your job.”
Giyuu stared at her, stunned.
“…Is that why you didn’t kill me when you had the chance?”
She gave him a deadpan look. Her lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line.
“Yes. So don’t give me a reason to.”
He nodded very slowly.
They both turned to look at Nezuko, who was now lifting a hand—still growling slightly.
But before she could strike—
(Y/n) reached out and grabbed the back of her kimono like a mother scolding her child.
He had seen demons tear through entire villages. He had fought creatures of unimaginable power.
But never in his life did he think he’d see a young woman scold a demon like a naughty toddler.
Nezuko… looked guilty.
Her head lowered. Her claws retracted. Her glowing eyes blinked up at (Y/n) with childlike shame.
(Y/n) smiled slightly and ruffled her hair.
“Now… let’s do something about those teeth of yours.”
Giyuu stood frozen.
Sword in hand. Blood on his neck. Pride in shambles.
He turned slowly, staring blankly at the sky.
“…Am I hallucinating?” he mumbled.
Then, more quietly:
“…I need a vacation.”
When Tanjiro stirred, the first thing he felt was the cold.
The snow was soft beneath him, but the chill had soaked through his clothes. His fingers were stiff. His limbs ached. But none of that mattered—because when he opened his eyes, he realized he was holding onto Nezuko’s kimono.
She lay beside him on the snow, sleeping peacefully.
A thin puff of air escaped her nose with each quiet breath. The bamboo muzzle was fastened gently over her mouth, secured but not tight. Her long black hair spilled around her face like a curtain of shadows.
She looked… calm.
Safe.
Tanjiro’s heart squeezed painfully. He didn’t understand what had happened. The last thing he remembered was throwing his hatchet and lunging toward the man in black. Then—darkness.
But now…
They were alive.
He blinked back the sting in his eyes, reaching out slowly as if afraid she might vanish.
And then—
“You’re awake?”
A deep voice came from behind a tree.
Tanjiro immediately pulled Nezuko closer, instinctively shielding her with his body. His muscles tensed, his breath caught in his throat.
But a gentle hand touched his shoulder.
He turned his head.
(Y/n).
She was kneeling beside him, her expression soft. Her touch grounded him—calming the storm in his chest.
Her look said, It’s okay now. You’re safe.
From behind the tree, Giyuu Tomioka stepped into view—quiet, composed, his presence no longer threatening.
“The three of you…” he said, voice low but firm, “go see an old man named Sakonji Urokodaki. He lives at the foot of Mount Sagiri.”
He stepped forward, looking directly at (Y/n). There was a strange flicker of something in his expression—respect, maybe? A quiet acknowledgment.
“Tell him that Giyuu Tomioka sent you.”
Then, just before he turned to leave, he added without looking back:
“Don’t let your sister be in direct sunlight.”
And like that—he was gone.
The trees rustled briefly behind him. Silence returned.
Tanjiro sat there, stunned. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. He was too tired. Too broken. Too full of questions.
But (Y/n) was already moving.
She rummaged through a small cloth pouch and held out a handful of berries, bright red and slightly frosted from the snow. She crouched in front of him, holding them out with a soft smile.
“Eat. You need strength.”
He hesitated, but she insisted. Her hands were cold, but steady. He took the berries and ate them slowly, silently grateful.
After a long moment of stillness, they rose—together.
The three of them made their way back to what was left of the place they once called home.
The house was silent.
Broken.
Roof caved in. Snow blanketing the blood-stained floorboards. The firewood was cold and untouched. The scent of death still lingered in the air, clinging to the walls, the beams, the very soil beneath their feet.
But they didn’t cry.
They couldn’t.
There was too much to do.
With numb hands and frozen breath, Tanjiro and (Y/n) dug into the earth—one grave at a time. The snow made it harder, but they didn’t stop. Nezuko stood nearby, unmoving, her eyes fixed upward at the gray, empty sky.
(Y/n) stepped carefully out of the last grave they’d dug, brushing dirt from her hands. She pulled out a small cloth bag and placed it gently beside Shigeru’s body.
Inside was a handful of sticky candy.
The ones he had begged for before they left.
She smiled faintly—achingly—before bowing her head.
Then, beside Tanjiro, she lowered herself into the snow and folded her hands. The two of them prayed in silence. For their mother. Their siblings. For everything they had lost.
The wind whispered softly through the trees.
And Nezuko—still silent—lifted her face to the sky, her eyes wide and empty, watching the clouds pass.
When it was done, Tanjiro stood.
He reached down, gently taking Nezuko’s hand in his own. She followed without resistance.
“Let’s go,” he said softly.
His voice barely carried above the crunch of snow.
(Y/n) followed after them, a few steps behind. But she paused at the edge of the clearing.
And turned.
She looked back at the row of graves—freshly covered in earth and snow. The wind pulled gently at her hair, as if trying to call her back.
She stared for a long moment.
Then whispered under her breath—
“Rest well. We’ll keep going. I promise.”
And with that, she turned toward the mountain.
And didn’t look back.
🧹✨ Oi, you there—yes, you, the one reading till the end! Don't think I didn't notice you lurking like Daichi around the pickled plum jars.
If you enjoyed the chapter, leave a comment or a vote—or I swear I'll come flying with my broom faster than you can say "Tanjiro's ears turned red." 😤💥
✧ I may be old, but I still read every word like it's fresh village gossip. You brighten this old lady's day when you share your thoughts, so don't be shy now!
Now be good, repost the story, and drink some tea before your brain shrivels up like over-dried herbs.
ʚ SUMMERY: As Mervin spent his final summer with his parents at their countryside home, he felt a mix of excitement and apprehension about his recent acceptance into the Ministry of Magic. Little did he know that his carefully laid plans were about to take an unexpected turn. Everything started to change when he met the neighbour's daughter, a spirited young woman with a passion for reading and adventure. Her bright laughter and intriguing stories drew him in, making him question whether the allure of the Ministry was worth leaving this enchanting summer—filled with blossoming feelings and undeniable chemistry—behind.
ʚ WARNINGS: Angst with happy ending
ʚ GENRE/AU: Friends to Lovers
ʚ ERA/TIMELINE: Pre-Marauders Era
ʚ WORDS: 10K
___
Scotland, Summer, 1945
Nestled under the gentle shade of a big rowan tree by the loch, she relished a peaceful moment, delighting in seeing her playful younger sisters, Maria and Marie, having fun nearby.
Their laughter rang out like a sweet melody, each giggle tinged with childhood innocence. Satisfied that they were safe, she decided to immerse herself in the pages of her book, letting the world around her fade into the background. However, her tranquillity was soon interrupted when she noticed three boys approaching the twins.
She narrowed her eyebrows and focused intently on the scene, her protective instincts kicking in. One of the boys appeared to be around her age, tall and confident, while the other two were clearly younger. One matched the twins in age, darting around with the same exuberance, and the youngest looked even younger—perhaps by a year or two—his face lit up with curiosity.
Her heart raced as the older boy bent down to talk to her sisters. She quickly set her book aside and stood up, casting aside the moment of relaxation. With each step towards them, she could feel the tension rising. After all, she was their older sister, fiercely determined to keep them safe from anyone who might not have their best interests at heart.
"Excuse me, sir, what are you doing?"
The boy looked up, startled, to see the owner of the stern yet most enchanting voice he had ever heard. Gazing down at him was a beautiful, delicate woman with expressive eyes filled with concern, her arms crossed firmly across her chest. She exuded an air of authority, yet there was something comforting about her presence.
"Sir?" Her voice snapped him from his daze. He quickly gathered himself and stood up straight, meeting her gaze.
"Oh, forgive me, miss," he replied, a broad, hopeful smile spreading across his face. "I was just seeing if these two little ones would fancy playing with my younger brothers."
As he spoke, he gestured towards two small children nearby, their faces full of anticipation. The girl watched as his smile brought a softness to his features, and she found herself relaxing just a bit.
With a sigh, she unfolded her arms, realising that perhaps she had jumped to conclusions too quickly. Just as she was about to voice her thoughts, she felt two tiny hands clasp around her waist, squeezing affectionately.
"It's alright, sister! These are our neighbours we told you about!" exclaimed Marie, her face lighting up with excitement.
The woman raised an eyebrow, glancing down at her sister. "The ones whose mother gave you cookies as a welcome gift a few months ago?" she asked, an incredulous tone creeping into her voice.
"Yes! Mrs. McGonagall!" Maria exclaimed, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. The name evidently triggered fond memories of sweet baked treats and the warmth of the community.
With a playful look, the twins turned to their sister and pleaded, "Is it alright if we play with Malcom and Robert, please?" Their big, round eyes sparkled with hope, and she couldn't help but smile at their earnestness.
The woman hesitated for a moment, her protective instincts flaring up. But as she observed the interplay of laughter and excitement between the children, her heart softened. With a resigned yet affectionate sigh, she finally relented. "Fine, but stay within my eyesight, alright?"
The twins erupted in spontaneous thanks, their voices chiming in harmonious gratitude. They took off in a flurry of energy, racing toward the boys, their laughter mingling in the air like chimes in a gentle breeze. The woman watched them sprint away, feeling a warmth in her chest as she realised she had nothing to worry about after all.
"Thank you for letting them play with your sisters. They don't have many friends here," he said, her voice warm with appreciation.
As she turned around, she caught sight of the boy, his expression mirroring the fondness she had just shown. His gaze held a hint of curiosity, but also a heaviness that seemed to weigh on him.
"Why is that?" she asked, narrowing her eyes in intrigue. The boy let out a deep sigh, as if the world rested on his shoulders, hinting at stories untold.
"Let's just say... they're different," he replied carefully, his voice almost a whisper. He shifted his stance, clearly trying to steer the conversation away from what felt like a sensitive topic. "I'm Mervin, by the way. I didn't realise we were neighbours."
A spark of understanding passed between them; she recognised his desire to divert the conversation and chose not to press further. "Neither did I. I'm (Y/n)," she responded, offering a small, genuine smile as she tilted her head up to meet his striking blue eyes. They shimmered with hints of grey, capturing the dappled light filtering through the leaves.
"It's nice to meet you, (Y/n)," he replied, a smile breaking the tension on his face as he mirrored her gesture.
(Y/n) nodded, her excitement bubbling over. After all, she as well didn't see anyone her age since she moved into the village with her family "My spot is right over there. Let's sit together!" She gestured towards the picnic blanket tucked under the sprawling branches of a nearby Rowan tree, its shade offering a cool refuge from the warm afternoon sun.
With an unspoken camaraderie building between them, she led him to the blanket, feeling a spark of connection that was as refreshing as the gentle breeze rustling through the leaves above.
Leaving the kids to play with each other and checking on them from time to time, the two got to talk about themselves.s
(Y/n) gazed at Mervin as he picked a slender blade of grass, absently twirling it between his fingers like a wand that could conjure enchanting tales. "This spot is absolutely lovely, isn't it?" she remarked, her voice filled with warmth as she surveyed the vibrant greens surrounding them. Sunlight danced through the leaves overhead, casting playful shadows on the ground and adding to the serene atmosphere. "It's one of my favourite places to come and read."
Mervin leaned back on his hands, the sunlight illuminating his face and highlighting the carefree smile that seemed to form effortlessly. "Yeah, it is truly," he replied, his eyes glinting with appreciation. "It's so peaceful here. What do you like to read?" There was a hint of curiosity in his tone as if he was eager to delve into another layer of (Y/n)'s personality.
"Oh, mostly adventure stories," (Y/n) exclaimed, a sparkle igniting in her eyes. "I love getting lost in faraway realms, exploring lands filled with daring heroes, treacherous quests, and unexpected twists. There's something magical about immersing yourself in a world so different from your own. You know something different"
Mervin's heart raced at her words, a familiar tension tightening in his chest. As he listened to her dreamy voice, he couldn't help but wonder if she would still speak with such wonder if she discovered his magic. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
He quickly shook his head, dismissing it. It was a reckless idea—he knew the dangers of revealing his abilities, understood the grave consequences that came with being a wizard in a world that feared them. Yet, a flicker of hope lingered within him, a yearning to find someone who could accept him for who he truly was.
"What about you, Mervin?" Her sweet voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, bringing him back to the moment. He hummed softly, a signal for her to clarify what she meant.
"I know it's not something someone would usually ask," she continued, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, "but reading and sketching are my ways to enter a different world where I can immerse myself and feel free. Do you have something similar?"
Mervin smiled gently, captivated by her sincerity. He nodded slowly, the memories flooding his mind—the enchanting landscapes of the wizarding world he'd known, filled with magic and wonder. "Yes, I actually do," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.
As he spoke, images of vibrant spells and fantastical creatures danced before his eyes, drawing him into a rare moment of shared understanding. Here was someone who sought an escape just as he did. In that instant, he felt a connection—a thread weaving their worlds together, hinting at the possibility of deeper conversation and perhaps even friendship, if only he could muster the courage to reveal the truth.
___
Scotland, Summer, 1946
Mervin has fainally graduatted hagwarts with flying scores and now he getting of the train and hading home he was thinking of what he should do when this summer ends but all that thoughts has left him the momment he stepped into his front yard as he cought a galms of (Y/n) sitting on the steps on his front door with a book in her hand and sleepy eyes trying to stay awake ever since they meet last summer and the two became the closest of friends this was the first time they stayed a long time away from each other which did make the girl saden only for him to assure her that this was his last year and he would not go to the boarding school anymore of course leaving the part where he was going to a school that teaches magic.
Throughout the time they spent together, he made sure to hide his true power away from the girl, even though he knew by now that she wouldn't mind him being different at all. How did he know? Sometimes one of his younger brothers would slip up and use magic while she was visiting, but she never questioned the weird things that happened around her when she was surrounded by the McGonagalls. She even joked about their village being haunted by some sort of ghost or some fairies trying to be seen by humans.
Mervin had finally graduated from Hogwarts with flying colours, and now, as he stepped off the train and onto the platform, he felt a rush of excitement. The summer stretched before him, full of possibilities, but his thoughts scattered the moment he entered his front yard. There, sitting on the steps of his front door with a book in her hands and sleepy eyes, was (Y/n). Ever since they had met the previous summer, they had become incredibly close friends, and this was the first time they had been apart for so long. The absence had saddened her, but Mervin had assured her that this would be his last year at Hogwarts and that he would no longer attend the boarding school, conveniently leaving out the detail that he would be heading to a school for magic.
Throughout the time they spent together, Mervin had meticulously hidden his true identity and magical abilities from her, despite knowing in his heart that she wouldn't judge him for being different. He was often reminded of this when one of his younger brothers would unwittingly showcase their magic during their visits. Yet, (Y/n) never questioned any of the peculiar occurrences around her when she was surrounded by the McGonagalls. She often joked about the simple village being home to some mysterious ghost or curious fairies trying to make themselves known to the human world.
As he approached her, Mervin smiled and gently took the book from her hands, kneeling beside her on the steps. She looked up, initially expecting to find Mrs. McGonagall, who always insisted that (Y/n) shouldn't wait outside for him for too long. Mervin frowned slightly, hoping to express his concern for her well-being.
"How many times do we have to tell you not to wait for me outside? You could catch a cold, or worse, attract the attention of someone who might bother you," he said, his tone a blend of playful chastisement and genuine worry.
Her response was a soft giggle, and he couldn't help but smile, feeling a mixture of fondness and frustration at her stubbornness.
"I wanted to be the first to greet you on your arrival," she said, her voice as melodic as he remembered, resonating in his ears like a beautiful song he had first heard by the loch beneath the old rowan tree.
At that moment, Mervin felt an overwhelming warmth in his chest, as if his heart might burst with how fast it was beating. The sincerity in her words sent a rush of emotions flooding through him. In that instant, he realised how deeply he cherished their bond, a connection that had grown even stronger in the silence of their time apart.
The boy huffed in annoyance as he looked down at her, an expression of playful exasperation crossing his features. He was known for his unyielding demeanour—someone whose orders were not to be ignored. Yet, here he was, struggling to reconcile his frustration with her persistent need for freedom. Always, she would push back against his boundaries, protesting even when her desires were clear.
"Merlin's breed, it's impossible to reason with you if you always put things that way," he muttered softly, shaking his head as he resigned himself to the situation. With a gentle yet firm motion, he slid one arm under her knees and the other around her back, lifting her effortlessly off the ground. She nestled against him, her head finding comfort in the crook of his neck while her arms instinctively wrapped around him. Her eyes fluttered shut as if surrendering to the moment, a contented sigh escaping her lips.
"Aww, but I wanted to stay with you! You just got back," she whimpered, a playful pout forming on her lips that tugged at the corners of his heart. He rolled his eyes in a teasing manner, unable to resist the charm that radiated from her even in her displeasure.
"We have all day tomorrow, you need to sleep. It's getting late," he replied, his voice softening despite his earlier annoyance. He attempted to ignore her weak protests, the determination in her voice only fueling his resolve. As he approached her home, he could see the warm glow of lights spilling from the windows, a welcoming sign of familiarity. He carefully shifted her weight, making sure she felt secure in his embrace.
When he finally reached her front door, he gently handed her over to her father, who awaited them with a mixture of concern and gratitude. The man greeted the boy with a warm smile, his eyes reflecting the appreciation of a father who knew his daughter was well cared for.
"Thank you for bringing her home," he said, his voice steady with a hint of warmth, before he turned to go inside the house.
The boy watched as her father ushered her inside. He knew all too well that come morning, she would be banging on his door, her boundless energy spilling over as they embarked on a new day of adventures together. With a final glance back at her sleeping figure, he turned to leave, the corners of his lips tugging up in anticipation of the new day ahead.
The next morning came far too early for Mervin’s liking.
He was sound asleep, curled beneath a heavy wool blanket, the scent of wood smoke and lavender drifting through the slightly cracked window. The quiet of the early hour was interrupted—violently—by a rhythmic knocking. Not on the front door, not even on the bedroom door.
On his window.
Again.
Mervin groaned into his pillow.
“Stormyyyyy,” came the sing-song voice he’d been both dreading and waiting for. “Up and at ’em, sleepy head!”
He turned his head toward the window and squinted one eye open. There she was, grinning with all the impish satisfaction of someone far too pleased with herself for someone awake this early. She wore a sky-blue dress with a cardigan hanging off her shoulder and her hair in two low plaits tied with little white ribbons. Behind her, the two little girls—her twin sisters—bounced on the garden path below, waving excitedly.
(Y/n) rapped once more on the glass. “Don’t make me break in again.”
“You didn’t break in,” he mumbled as he sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his face. “You climbed the trellis and got stuck halfway.”
“I still made it inside,” she countered with a grin. “Now, hurry up, Stormy. We've got tiny humans to entertain before the skies throw a tantrum.”
He let out a heavy sigh but couldn’t stop the faint smile tugging at his lips. Stormy. She had started calling him that near the end of last summer, when they were sitting under the old rowan tree watching clouds roll in. She’d tilted her head, studying him quietly, then said,
“There’s always thunder behind your eyes, like the sky’s just waiting for your mood to crack open.”
At first, he thought it was teasing. But then she said it with that strange kind of affection only she seemed capable of—like she liked the storm in him. Not feared it. Not tried to tame it. Just... saw it.
He was dressed and downstairs within ten minutes, stepping out onto the stoop where (Y/n) stood surrounded by the giggling twins and his two younger brothers, both already smeared in jam from half-eaten toast she must’ve bribed them with.
“I fed them, by the way,” she said, hands on her hips, clearly proud of herself. “I figured I might as well since I was already being the unpaid village nanny.”
Mervin chuckled, reaching down to tousle one of his brothers’ hair. “You mean they fed themselves while you got distracted playing hopscotch with the girls?”
Her gasp was theatrical. “Stormy, I am deeply offended. I’ll have you know I am a professional at managing chaos.”
He looked at the four children darting around like bees at a picnic.
“Oh yes,” he said dryly, “clearly.”
They made their way down the winding village path together, the cobblestones warm underfoot and the smell of rain just barely beginning to creep into the air. The village fair was small but lively—bunting strung between lampposts, stalls selling sugared nuts and tinned toys, and gramophone music playing from the bakery window.
The children ran ahead toward the puppet show set up in front of the chapel steps. (Y/n) and Mervin followed more slowly, the pace relaxed, easy. Familiar.
(Y/n) kept darting glances toward the clouds on the horizon, already stacking dark and high like the beginnings of a warning.
“Storm’s gonna hit by afternoon,” she said, adjusting the strap of the little canvas bag slung across her chest, full of handkerchiefs and sweets and plasters. “You can feel it.”
He nodded. “I always can.”
She paused, then looked at him with a soft smile. “Because you’re part of it.”
Mervin didn’t answer, not out loud. Instead, he watched her kneel suddenly to wipe strawberry juice off one of the twins’ cheeks, her movements brisk but gentle, her scolding tempered with a kiss to the forehead. His youngest brother tried to sneak a liquorice twist from her bag, and she caught him without even looking.
“Nice try, Malcom,” she said, handing him an apple instead.
"Sugar is later. You’ll thank me when your stomach doesn’t twist into a washing machine.”
Mervin stood beside her, silent for a moment. Then, softly: “You’re good with them.”
“I’ve had practice,” she said, standing again and brushing her skirt. “Besides... I like being the boss.”
“Oh, I know,” he said with a smirk. “Your entire personality is built around telling me what to do.”
She laughed, the sound bright and wild and completely uncaring of who heard. “Only you, Stormy. Only you.”
The sky was turning more slate than blue now, clouds gathering like silent onlookers. The breeze picked up, tossing the girls’ ribbons and Mervin’s curls alike.
When the first crack of distant thunder sounded, all four children shrieked—not in fear, but delight—and bolted for cover beneath the fair’s canvas tent. Mervin instinctively took a step forward, but (Y/n) was already on it, corralling the younger ones with expert swiftness, clutching their little hands in hers.
“You’ve got it?” he asked.
She shot him a mock-glare. “Don’t insult me.”
He stood back and watched as she ushered the children to safety, rain beginning to mist through the air in tiny flecks. He felt something tug in his chest again—not magic, not exactly. Just her.
She returned to him as the first real drops began to fall, wetting her shoulders and the crown of her hair. Her cardigan clung to her sleeves. Her nose was red from the wind. But her eyes, as always, sparkled.
“Well, Stormy,” she said breathlessly, “seems like your weather’s caught up with you.”
He grinned at her then—truly, deeply. The kind of grin that showed the crinkles near his eyes.
“I don’t mind storms,” he said. “Not when you’re in them with me.”
(Y/n) blinked, briefly caught off guard, then ducked her head with a lopsided smile, cheeks pinkening.
“You’re getting poetic now,” she muttered. “Must be the thunder talking.”
The rain came fast.
It swept across the village in great, glistening sheets—turning the cobblestones slick and the fairground into a blur of colour and damp fabric. The scent of petrichor clung to the air, rich and earthy. Most of the families had already packed up and fled toward the nearest doorways or under thick umbrellas, but the small group huddled beneath the striped awning of the puppet show tent.
Inside, the air was thick with warmth and the sound of children giggling, their cheeks still flushed from the rush of play. The four little ones were gathered on a wool blanket in the corner, sharing the sweets that (Y/n) had so prudently rationed—though the twins had sneakily swapped liquorice for lemon drops when her back was turned.
(Y/n) sat with her back against a wooden beam, damp hair falling in waves over her shoulder. Her cardigan was buttoned all the way up, sleeves tucked over her hands, yet she still shivered slightly. Mervin, seated beside her, wordlessly shrugged off his long coat and draped it around her shoulders.
She blinked up at him. “You’ll freeze.”
“I’ve survived worse,” he said simply, adjusting the coat so it sat snugly over her shoulders. “Besides… I think I owe you.”
“For what?”
“For the apples. For feeding my brothers. For waking me up before noon. For…” He trailed off.
She watched him carefully, something soft flickering in her eyes. “You don’t owe me anything, Stormy,” she said, her voice quiet.
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound being the heavy patter of rain above and the occasional boom of distant thunder.
It wasn’t the loud kind—the frightening kind that rattled bones and made the ground shudder. This thunder was low and patient, like a giant rolling over in his sleep, steady and constant. A storm not to be feared, but to be respected.
(Y/n) tilted her head slightly, studying Mervin’s profile the way she always did when he wasn't looking. His dark curls were damp, stuck to his temple. His jaw clenched when he was thinking. She reached out and gently poked his arm.
“You always get like this when it rains.”
“Like what?”
“All quiet. All...” She searched for the word. “...contained.”
Mervin chuckled under his breath, though his fingers fidgeted with a loose thread on his trousers. “I just… feel more like myself when the sky’s like this.”
She hummed in understanding. “Stormy through and through.”
They shared a glance. The kind that held things unspoken—things building quietly between them over months. Things not yet ready to surface.
Then she asked, casually: “D’you think storms can feel things? Like… can they be sad?”
Mervin turned to her. “What do you mean?”
“I dunno,” she said with a half-smile. “Sometimes I wonder if the sky’s crying ‘cause it misses someone. Or angry ‘cause someone broke a promise. Or… maybe it’s just lonely.”
He swallowed. Something heavy moved through him.
“Maybe it’s all of those things,” he said softly.
She looked at him a moment longer.
“If the sky’s lonely… then I guess you wouldn’t be, right? Since you're made of it.”
Mervin didn’t answer right away.
A flicker of memory surged behind his eyes—unbidden and sharp.
His last Quidditch match at Hogwarts.
The wind had howled that day, just like it was now—wild and roaring, as if the sky itself had joined the match. He remembered the feeling of slicing through clouds, of his robes whipping around him, of the snitch glinting gold in the distance. He remembered the crowd roaring in the stands, and the cold rush of freedom that always came when he flew. That was where he had felt most at peace—untouchable, unburdened, alive.
Then the fall.
A rogue Bludger had struck him hard, sent him spiraling into the stands. The memory blurred at the edges—shouted spells, panicked hands, the sharp snap of bone. And the news that came after: a fractured hip that couldn’t be fully mended, not even with magic. A nerve too damaged. No more Quidditch. Not at that level. Not again.
That night, it had rained over Hogwarts. Thick, drumming sheets of rain. Thunder in the mountains. He hadn’t cried, not really. But the sky had.
You’re part of it, she’d just said.
He wondered if she knew how right she was.
He’d always known his emotions tangled with the weather somehow. Storms when he was angry. Soft drizzles when he was sad. Windy days that carried his laughter. The McGonagalls never spoke of it—at least not in front of him—but he’d heard his mother once call it “ancestral magic,” something ancient and untrained. He didn’t know what it meant. But (Y/n), she just… accepted it.
And that was the scariest part.
“You say things like that too easily,” he muttered, shaking off the heaviness before it could settle too deep.
“Why? Does it scare you?”
“No,” he said, looking directly at her now. “It scares me how right you are sometimes.”
The rain drummed louder for a moment. One of the twins let out a sneeze, and (Y/n) turned to check on them, brushing her fingers against a small forehead before wrapping her arm protectively around the group.
Mervin watched her, quiet admiration in every breath. The way she mothered the children without smothering them. The way she always seemed to be everywhere at once—present, attentive, never tired of caring. He felt that familiar warmth coil low in his chest.
“I like the way you are with them,” he said suddenly.
She looked over, brows raised.
“The kids,” he added. “You’re good with them. Like they belong to you somehow.”
(Y/n) laughed, a bit embarrassed. “Well, I hope not all four, I'd be scandalous in this village.”
He grinned. “I mean it. You’re... safe. Even when you’re ridiculous.”
She nudged his knee with hers. “So you do like having me around.”
“I think I’d go mad if you weren’t.”
The confession hung between them, soft but solid.
Thunder rumbled again, closer this time. The children huddled in, yawning now, and (Y/n) pulled the coat tighter around herself, leaning just slightly into Mervin’s side. He didn’t move away.
She spoke again, quieter this time.
“Hey, Stormy?”
“Yeah?”
“If the sky’s sad... and you’re part of it… You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”
He turned his head toward her. She didn’t meet his gaze, eyes fixed on the dancing puddles just outside the tent flap. But she meant it.
“I know,” he said. And he did.
For a second, he almost told her. About Hogwarts. About magic. About the real reason he always felt connected to the storm—to everything beneath it and above it.
But instead, he let the moment stay as it was: full, but not broken.
“I’ll walk you all home when it lets up,” he murmured.
She leaned her head on his shoulder, finally letting herself rest.
“You better,” she whispered. “Or I’ll haunt your window again tomorrow morning.”
He smiled at that. A quiet, thunder-soft smile. And outside, the storm carried on—watching, waiting, and listening.
A few days later, Mervin McGonagall strolled along the rugged edge of the loch, his robes billowing gently in the brisk wind that danced across the water's surface, creating shimmering ripples that glinted like scattered diamonds. Behind him lay Hogwarts, its ancient walls steeped in magic and memories. Earlier that day, he had received a letter from the Ministry—a summons that would pull him from the cozy familiarity of the Muggle world once and for all. He had planned to meet his friend at their usual spot, a place of laughter and shared dreams, but now he found himself teetering on the brink of a monumental change. Everything he had devoted himself to was within reach.
And yet—
"Sketching again?" he asked, breaking the silence that cloaked the tranquil lake.
(Y/n)(L/n) looked up from her notepad, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. A soft smile graced her lips, captivating him in a way that made his heart race. "Always. The loch's never the same two days in a row. Just like you."
Mervin felt a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, though he fought hard to suppress the blush creeping across his cheeks. "That's not very flattering. I pride myself on consistency."
She chuckled softly, the sound like a gentle melody that lingered in the air. "I meant it kindly," she replied, her gaze locking onto his with an intensity that made him forget the world around them for a moment. "You always have a storm brewing behind those eyes, like the calm before the thunder."
Her words wrapped around him like a warm embrace, and he couldn't help but laugh, though a shadow of sorrow settled in his heart. It was a sentiment he had never entertained until this very moment—the weight of his secrets heavy upon his shoulders.
He couldn't share the truth with her.
Not about the wand cleverly hidden in his boot, nor the magical world of Hogwarts that awaited him, nor the extraordinary nature of who he truly was. The thought of revealing his identity felt like standing on the edge of a precipice, with the abyss below beckoning him to leap.
Instead, he found himself falling, silently and foolishly, for the Muggle girl beside him—who smelled of sweet chocolate and fresh ink—oblivious to the boy next to her who possessed the power to turn into a cat. Each day spent together felt like a fleeting treasure, and the bittersweet reality of what he could never fully share with her weighed heavily on his heart.
They sat beneath their favourite rowan tree, a sturdy sentinel against the backdrop of a sky bruised by twilight—shades of lavender intertwined with deep rose, streaks of gold bleeding into one another, like watercolour pigments melding on a painter's palette. The lake at their feet shimmered quietly, a mirror to the first evening stars as they began to twinkle one by one.
(Y/n) was quieter than usual, her notepad resting unopened in the grass beside her. Her fingers danced nervously along the hem of her sleeve, betraying a restless mind. Mervin, ever observant, noticed every little thing about her—the way her brow furrowed when she concentrated, the slight hitch in her breath when she felt vulnerable—but tonight he chose to feign ignorance. Pretending was easier than grappling with the painful truth now looming between them.
In his palm, he cradled something small, his thumb brushing over it tenderly like a charm he wished to offer for good luck. "I, um... have something for you," he stammered, his voice barely breaking the stillness of the air.
Her brows lifted in curiosity, her surprise evident in the way her eyes sparkled. "You do?"
He nodded, a shy smile creeping across his face, then reached into the inner pocket of his robes. With careful deliberation, he withdrew a delicate silver chain. At its centre hung a tiny pendant—an oval locket no larger than a knut. Inside, behind a pane of glass, lay a sprig of rowan blossom, pale and fragile, forever captured in a moment of bloom.
"I... I made it," he admitted, stumbling slightly over the words, the weight of his feelings pressing against him. "It'll never wither. Like memory. And it would protect you while I am not here"
(Y/n) accepted it with trembling fingers, her eyes widening in astonishment as she traced the intricate craftsmanship with her fingertips. "It's beautiful," she breathed, her voice barely audible over the soft whisper of the evening breeze. "But why—?"
"Because I'm leaving," he said, his tone quiet yet steeped in an emotional gravity. "Tonight."
A wave of understanding washed over her, and her fingers curled tightly around the pendant as if clutching onto a shard of hope. "Is this what you couldn't tell me before?"
She wasn't an idiot; she had noticed not long ago that her friend Mervin and his family were different from the others in the village. Their home, with its unusual architecture and vibrant colours, stood out among the more traditional houses.
The way Mervin spoke about his family, often hinting at secrets he never fully revealed, only added to her curiosity. Yet, despite her growing awareness, she chose not to bring it up. She understood instinctively that such discussions made Mervin uncomfortable, and she didn't want to jeopardise their friendship.
Instead, she held onto the hope that one day, when he felt ready, he would open up to her about his family's unique story. Until then, she would patiently wait, respecting his boundaries while quietly fostering the bond they shared.
Mervin lowered his gaze to the blades of grass beneath them, his jaw tightening as he fought against the turmoil inside.
"There's a part of me I've never been able to share. Not because I didn't want to—but because I couldn't. It's not... safe. For either of us." When he looked up, his gaze harboured something ancient and aching, a mixture of fear and longing.
"But I didn't want to leave without giving you something real. Something true."
Tears shimmered at the corners of her eyes, but she bravely held them at bay. Instead, she reached for her notepad, tearing a page from the back with careful precision. The edges were slightly smudged, the pencil lines soft yet brimming with emotion.
She handed it to him, her heart in her throat.
It was a drawing. Of him. Captured beneath the rowan tree, legs stretched out across the grass, hair tousled by a gentle breeze, eyes lost to some distant thought. Beside him, a small form curled—a cat, its nose tucked into its tail, embodying the comfort of companionship.
Mervin froze, a lump forming in his throat as he absorbed her depiction of him. "You knew?" he asked, his voice thick with disbelief.
"No," she replied, a gentle smile gracing her lips as moonlight illuminated her features. "Not really. But I've always suspected there was more to you than you let on."
He held the drawing as if it were parchment spun from gold, a cherished treasure. "This... I'll keep this with me, always."
She stood then, slipping the necklace around her neck, her fingers grazing the pendant as if memorising its weight and warmth against her skin. Looking up at him, she radiated a steadiness that belied the breaking in her voice. "Whatever world you're going to, Mervin... I hope it's one where people see you the way I do."
His heart shattered like old spellwork unravelling, exposing the rawness of what they shared.
He stepped closer, the air thick with unspoken words, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath—that gentle pressure of connection. "Can I—?"
But he didn't need to finish; she leaned in first, their lips meeting in a kiss that tasted of salt and stars, ink and possibility. It wasn't rushed or desperate—it was soft, slow, the kind of kiss you share when you don't know if it will be the last.
When they finally pulled apart, silence enveloped them, a hush that spoke louder than any words could convey. Some truths, after all, required no articulation.
Mervin turned at last, the cherished sketch pressed close to his chest, and stepped into the deepening night. With each footfall, he left behind only faint impressions in the grass—remnants of a moment that was both unfinished and unforgotten.
___
A few years had passed since Marvin made the fateful decision to leave the girl he loved, known simply as (y/n), behind in their quaint village. The memory of their shared kiss lingered like a bittersweet taste on his lips, a reminder of what he'd sacrificed for a life at the Ministry of Magic. Although he had been working there for quite some time, the joy he expected to find in his new role had eluded him.
Each day at the Ministry felt more burdensome than the last, overshadowed by the weight of his regret. Marvin often found himself longing to turn back the clock to that heart-wrenching moment when he told (y/n) that he was leaving. He caught himself wondering what it would have been like if he had chosen her over the prestigious position he thought would bring him fulfilment. His decisions haunted him relentlessly.
Over time, he began to avoid visits to the village entirely, wrapped in a shroud of shame. He couldn't bear to face her again, especially after everything he had done—after the lies he told and the pieces of himself he had withheld, all in the misguided hope of protecting them both. Yet deep down, he knew he had only succeeded in creating an unbearable chasm between them.
Each time he entered the Ministry's grand halls, a wave of nostalgia washed over him, pulling him back to the moments they had shared. He remembered how excited (y/n) had been at the thought of exploring the magical world—her wide-eyed wonder at every enchantment, every spell. But now, every marvel he encountered lost its lustre without her beside him to share in the experience. The exhilaration of magic felt empty in her absence; the colours of his surroundings faded to grey.
Marvin wished desperately that he could have opened her eyes to the wonders of the magical realm, to show her everything she had ever dreamed of. Yet as he gazed at objects that once would have thrilled her, he was reminded that she was not there to gasp in awe or share a smile. The joy he had imagined was tainted by the knowledge that she was alone, and he had chosen this solitude for the sake of duty. The world of magic no longer sparkled with the vibrancy it once held; it was a hollow existence—one he couldn't escape, no matter how hard he tried.
The man was starting to think it wouldn't be that bad to leave the magical world and love as a Muggle for the rest of his life, even when he thought that the Wizarding World was everything he needed.
The man found himself standing at a crossroads, contemplating whether it might actually be preferable to embrace a life as a Muggle, leaving behind the wondrous complexities of the magical world he once believed fulfilled every need. As he wandered through the dimly lit corridors of the Ministry of Magic, his mind was a tempest, swirling with thoughts both poignant and unsettling. Distracted, he collided with someone unexpected—his former professor, now the headmaster of Hogwarts, who, in that moment, ignited a flicker of nostalgia inside him. It didn’t surprise Mervin, however; he always felt that his Transfiguration professor was the embodiment of wisdom and strength, a role perfectly suited for him. What did catch Mervin off guard was seeing Dumbledore here, at the Ministry. Nevertheless, he greeted his old teacher with a smile, though deep down, he knew it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Good evening, Professor Dumbledore, or perhaps I should say Headmaster?” he offered, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
“Headmaster, yes, though I suspect that title feels odd on your tongue,” Dumbledore replied, peering closely at Mervin. “And you, Mervin? You look like a man who’s lost more than just his direction in the corridor.”
Mervin managed a weak smile, rubbing the back of his neck, the gesture a testament to the unease that had settled within him. “I suppose I have lost my way a bit, sir. In more ways than one.”
Dumbledore’s eyes sparkled with a knowing kindness as he regarded Mervin. “Few wander without reason, my boy. And fewer still carry that look in their eyes without leaving something… or someone… behind.”
A heavy silence enveloped them, punctuated only by the distant sounds of magical activity echoing down the hall. Mervin’s gaze drifted to a stained-glass window, the afternoon light casting colourful patterns on the cold stone floor. “There was a girl… back home near the loch. A Muggle, kind and clever, always sketching the world around her as if she were trying to capture its very essence. She once told me I reminded her of the weather.”
Dumbledore’s brow lifted, showing interest. “Stormy, I presume?”
Mervin chuckled softly, a note of melancholy edging his amusement. “Yes, apparently. She said I always had thunder rumbling behind my eyes.”
“Wise girl,” Dumbledore murmured, a slight smile gracing his lips.
“I left without saying half the things I wanted to say,” Mervin confessed, his voice dropping to a whisper as if uttering a secret. “She gave me a drawing the last day I saw her—me, by the water. She saw more of me than I ever let her know. I gave her a necklace before I left. Some part of me hoped she’d wear it and remember me.”
He shook his head, bitterness lacing his tone. “And now, all I can think about is how I simply walked away. I convinced myself that the Ministry was what I truly wanted, what I worked for. But every moment here feels hollow, like I traded something whole for something glittering and cold.”
Dumbledore remained silent, allowing the weight of Mervin’s words to linger in the air. Finally, he spoke gently, “Magic can mend many things, Mervin. Wounds, time, even regret—if one is brave enough to turn around.”
Mervin met Dumbledore’s gaze, eyes shimmering with unspoken emotions. “But what if it’s too late? What if she has moved on? What if I’ve ruined everything before it ever even began?”
Dumbledore placed a reassuring hand on Mervin's shoulder, which radiated warmth and offered a grounding presence. “Then you will know. And knowing is always better than wondering. Regret is a slow poison, my boy—but honesty, even late, can be an antidote.”
For a moment, Mervin stood still, his heart racing at the thought of what lay ahead. The idea of returning to her, even if just for one fleeting moment, felt as freeing as sunlight flooding into a long-darkened room.
“I miss her,” he breathed, the weight of the admission hanging heavily in the air.
Dumbledore’s expression softened, a smile spreading, gentle and encouraging. “Then go. Find her. You may discover that the Ministry is not the only place where magic is made.”
Mervin stood there in silence, the hum of the Ministry’s corridors fading into a muffled background noise. Dumbledore’s words rang through his mind like the distant tolling of a bell, clear and resonant.
Regret is a slow poison… But honesty, even late, can be an antidote.
He swallowed hard, his fingers brushing against the paper tucked beneath his robes—the very drawing she had gifted to him, the one he clutched desperately when he said goodbye. The memory of her expression was vivid in his mind: not angry, Just... unfinished.
“She’d laugh,” he muttered, half to himself. “If she saw me now. Filing reports about spell-regulation protocols. Drinking stale tea in breakrooms. Merlin’s beard, I’ve become the very thing I swore I’d never be.”
Dumbledore’s gaze twinkled, but there was a discernible sadness within it. “Yes, I noticed the distinct scent of bureaucratic despair when I walked past your department.”
Mervin snorted despite the gravity of the moment. “Is it really that obvious?”
“Painfully,” Dumbledore replied, a lightness creeping back into his tone.
“You walk like a man dragging his wand behind him.”
A palpable silence settled between them once more. Dumbledore shifted his weight slightly, his expression unreadable, yet there was a softness in his eyes, as if he were letting the silence speak for him. Mervin had the sense that, as always, the older wizard was choosing his moment with careful precision.
Then, as if summoning the winds of destiny, Dumbledore spoke the words that took Mervin completely by surprise. “I came here today not for policy, Mervin. I came for you.”
Mervin blinked, disbelief etching his features. “For me?”
Dumbledore, with his wise, twinkling eyes shining with conviction, nodded slowly. “I’ve been watching your progress. And I must say, you’ve outgrown the Ministry rather quickly. Your instincts, your creativity—they are not the sort that belong behind a desk. I’ve seen the kind of wizard you could become. And more importantly, I’ve seen the kind of man you are.”
“You’re offering me… a different position?” Mervin asked, his voice laced with incredulity as he processed this unexpected turn of events.
“I’m offering you a return,” Dumbledore replied, his tone filled with warmth. “To Hogwarts. Not as a student. As a teacher.”
Mervin’s eyes widened, a mix of astonishment and intrigue dawning on his face. “A teacher?”
“Yes,” Dumbledore continued, gesturing animatedly as he spoke of possibility. “We’re in need of someone who understands both the magical and Muggle worlds. And someone with a heart brave enough to admit when he’s made a mistake... and bold enough to fix it.”
“You truly believe I’m that person?” Mervin asked, uncertainty threading through his voice.
“I believe,” Dumbledore said softly, allowing his words to resonate, “you are far more than the Ministry could ever hope to contain. And frankly, Mervin, you look utterly miserable here. So, why not try something better?”
Mervin stared at him, momentarily at a loss for words. The thought of returning to Hogwarts—a place where his life had truly begun, where magic vibrated through every stone and shadow—was both exhilarating and daunting. He could almost feel the echo of his footsteps reverberating through the ancient halls.
And perhaps—just perhaps—it could lead him back to the village. To her. The memory of her smile flooded his mind, tinged with both longing and uncertainty.
“I don’t even know if she still lives there,” he said quietly, his heart heavy with unspoken fears. “What if she’s married now?”
“Then you will discover that,” Dumbledore replied with sage calmness. “But if she hasn’t, and she remembers the boy who once gave her a necklace by the loch… perhaps it’s not too late for second chances.”
Mervin took a deep, steadying breath. The weight on his shoulders didn’t vanish entirely, but it shifted—now a little lighter, less suffocating. The path ahead remained shrouded in uncertainty, but for the first time in months, it no longer felt like a trap. Instead, it transformed into an intriguing door waiting to be opened.
“I’ll need to pack,” he said slowly, a tentative excitement fluttering in his chest.
Dumbledore’s face broke into a warm smile, his eyes gleaming with encouragement. “Excellent. I believe that Miss (Y/n) will be most curious to see what kind of man you have become.”
___
Hogwarts
The classroom buzzed with soft whispers and the scratching of quills, but the excitement was unmistakable—news of the new Transfiguration professor had spread like fire through dry parchment. Students leaned across desks, giggling and speculating in hushed tones.
Two girls seated near the middle of the room were especially animated, their Muggle Studies book open but entirely forgotten.
"I'm telling you, Clara, if he's as young as they say, then there's no way he's not a little bit attractive. I mean, he was a student just a few years ago!" one of them whispered excitedly.
Clara nodded eagerly. “And what if he’s actually good at teaching too? A handsome professor who can turn a teapot into a rabbit? I wouldn’t mind extra homework then.”
Their snickering was short-lived.
A sharp but amused voice cut through their daydreams.
"Perhaps you girls would like to stop talking about the new Transfiguration teacher and concentrate on your Muggle Studies," said the professor, arms crossed and brow slightly raised in mock severity as she loomed over their desk.
The girls jumped slightly in their seats and looked up sheepishly. The professor wasn’t angry—if anything, her tone was more teasing than chastising—but it was enough to fluster them.
“Sorry, Professor,” they said in unison, suppressing embarrassed giggles.
But Clara, always the bold one, couldn’t help herself. She leaned forward slightly, her eyes glinting with curiosity.
“Oh, but Professor, did you hear about the new Transfiguration teacher?” she asked, grinning. “People say he’s not that old—closer to your age, and you’re only what—three years older than us?”
A few students nearby turned their heads, clearly interested in where this conversation was going. The professor blinked, caught slightly off guard by the forwardness, then gave a wry smile as she straightened up.
“Well,” she said coolly, arching a brow. “I suppose we’ll see soon enough whether his age matters more than his qualifications. But unless he can also make your essays write themselves, I suggest you refocus your enthusiasm... on finishing that paragraph on Muggle electricity.”
There were a few chuckles around the room as the two girls ducked their heads, trying not to laugh too loudly.
The professor offered a composed smile as she turned back to the blackboard, resuming her lesson—but her thoughts were elsewhere, drifting back to that quiet afternoon in the Headmaster’s office, and the old photograph that had stirred far more than just curiosity.
A few days ago
The fire crackled gently in the hearth of the Headmaster’s office, casting flickering light over old tomes and the scattered remnants of a long day. Albus Dumbledore, now comfortably nestled in the deep red armchair across from his guest, lifted a porcelain teapot with an easy flick of his wand.
“Earl Grey, I believe?” he asked, pouring the steaming liquid into two delicate cups. “With a drop of honey—it helps quiet the mind.”
The young professor smiled, wrapping slender fingers around the offered cup. “Thank you, Headmaster.”
“Albus, please,” he corrected kindly, reaching for the dish of lemon drops between them. “We’re colleagues now.”
She let out a soft chuckle, more out of politeness than mirth, and glanced around the room. It was her first time being invited in for tea, and she couldn’t help but take in the long rows of enchanted books, peculiar silver instruments whirring quietly on a high shelf, and the many moving portraits who occasionally paused their dozing to give her a curious glance.
One shelf, tucked between a set of dusty scrolls and a broken wand encased in glass, held a small silver-framed photograph. Her gaze drifted toward it, and her breath caught almost imperceptibly.
It was a group photo—not that old, perhaps five years or less. Students stood in neat rows on the castle’s steps, all dressed in their graduation robes. A slightly younger Albus Dumbledore stood at the end, hair a darker auburn, expression serene.
But her eyes found him instantly. Middle row, second from the left. Tall. Storm-blue eyes. The faintest smirk on his lips, like he knew something no one else did. Her heartbeat faltered before quickly recovering.
“Might I…?” she asked, already rising to get a closer look.
“Of course,” Dumbledore said, sipping his tea.
She picked up the frame delicately, holding it like something fragile. Something sharp and sacred. “This was your final class as Transfiguration professor?”
Dumbledore nodded. “Yes. 1946. A brilliant year.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the frame. “This one…” she asked, not meeting his eyes, “second from the left—what was his name?”
Dumbledore’s brow lifted gently, but he answered with that signature calm of his. “Mervin McGonagall.”
A silence bloomed in the space between them. She was still looking at the photo, her expression unreadable, except for the smallest quiver at the edge of her smile—something brittle beneath the surface. Her voice, when she spoke again, was carefully neutral.
“He looks… clever.”
Dumbledore placed his cup down with a quiet clink and studied her—not unkindly, but curiously, as though watching a star shift slightly out of orbit.
“He was,” he said. “Quite possibly the brightest student I ever taught. He had a natural instinct for magic. Not just in theory—he understood its shape, its rhythm. It flowed through him like music.”
She nodded, lips pressed into a faint smile. “He looks like he knew it.”
“Indeed.” Dumbledore’s voice was soft now, thoughtful. “But he was never arrogant about it. Not truly. There was something… inward about him. Like he was always keeping part of himself at a distance. But he had loyalty, fierce and unspoken. The kind you don’t see often.”
She was silent, but her grip on the frame shifted. Dumbledore, observing her over the rim of his glasses, spoke again—this time more gently.
“I always found it interesting,” he said, “how memories can be hidden in plain sight. We believe we’ve shelved them neatly, out of reach, but all it takes is a face or a name to bring them to the surface.”
She placed the photograph back on the shelf with steady hands, though her breath seemed just slightly shallower than before. Turning back to him, her smile returned—but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You must miss teaching.”
“I miss watching students discover themselves,” Dumbledore replied. “And I miss seeing them become more than they thought they could be.” He paused, his gaze resting on her with subtle understanding. “And sometimes, I simply miss those who left their mark.”
She looked down at her tea, then back up again. “Some marks don’t fade.”
Dumbledore didn’t press further. He only nodded, picking up a lemon drop and twirling it between his fingers before offering her one.
“Sweet?” he asked.
She smiled—this time, just a little more real. “Bittersweet,” she answered, taking the candy.
And in the quiet that followed, no more words were needed.
___
The corridors of the castle were quiet, lit only by the occasional flickering torch and the silvery moonlight seeping through tall windows. The students had long been tucked into their dormitories, their excited whispers about the start of a new term fading into silence.
Mervin McGonagall wandered the halls alone, footsteps soft on ancient stone. He was no longer a student in this castle—but the walls still held whispers of his youth. He should have felt accomplished. Honored. Instead, he carried a weight in his chest heavier than any textbook he’d once hauled through these corridors.
He turned the corner leading to the empty staff lounge, planning to clear his thoughts before tomorrow’s formal introduction. But as he stepped through the archway, his breath caught.
She was there.
Standing at the window, arms loosely crossed, moonlight tracing the curve of her hair—just as he remembered.
Y/N.
Her long curls spilt down her back in a familiar cascade, and when she turned to face him, it felt as if time rewound. Eyes met his. Real. Alive. Right there.
Mervin froze.
“I must be—” he muttered, almost to himself, taking an unsteady step back. “No. No, this isn't real. I must be imagining this.”
Her expression softened. “Mervin—”
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “This can’t be you. You don’t belong here. You’re not supposed to know about this world. How could you be here? You—” He looked down at his own hands like they were betraying him. “Did Dumbledore…? Is this an illusion?”
She stepped closer. “It’s really me.”
He stared, eyes scanning her as though he were trying to memorise a dream before it faded. “But it’s forbidden,” he said hoarsely. “Wizards aren’t allowed to tell Muggles about magic, not unless—Y/N, how are you here?”
A sad smile tugged at her lips. “I didn’t know either. Not until a few months ago.”
He blinked, mouth parting, but she continued.
“There was… an incident. A witch lost control of her magic in the village. She was angry, unstable—furious at everything and everyone. I was there. I saw everything. She conjured flame out of nothing, and for a second, I thought she was going to burn down the whole square.”
Mervin’s face paled.
“But then he came. Dumbledore. He stopped her before it got worse. Before anyone else saw. Everyone else thought it was a gas leak or a trick of the light, but I saw it. I saw him. And I saw magic. For the first time.”
She took a breath, remembering.
“And instead of erasing my memory, like I know he was supposed to, he talked to me. I think he could tell… how much I’d needed to see something like that. How long I’d been searching for answers I couldn’t name. I kept asking questions. I couldn’t stop.”
Mervin’s eyes flickered, taking a hesitant step forward.
“And after that,” Y/N said, “he said something I never expected. He asked if I’d ever considered teaching. Said they needed someone like me—someone who could bridge both worlds, someone curious, someone brave.” Her voice cracked softly. “He offered me a position. Muggle Studies professor. I said yes before I even asked what a ‘Hogwarts’ was.”
Silence pressed between them, but it wasn’t hollow—it was full of the ache of years passed, of words left unsaid.
“I thought I’d lost you,” Mervin finally said. His voice was thick with guilt. “When I left, I thought it was the only way to protect you. I couldn’t tell you the truth. I wasn’t allowed. And it killed me.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“I tried to forget. To let go. I thought maybe that would help. That it would hurt less.” He looked up, his eyes glistening. “But I never stopped thinking about you.”
She smiled, quiet and soft and full of the sadness they had both carried for too long. “I never took it off,” she said, reaching for the chain around her neck.
The small silver necklace glinted in the moonlight, the rowan blossom at its centre still perfectly preserved, its white petals untouched by time.
Mervin stared at it, a breath catching in his throat. “It’s still—”
“You said it would never die,” she whispered. “That it would keep me safe. Even when you were gone.”
He stepped closer now, the air between them charged with memory and hope.
“I enchanted it the night before I left,” he said. “I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to see you again. But I wanted a part of me to stay with you.”
Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. “And it did. You did. I never stopped feeling like you were near. Even when I didn’t understand why.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing hers over the blossom. Then, tentatively, he cupped her face.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “For all of it. For leaving. For not explaining. For not trusting you with the truth.”
Her eyes searched his. “It hurt. It hurt more than anything. But I never stopped believing in you. And I think… maybe everything had to happen like this. So we could find each other again.”
For a long moment, they just stood there. The stone walls of Hogwarts bore witness to something quiet, something sacred—two lives long separated by duty, now brought back together by fate.
“I missed you,” she said, her voice cracking.
“I missed you more,” he replied.
She leaned into his hand. “You’re here now.”
“I’m here,” He hesitantly tightens his fingers over the blossom resting above her heart. “I never stopped loving you,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Then he leaned down and kissed her.
It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was soft, reverent, the kind of kiss woven from years of longing and quiet dreams. Her hands curled against the front of his robes, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The kiss said everything words couldn’t—I missed you. I’m sorry. You’re still mine.
When they finally parted, they rested their foreheads together, breathing each other in.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he whispered.
“And I’m not going anywhere,” she said.
The rowan blossom between them glowed faintly, a quiet witness to a love that, despite magic, distance, and time… had never truly faded.
A/N: thought it would be cute to have the pic seem as it came out from the 50s
"Norman, listen to me!" Spider-Man's voice cut through the chaos, his tone a mix of urgency and frustration.
Miles peered cautiously over the crumbling remnants of the wall, his fingers digging into the cracked concrete as he tried to catch a glimpse of the action. You were crouched beside him, casting occasional glances in his direction, but your main focus was on Spider-Man, whose agility and heroic demeanour seemed to be the only thing standing between you and the chaos unfolding around you.
"I cannot let you open a portal to another dimension! Brooklyn is not zoned for that!" Spider-Man shouted, his words laden with sarcasm, as he began peeling himself from the wreckage of a crushed cargo container.
Your grip tightened around Miles' hand, a mixture of fear and excitement coursing through you. Your eyes desperately searched for the source of Spider-Man's distress when, suddenly, a hulking green figure loomed into view.
"It's not up to me," growled the Green Goblin, his deep voice resonating ominously. The unmistakable horns and menacing wings made it clear who this creature was—a formidable foe to any hero.
He stalked menacingly towards Spider-Man, raising his hand to deliver a powerful blow. Spider-Man evaded him with acrobatic grace, swinging out of harm's way just in time—shards of concrete raining down as the Goblin's attack obliterated a nearby pillar.
"Why won't you quit?!" the Goblin barked, frustration evident in every ounce of his being.
"Guess I like Brooklyn not being sucked into a black hole?" Spider-Man shot back, his sarcasm painting a thin layer over the tension that permeated the air.
Miles turned to you, his young voice barely above a whisper. "I think it's time to go." He squeezed your hand tightly, trying to pull you away, but you remained frozen, fear rooting you in place as the confrontation intensified.
Then, in a sudden twist of fate, the Green Goblin was pushed into one of the enormous machines that cluttered the area—specifically, a crane that loomed over the chaos, carrying a hefty load of scaffolding. In the blink of an eye, the crane swung wildly, sending the scaffolding hurtling through the hole in the wall toward you and Miles.
A sickening thud echoed as the scaffolding collided with you, driving the air from your lungs and nearly crushing Miles beneath its weight. You both managed to leap out of the way just in time, landing awkwardly on top of the metal debris, hearts racing and adrenaline pumping.
Dazed by the impact, you struggled to disentangle yourselves from the unforgiving metal beneath you. Before you could regain your bearings, the crane was rocked again, its grip relinquishing the scaffolding entirely. You plummeted downward, the world spinning as gravity took hold.
Miles was quick to react, already scrambling to his feet the moment you hit the ground. He shot a glance back, his expression urgent, and gestured for you to run. The clang of metal and the rumble of chaos surrounded you as you frantically searched for a place to hide, your eyes darting aimlessly until a door glowing with bright light captured your attention.
With fear propelling you forward, you sprinted for the door, but your foot caught on a jagged rock, nearly sending you crashing to the ground.
"Miles!" you called out, panic rising in your voice as you tugged at your trapped foot. He turned, his gaze flitting nervously between you and the advancing threat of the Green Goblin. Without hesitation, he rushed to your side, swiftly clearing the rock from your foot.
"Thank you," you breathed, gratitude washing over you as the adrenaline surged.
Miles blushed slightly, a shy grin touching his lips, but the urgency of the situation quickly refocused both of your minds. You sprinted toward the light, adrenaline pushing you onward, but just as you reached the threshold, you were greeted with the shocking sight of a steep drop just beyond the door. You teetered precariously on the edge, panic clutching your chest, until Miles swiftly put his arm out to stop you.
Breathing heavily, your heart raced as your eyes scanned the massive grey room. It was a disorienting cylindrical space, filled with menacing machines on either end that pointed toward a central platform. Below, a gaping hole echoed endless depths, jagged and ominous, threatening to swallow anything—or anyone—who ventured too close.
Your moment of observation was abruptly shattered as Green Goblin's massive form barreled through the doorway, sending you and Miles tumbling down the side of the room. You managed to grab onto the edge of the treacherous hole, heart pounding in your ears as you grasped Miles' hand, your palms slick with sweat.
The Green Goblin, oblivious to your desperate struggle, careened ahead, crashing through the hole with a thunderous roar that shook the entire space.
Every muscle in your upper body strained as you fought to pull both yourself and Miles back to safety, but the weight of desperation was too great. Your fingers slipped, and in an instant, you were falling—down, down into the abyss.
"Miles!" you shouted, your voice swallowed by the rush of wind whipping past you, knowing it was likely futile. Just then, a rush of determination surged through you, prompting you to shoot a web from your wrist instinctively. It snagged Miles mid-fall, giving you the hope you needed.
With panic creeping in, you raised your hand again to unleash another web, but a wave of dread washed over you when nothing came out.
'Oh no,' you thought. 'This is not good.'
In the chaos, you clutched Miles tightly, desperately bracing yourselves for the inevitable impact. Suddenly, a flash of red and blue streaked past your field of vision. In a miraculous moment, you were yanked to safety, landing with a thud on a small platform. Tools and debris clanked against the railings from the sheer force of the landing.
Breathing heavily, you looked up, your gaze meeting the confident red mask of Spider-Man. Relief flooded through you like a tidal wave, chasing away the lingering fear.
"You know your shoes are untied," he said, his voice laced with amusement as he glanced down at Miles' sneakers, still in disarray.
Miles nodded, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, a mixture of embarrassment and amusement crossing his face.
"This is, uh, a onesie, so I don't really have to worry about it," he replied sheepishly, the gravity of the situation momentarily lightened, but the tension in the air still crackling with electricity around you all.
You stifled a laugh, but the overwhelming tingling sensation washing over you caught you completely off guard. The looks on Spider-Man's face and Miles' mask told you they were experiencing the same thing.
"I thought I was the only one," Spider-Man marvelled, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You're like me... both of you."
That confirmation was everything you needed, a validation of all your unspoken fears and hopes. Yet, somehow, the realisation settled heavily on your shoulders like an immense weight. This whole time, you'd been treating the situation as if it were a fleeting dream, something that might vanish upon waking. But it wasn't a dream; it was all too real. To think of living up to the legacy of Spider-Man? The very thought terrified you.
"I don't wanna be," Miles blurted out, his eyebrows knit in confusion and defiance, his words echoing your own conflicted thoughts.
"I don't think you have a choice, kiddo. You've got a lot going through your heads, I'm sure..." Spider-Man replied, his tone philosophical yet laced with a hint of concern.
"Uh-huh," you echoed absently, still grappling with the weight of your new reality.
"Yeah, this is just basic Spidey stuff," you joked, trying to ease the tension. "The entire universe collapsing in on itself? Pfft, easy to fix." You flashed a grin, hoping it would lighten the atmosphere.
Miles chuckled, and for a brief moment, you felt a flicker of camaraderie, but it quickly faded. The gravity of the situation returned, and you exchanged worried glances. All your faith was pinned on Spider-Man. If he faltered, everyone—worlds beyond your own—would be in jeopardy.
"How does he do that?" Miles wondered aloud, eyes wide with admiration.
As if drawn by an unseen force, both you and Miles craned your necks upward. Spider-Man was scaling the ceiling with effortless grace, his silhouette reminiscent of an actual spider—fluid, agile, and strikingly capable.
"He really looks like a spider," you murmured, almost in awe.
Your moment of fascination was shattered as Spider-Man punched the ceiling with surprising force. It took you a moment to register what was happening.
A hatch bursts open, revealing a sleek control panel hidden away in the metal above you.
But just as Spider-Man pulled out what appeared to be a high-tech USB drive, everything spiralled into chaos. A figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked in a formidable combination of black and purple. With a sudden, forceful shove, the newcomer sent Spider-Man hurtling away from the control panel—a battle erupting mid-air.
"Prowler! I'm kinda in the middle of something!" Spider-Man gasped, his voice strained, but the man—Prowler—was unrelenting, landing powerful kicks that sent Spider-Man reeling.
In the heat of the moment, Miles whipped out his phone, his hands steady as he zoomed in for a better shot. Just as quickly, he pocketed the device, opting against the risk of damage in the unfolding chaos.
Prowler's assault escalated, knocking Spider-Man beneath the massive, rotating components of the machine. Your heart plummeted as you watched, frozen in fear; the dangerous machinery loomed perilously close, threatening to scrape against Spider-Man's vulnerable frame.
Miraculously, he managed to stand up again, stopping the rotation with astonishing strength, using only one hand.
"Holy..." you breathed, the disbelief palpable in your tone.
Spider-Man attempted to web his way out, but just then, the Green Goblin returned, grabbing hold of him with a clawed foot.
"Oh... we should go up there," you suggested breathlessly, adrenaline coursing through your veins.
"Yeah!" Miles echoed, his eyes wide with a mix of excitement and fear.
You shared a moment of silent understanding, your gazes locking. Then, all reason interjected. "Wait, we should not go up there..."
Miles sank down beside you, his body language reflecting agreement, but his eyes were wide with a mix of thrill and terror. Suddenly, you both heard the unsettling sound of humming emanating from a nearby loudspeaker you hadn't noticed before. You ducked behind the barrel that Miles had been leaning against, your heart racing as you sought to identify the source.
The humming morphed into a bizarre rendition of Spider-Man's theme, but not from any cheerful performer—instead, it came from a low, sinister voice.
"You like my new toy?" the voice dripped with malice, sending chills down your spine. "Cost me a fortune."
You peeked from your hiding spot to see the hulking silhouette of a man, imposing and sharply dressed in a black suit and tie, standing in a room that overlooked the chaotic scene below.
"You came all this way to watch the test. It's a hell of a freakin' light show. You're gonna love this."
"No! No, don't do this! You're gonna kill us all!" Spider-Man shouted from beneath the Green Goblin's grip, urgency tinged with desperation.
Gripping Miles tightly, you scanned your surroundings as thousands of lights flickered to life, transforming the room into a blinding spectacle.
The brightness was overwhelming, and colours—a riot of reds and oranges—reflected chaotically off every surface, creating an almost surreal atmosphere.
Everything trembled: the floor, you, and even Miles as you braced yourselves for the impending chaos that promised to follow.
You grasped his wrist tightly with one hand, your fingers digging into his suit, while your other hand stretched desperately toward the rusted scaffolding overhead, swaying precariously.
"What's your take on head trauma?" Spider-Man shouted, his voice laced with urgency and a hint of sarcasm as he swung into action.
Just then, a panel from the ceiling, worn and barely hanging by a few frayed cables, gave way with a deafening crack. It plummeted downwards, striking Green Goblin on the crown of his head, sending him sprawling and knocking him off balance.
In an instant, you could see the chaotic shift in the battle, where the advantage swung momentarily to Spider-Man, leaving you both in a precarious dance on the edge of danger.
As Spider-Man launched himself into the air, swinging gracefully toward the ceiling of the dimly lit warehouse, he remained aware of his surroundings.
Suddenly, out of the shadows, the Green Goblin emerged with a sinister grin. Before Spider-Man could react, the villain swooped in low, his glider slicing through the air with a menacing hum. With a swift motion, he seized Spider-Man in his sharp talons, lifting him off the ground and into the air. The thrill of the chase transformed into a moment of peril as the hero struggled against the Goblin's iron grip, the atmosphere charged with tension as they hovered above the chaotic scene below.
Goblin held Spider-Man's head submerged in a swirling vortex of vibrant hues, the colours merging and clashing like a chaotic painter's palette as if he were attempting to drown him in a tempest of madness and confusion.
The big man in the suit yelled in distress, "Get him out of there!" But Green Goblin didn't.
The imposing figure in the tailored suit shouted in alarm, his voice laced with urgency, "Get him out of there!" Yet, with a wicked grin stretching across his twisted face, the Green Goblin didn't get to hear the man.
The scaffoldings swayed violently, each tremor sending a jolt through your body as Miles hung precariously from his position. His grip was beginning to falter, fingers slipping on the slick metal as panic coursed through him. In a desperate move, you clutched the bars beside you, your palms clammy with sweat. You took a moment to wipe them against your pants, regaining a more secure hold on the cold, unforgiving surface.
With your heart racing, you tore your gaze away from the chaotic scene unfolding in front of you, forcing your attention upward to Miles. The machine loomed ominously overhead, its lights flickering erratically in a disorienting dance of colours that suggested impending catastrophe.
You instinctively tucked your head down, bracing yourself for whatever devastation was about to unfold.
Then it happened—an ear-splitting explosion shattered the air, reverberating in your chest.
The shockwave knocked you off balance, and you cracked your eyes open only when silence finally enveloped the room.
Greenish-grey smoke curled through the air, filling your lungs with a choking haze. As your senses adjusted, the lingering shadows were pierced only by the stuttering glow of a few flickering lights and the angry sparks spitting from severed wires.
Coughing slightly, you brushed the debris off your clothes, your heartbeat still racing from the adrenaline. In the midst of the chaos, your eyes zeroed in on Miles, who was precariously navigating through the debris, stepping over twisted metal and shattered pieces of the machine—his expression a mix of determination and fear as he battled against the wreckage.
"Miles," you called out, your voice strained but hopeful. "Miles!"
He spotted you through the haze of chaos and dashed over, enveloping you in a warm embrace. His presence was a comforting anchor in the midst of uncertainty.
"I'm alive, Miles, it's okay," you chuckled softly, relief washing over you as you hugged him back tightly. "Thank god."
As the thick, dark grey clouds began to part overhead, you and Miles exchanged determined glances before beginning your search for Spider-Man, the hero who had once saved countless lives. With each step, the weight of the day pressed down on you, yet hope flickered in the corners of your heart.
You moved cautiously, navigating through the debris-laden landscape until you passed the fallen form of the Green Goblin. All that was visible of him was a claw, curled up and unnervingly still, a once threatening figure now reduced to a mere shadow of his former self.
Just a bit to the right, you finally spotted him—Spider-Man. He lay crumpled on the ground, and the sight sent a chill down your spine. You sprinted over and knelt by his side, heart racing. The once vibrant red and blue of his suit was now marred with countless rips, and bruises peeked through the damaged fabric like dark, silent witnesses to the battle he had fought. One of his eyepieces had shattered, and dirt clung to his skin, making him look even more vulnerable than usual.
Alarmingly, his chest rose and fell with an unsettling slowness.
Miles knelt beside you, his face mirroring your worry as Spider-Man emitted a dry, raspy cough that echoed in the silence around you.
"Are you okay?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, eyes searching his for reassurance as Miles gently pushed aside some debris obstructing Spider-Man's path.
"Oh, yeah, yeah, just resting," he replied, trying for nonchalance but failing to convince either of you.
"Really?" you pressed, doubt threading through your words.
"Can you get up?" Miles cut in, his tone more urgent now, a hint of desperation creeping in. "Yeah, I always get up," Spider-Man insisted, though his voice wavered slightly.
You exchanged a tense glance with Miles, your lips pressed into a firm line. You wanted to believe him, but it was clear that he was in terrible shape. There was no way he could simply rise to his feet right now.
"Y/n," Spider-Man coughed again, the effort clearly weakening him. "Both of you, promise me something."
You felt a knot form in your stomach as you slowly nodded, sensing the gravity of his words.
"If anything happens to me, take this." He reached into his suit with great effort and withdrew a small drive, cradling it carefully in his hand before placing it into your grasp.
"This key is the only way to stop the collider."
Your fingers curled around the cold metal of the drive, a surge of responsibility flooding your veins.
"Can you hide your faces and do not tell anyone who you are?" he continued, a desperate edge creeping into his voice.
"No one can know; he's got everyone in his pocket." His eyes bore into yours, filled with urgency and fear. "If he turns the machine on again, everything you know will disappear. Everyone."
"Promise me you'll do this," he pleaded, his voice strained but resolute, and in that moment, you realised the weight of the world rested heavily on your shoulders.
You furrowed your eyebrows, a mix of anxiety and determination swirling in your chest, while Miles shifted his gaze downward, the tension in the air palpable.
"Please," he whispered, his voice barely above a murmur.
The solitary eye visible through the torn fabric of his mask was filled with a desperate plea, as if he were reaching out to you from behind the layers of his disguise. The weight of the moment settled heavily on your shoulders; you knew you had no other option.
"We promise," you affirmed, curling your fingers around the small, unassuming object in your palm—a lifeline in the chaotic storm surrounding you. Miles nodded, his agreement silent yet resolute.
Spider-Man, leaning weakly against the rubble, let out another strained cough that echoed in the dimly lit space. He gestured for you to move, urgency threading through his simple command.
With a swift nod that signalled your understanding, you laced your fingers with Miles' and sprinted towards a pile of debris, where you both ducked low.
Your heart raced as you pressed against the cold, jagged edge of the rubble, trying to catch your breath. Miles glanced upwards, drawing your attention to a faint green light flickering above, barely visible through the thick, swirling smoke that filled the air.
You opened your mouth to voice a thought, to suggest a plan, but your words were abruptly silenced by the intrusive sound of whispers echoing around you.
"No more tests. Get that thing ready to go again," growled a deep voice, unmistakably belonging to the hulking figure of Kingpin. His presence loomed, intimidating and powerful, as it bounced off the walls like a dark shadow.
"Spider-Man! So good to see you again!" Kingpin's voice turned almost mocking as he closed the distance between himself and the web-slinger, towering over him menacingly.
He reached out, grasping the edges of Spider-Man's mask, and with a forceful rip, tore it away. Despite Spider-Man's attempts to resist, he was powerless, bound by invisible restraints.
A surge of panic shot through you as you instinctively tried to shift for a clearer view. But in your haste, your foot slipped, sending a scrap of metal skittering across the ground with a loud clang.
Miles's head snapped in your direction, eyes wide with alarm. You froze, heart pounding in your chest, fearing that the noise had drawn Kingpin's attention.
The tension around you thickened as you and Miles remained still, breaths held, bracing for whatever might come next in this perilous moment.
"Kill him," he ordered, his voice cold and commanding as he disregarded the tension hanging in the air. You exhaled slowly, releasing the breath you had been holding, yet a wave of unease still churned within you, leaving you far from relieved.
Beside Kingpin, Prowler raised a gloved hand, revealing razor-sharp claws that gleamed ominously in the dim light. The atmosphere crackled with palpable tension as he seemed to contemplate his next move.
"Don't you want to know what I saw in there?" he taunted, a sly smirk playing on his lips.
"Wait," Kingpin interrupted, raising an imposing arm to gesture for Prowler to hold back. His tone was firm, a clear warning wrapped in authority.
"I know what you're trying to do," Spider-Man interjected, his voice steady but laced with urgency, his mask hiding any trace of his concern.
"It's not going to work. They're gone." The final words hung in the air like a challenge, as the silence stretched out, thick and suffocating, before anyone dared to speak again.
As Kingpin lifted his massive arms high above his head, he gathered all his strength before slamming them down onto Spider-Man's vulnerable form. A surge of dread shot through you, sending your heart racing as it lodged in your throat. You gripped Miles' hand with such intensity that you feared you might fracture a few of his bones in your panic.
He just killed Spider-Man.
Miles felt the sharp edge of panic as he began to back away, his heart racing wildly in his chest. Just as he took another cautious step, he tripped over a loose piece of debris, the sudden stumble making him hold his breath in fear.
You instinctively placed a finger to your lips, hoping that Kingpin would overlook your presence just one more time, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. But Miles, driven by an urgent need to escape, had a different plan: he quickly decided to run, his instincts kicking in as he prepared to bolt from the danger closing in around him.
"Kill those guys."
For the first time in your life, you wished you were normal. The absurdity of being chased by a man clad in an ominous cape seemed to mock you as your heart raced. But life had a knack for turning the ordinary into the extraordinary.
So here you were, sprinting through the dimly lit subway tunnel, arms pumping at your sides, dodging debris, with Miles bumping into you as he desperately tried to keep pace.
"Just a little longer!" you shouted, glancing back to catch a glimpse of his pale face, fear glimmering in his eyes.
"We're almost—"
Your voice faltered as the blinding lights ahead grew larger and more distinct, emitting an almost otherworldly glow.
"Turn around!" Miles yelled, panic lacing his tone. You spun on your heels, but the figure of Prowler loomed closer, a menacing shadow creeping in, leaving you trapped between the encroaching train and the terrifying figure behind you.
In a split-second decision, Miles shoved you against the cold, unforgiving stone wall, obscuring you from the approaching threat.
You pressed your back to the wall, breaths coming in shallow bursts, eyes wide with fear.
The echoing roar of the train filled your ears, drowning out everything else as you stood frozen, hope and terror warring within you.
'Please be alive, please be alive, please be—'
Just then, relief washed over you like a cool breeze when you spotted him drop down from the ceiling, landing deftly a few feet away.
You rushed to help him up, your heart swelling with gratitude, but you had to fight the overwhelming urge to scold him.
"It's a little early to start self-sacrificing, isn't it?! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" you yelled over the clamour of the train, adrenaline propelling you forward as you picked up your speed.
Miles stumbled slightly, tripping over his untied shoelaces, arms flailing as he struggled to regain his balance.
"I couldn't let you die!" he insisted, the sincerity in his voice surprising you.
You glanced over at him, your mouth hanging open slightly. He really had just risked his life for you—but now wasn't the time to express appreciation; survival took precedence.
Ahead of you, the chance to escape the tracks and dive back into the safety of the subway was fast approaching, along with another oncoming train. Miles, now just ahead, expertly slipped through a narrow gap between the moving train and the solid wall, and you followed, barely avoiding a painful collision.
He kept casting worried glances in your direction, ensuring that you stayed right beside him, eyes darting around as he navigated the chaos.
Your muscles felt like lead, and every breath you drew became a laborious task. The two of you burst up the subway steps and spilt out onto the bustling streets of Brooklyn, lungs heaving, finally feeling some distance between you and the menacing Prowler.
"I think we lost him," Miles panted, slowing down as relief washed over him.
"What now?" you asked, leading him into a shadowy alleyway to catch your breath.
His gaze landed on an open window nearby, a glimmer of an idea igniting in his eyes as he began to climb.
You had barely processed the situation before his shoe flew off his foot and thudded right into your head.
"Ow! Miles, what are you doing?" you hissed, lowering your voice to avoid drawing attention. His head popped up and out of the window frame, a mixture of excitement and urgency flooding his expression.
"Come on!"
You rolled your eyes, holding his shoe by the laces before tossing it aside, the fabric barely making a sound as it thudded against the floor inside. You clambered through the window, surprisingly nimble despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins.
Once inside, you took in your surroundings, realising you'd been brought to his apartment, specifically into his cluttered bedroom adorned with posters and gadgets.
You were about to voice a ridiculously unhelpful comment when a sudden spike of tension struck you. The unmistakable sound of voices echoed from elsewhere in the apartment—the clatter of a shoe colliding with furniture stirring the air with a sense of dread.
Miles shot straight up at the sound, the fearful glint in his eyes momentarily freezing you in place. Without hesitation, you leapt out the window, landing awkwardly but on your feet. Your hands stung from the rough impact, palms scraped and raw.
"POLICE! PUT YOUR HANDS UP—Miles?" A powerful voice rang out, startling you, but you quickly calmed as the tone softened. Realisation hit you hard—this was Miles' dad. The thought of his dad finding out the truth about Spider-Man made your heart race in an entirely different way; the consequences would be dire.
From the cold, damp concrete beneath you, the muffled voices from the room above began to fade, morphing into a chorus of incoherent whispers that sent a chill down your spine. You anxiously rubbed your arms in an instinctive attempt to ward off the pervasive chill that lingered in the air, your heart silently pleading for Miles to come and get you soon—before Prowler found you first.
Time stretched thin as you paced in the dimly lit confines of your hiding spot, desperation creeping in with each tick of the clock. You edged closer to the solitary window, the faint glow of light spilling in from above. Straining to catch snippets of conversation, you focused intently until you caught the tail end of a dialogue floating down from above.
"Dad," Miles's voice carried a mixture of concern and disbelief,
"Do you really hate Spider-Man?"
"Psshh, yeah, I mean—" came his father's voice, heavy with a dismissive air.
"Jeff, mi amor?" Miles's mother interjected, her tone threading tension through the air.
"He asked me! You know how I feel about Spider-Man, come on," Jeff replied, sharpness edging his voice, showcasing the complicated emotions swirling amongst them.
As the conversation dwindled into silence, a click echoed through the quiet space, signalling that a decision had been made above. In an instant, Miles rushed to the window, urgency colouring his features.
"Y/n?!" he whispered-shouted, his gaze darting around the ground below, searching desperately for you.
"I'm here," you reassured him, raising your hands in a silent plea for him to help you back into the room.
As you stepped down onto the soft carpet, the muted pads of your feet were a relief from the harshness of the concrete, but an unsettling stillness hung in the air, amplifying your unease.
A palpable tension thickened the atmosphere as Miles sank onto his bed, the weight of what had just unfolded clearly burdening him. You could hear the faint rustle of fabric as you tapped your nails against the wooden desk, your mind racing through what had transpired, waiting for either of you to break the silence.
"Spider-Man is dead," Miles blurted out suddenly, the words slicing through the quiet and causing your nail tapping to cease mid-motion.
"I know," you replied softly, your own heart heavy with the realization.
"Should we have done something?" he asked, his eyes wide and pleading, searching your expression for reassurance.
"Listen," you began, unable to hold back the flood of thoughts any longer, "if we'd interfered, we probably, y'know, wouldn't be here." Your voice wavered slightly, revealing the uncertainty that accompanied your words. The truth was you could never be totally sure—there might have been something you could have done. A gnawing doubt clawed at you, echoing in the dark recesses of your mind, mirroring the turmoil etched on Miles's face.
He nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor as if the weight of the world rested heavily upon his shoulders.
In an effort to lighten the mood, he suddenly brightened, recalling a moment from earlier that night.
"You shot a web!" His voice was infused with excitement, pulling you from the shadows of your thoughts.
"Oh yeah!" you exclaimed, the memory sparking a smile, but as you raised your hand, ready to replicate the moment, a sudden wave of anticipation washed over you. You concentrated, ready to summon the webbing once more—only to be met with silence.
Nothing happened.
"Perhaps it was a one-time thing," you mumbled, disappointment seeping into your tone. Miles's face dropped, his eyebrows tightly knit together in a frown, a contradiction to the joy you had just seen moments before.
"Miles," you said softly, inching closer and sitting down beside him on the bed, gentle sincerity colouring your words,
"Should I sleep under the bed?"
A soft laugh escaped him, the weight of the moment lifting just slightly as a genuine smile etched itself onto his face.
You mirrored his expression, but the gravity of your previous conversation began to settle back in. Your tone shifted to something more serious.
"Really... Do you want me to stay?" you asked, your heart beating in time with the silent hope that flickered between you, awaiting his answer.
He nodded his head yes, but got up, your arm falling from his shoulder.
"I really think you should go home, y/n. But I can't let you walk alone; I don't want you to get attacked!" His voice was a blend of concern and determination, and you could feel the weight of his words pressing against your chest.
You swallowed hard, grappling with the lump forming in your throat, as doubt began to creep in.
"Are you sure? The Prowler could still be out there—" you protested, anxiety threading your tone. The night air was thick with tension, and every shadow seemed to whisper danger.
"It's okay, I'll walk fast," he insisted, forcing a reassuring grin that momentarily illuminated the worry etched on his face. His confidence was infectious, but it did little to calm the unease swirling inside you.
Steeling yourself, you turned slowly, reluctant to leave the warmth of his presence. The soft glow of the moonlight filtered through the window, casting gentle patterns across the floor.
Before you could hesitate any longer, you walked over to Miles and wrapped your arms around him in a tight embrace, feeling the beat of his heart against your own. An unspoken promise passed between you, a vow of support and loyalty that transcended words.
In that moment, you placed the small object—the USB drive—in his palm. It felt heavy with significance, a tangible symbol of your bond and the secrets you now shared that seemed to pulsate with energy.
"We're in this together, Miles. Abnormal or not," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. Climbing out of the window, your heart raced at the thought of stepping into the unknown, where danger and excitement danced closely together outside.
"In this together," Miles echoed softly, his grip tightening around the USB as if he were trying to imprint its essence onto his skin, tracing its edges with his fingertips, memorising every detail.
As you made your way back to your room, you felt the cool pavement beneath your feet, each step echoing in the silence of the night.
The events of the day replayed vividly in your mind, lingering like an indelible mark. The encounter with Spider-Man loomed large; one undeniable truth rang loudest amid the chaos—Spider-Man knew your name, a revelation that sent jolts of confusion through you.
Questions swirled in your mind like a tempest. The obvious answer was that he knew you somehow. Was he your brother, your uncle, or perhaps even your father? But every possibility crumbled under scrutiny—when he removed his mask, there had been no spark of recognition, no flicker of familial connection.
Your dad was present, and both he and your mother came from families of sisters, leaving no room for brothers in your life, only a persistent perplexity.
Lost in thought, you pulled out your key and unlocked the door to your dorm room, the familiar clatter echoing in the stillness like a distant reminder of everyday life.
"Y/n, where were you?! I was worried sick!" Charlotte's voice burst through your reverie, filled with urgency.
The sharpness of her tone cut through your guilt, and you felt yourself bristle slightly.
"I couldn't even read your note; you wrote it so fast," she scolded, her concern evident in the way her brows knitted together.
You tossed your bag onto the floor with a heavy sigh and flopped onto your bed, burying your face in the comforter, its soft fabric offering a momentary escape from the weight of the day.
The emotional toll pressed down on you, and you couldn't shake the feeling of responsibility for both yourself and Charlotte.
"Sorry, Charlotte, I... lost track of time," you murmured, a lie wrapping around your thoughts like a familiar, yet deceptive, blanket.
A nagging guilt accompanied you as you recognised that you were merely trying to keep her safe, especially after witnessing what those villains were capable of.
"What'd you guys do?" Charlotte asked, her tone softening into curiosity.
"We just..." You hesitated, replaying the snippets of your day in your mind like a fragmented film reel. Meeting Spider-Man, witnessing him fall, nearly losing your life several times, narrowly escaping a moving train—it all felt like a whirlwind.
"...got some food and talked," you finally admitted, the hardships of the day veiling the truth you wished to protect. The words felt inadequate to encapsulate everything that had transpired.
An unmistakable smirk danced in Charlotte's voice. "Ooh, y/n finally hanging out with Miles... was it a date?"
The question hung in the air, teasingly, as you pondered just how much had shifted in the span of a single afternoon.
Lifting the covers from your head, you let out a frustrated scoff, your heart heavy with the weight of the news and implications you'd just encountered.
"No," you murmured, still hoping that this unfolding narrative wasn't as true as it felt.
Charlotte shrugged, her casual demeanor a striking contrast to the heavy atmosphere that enveloped the room. She leaned back in her chair, the soft creak of the wood echoing as her hand returned to the mouse, the click of it filling the silence as she navigated her computer screen.
Suddenly, a loud notification chimed, slicing through the stillness. The familiar, urgent sound of a news theme filled the space, drawing your attention away from your own swirling thoughts to the screen where breaking news awaited.
As you swung your legs over the side of your bunk, the fabric of your blanket brushing against your legs, you leaned forward, curiosity piqued. The newswoman's voice broke through the fog of your mind like a cold splash of water.
"Sad news tonight. The hero known as Spider-Man... has died, suffering from injuries related to another powerful earthquake. The masked hero has been identified as Peter Parker, who was just 26 years old."
Your heart sank as the image of Spider-Man flashed on the screen, swinging through the city and then suddenly cut to harrowing footage of a devastated landscape, buildings crumbled and debris scattered everywhere.
The newswoman continued, her tone sombre yet resolute, "We want everyone to take a moment to thank Spider-Man for all that he has done for us. Thank you for protecting the city."
Beside you, Charlotte sat frozen, her eyes wide as she processed the news. You could feel her disbelief radiating from her. She slowly shut down her computer, the screen blinking out and leaving the room shadowed in a lingering gloom.
"He's really gone, huh?" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
You nodded slowly, a pang of guilt clawing at your insides as the memory of Spider-Man—broken and vulnerable—flashed through your mind. It was a memory you wished you could share with Charlotte, but the weight of your own turmoil felt too heavy to lift from your chest.
"He was so good," you whispered, the sting of unshed tears threatening to spill over. "So much better than a lot of people thought."
Charlotte nodded, a look of deep concern etched on her features. The loss weighed heavily on both of you—not just for Spider-Man, but for the city that had depended on his unwavering bravery.
"I wish I could be a superhero, y'know, protecting the city," she said, her voice laced with a heartfelt longing that filled the room with a sense of yearning.
Your face went pale at the thought, a chill creeping down your spine. "Y-yeah, but that's an, um, d-dangerous job," you stammered, trying to mask your unease with a feeble attempt at rationality.
"Right, but knowing that you're the one who is saving people, helping people... It might be hard, but I think it would be worth it," Charlotte replied, her voice softening as she contemplated the impossible dream, visions of heroism dancing behind her eyes.
Taking a deep breath, she sighed deeply, the sound resonating in the now quiet room, and shut off the lights, wrapping the space in shadows.
"Goodnight," she mumbled, the weight of her words lingering in the air like the remnants of a haunting melody.
"Night," you echoed softly, though your mind raced, still trapped in the sails of her dreams, the weight of your own unspoken thoughts pulling you down further.
Before surrendering yourself to a night filled with restless thoughts and unanswered questions, you reached for your phone, feeling an undeniable pull to reach out. With trembling fingers, you typed a quick message to your parents, a desperate bid for connection in a world that felt inexplicably dimmer without Spider-Man.
y/n
Don't know if you heard about Spider-Man, but in case you were wondering, I'm safe.
m/n
Oh, we're so glad, honey!
You managed a smile at their response, but it quickly faded as a frown etched itself into your brow.
Their palpable enthusiasm for your safety struck you as strangely misplaced, almost as if their relief stemmed more from their own fears than from genuine concern for the lost hero. It felt like a dissonance that didn't quite fit the gravity of the situation, but perhaps it was merely a figment of your anxiety-ridden imagination.
Shaking your head, you stifled a quiet, self-deprecating laugh, aware of how tangled your thoughts had become. With a heavy heart, you closed your eyes, recognizing that the embrace of sleep would likely elude you tonight, as it had so many others.
Meanwhile, in the solitude of his home, Miles was restlessly pacing the floor, anxiety coiling tightly around his chest as he attempted to reach Uncle Aaron. Fifteen calls had gone unanswered, and with each unyielding click of the dial tone, his frustration morphed into a gnawing worry that settled in the pit of his stomach.
Memories flashed through his mind—times when he would have never questioned Aaron's whereabouts, confident in the stability of their bond. Yet now, the oppressive silence felt foreboding, as though it held secrets he dared not uncover.
Reluctantly, he hung up the phone, his heart pounding, and opened his messages, an idea forming in his mind. He recalled Charlotte, who had shared your number with him just days ago, her voice filled with warmth and hope as she spoke of you. For a moment, he hesitated, uncertainty gripping him, but he pushed it aside, determined to reach out. He opened a new conversation, fingers hovering over the screen, ready to bridge the chasm of uncertainty that had formed between him and the answers he desperately sought.
555-478
Did you make it home? (It's Miles)
555-732
Yeah, I'm back with Charlotte, and I'm just going to assume she gave you my number?
Miles
Yeah, she did.
y/n
Of course! You doing okay?
miles
Not really, but I feel better after what you said.
y/n
Just the truth, Morales. <3 See you tomorrow.
miles
<3
After sending the final message, Miles switched off his phone with a resolute click, then carefully tucked it beneath his pillow as if hiding away a secret.
He felt an overwhelming tide of thoughts crashing over him, relentless and nagging, refusing to fade into the background.
His mind drifted to Spider-Man—Peter Parker—a name that had woven itself into the very fabric of his heart.
He vividly recalled the hero's incredible powers, especially the way those sticky hands seemed to falter in moments when their strength was most crucial, echoing his own feelings of inadequacy.
But more than the heroics of Spider-Man, Miles found his thoughts circling back to you.
He remembered the way your smile lit up even the darkest corners of his mind, a beacon of warmth and reassurance. The memory of your hand fitting perfectly in his brought a sense of tranquillity, a grounding force amid his chaos.
In his most vulnerable moments, your embrace felt like a shield against the world's harsh realities, soft yet strong.
It was your voice, steady and soothing, that played back in his mind, assuring him that everything would be okay.
Those simple words had transformed into a lifeline in the depths of his hopelessness, each syllable igniting a spark of hope deep within him. As he lay there, trying to silence the storm inside, he clung to that glimmer of hope—an echo of your belief in him that sent out ripples of courage in the darkness.
Miles surged down the corridor, a whirlwind of adrenaline as he zigzagged past startled students who instinctively flinched and darted aside, eyes wide in a mix of fear and excitement. His sneakers squeaked against the polished linoleum floor, the sound echoing ominously through the crowded hallway, amplifying the sensation that something chaotic was about to unfold. You trailed behind him, breathless and flustered, trying to navigate through the throng while offering frantic apologies to those you brushed past.
"Sorry! Excuse me! Watch out!" you called, hoping that Miles would at least acknowledge your presence, but his focus remained locked ahead, seemingly deaf to your voice.
"Hey! I know you snuck out last night, Morales!" Mr. Salas, the school's no-nonsense security guard, bellowed from his post further down the hall, his robust frame casting a long shadow. The commanding authority in his voice halted Miles dead in his tracks, and you barely managed to avoid crashing into him. The abruptness of it all left your heart racing. Miles turned slowly to face Mr Salas, a mask of feigned ignorance plastered on his face as he spoke, his voice a mixture of made-up innocence and curiosity.
"Who's Morales?" he retorted, the corners of his mouth twitching downwards in a grimace before he spun on his heel and took off once more.
Without a moment's hesitation, Mr. Salas launched himself after Miles, and you instinctively resumed your pursuit, your feet pounding against the floor as you navigated around startled onlookers.
However, you quickly ducked behind a corner to catch your breath and gather your thoughts. Peeking around the edge, you watched as Miles flung himself into a nearby room, slamming the door shut just as Mr. Salas reached the threshold. You winced at the sound; it echoed like a gunshot through the tense silence of the hallway. You rushed over, pressing your ear against the heavy wooden door, straining to hear the muffled chaos unfolding on the other side.
Inside, the sounds escalated—a cacophony of furniture being toppled over, papers rustling as they flew through the air, punctuated by the occasional grunt of exertion from Miles. Then, suddenly, the room erupted into loud strains of music as a familiar tune from the Spider-Man Christmas album began to blare from the laptop speakers, sending a ripple of curiosity down the corridor. Heads turned, expressions ranging from confusion to bemusement as the upbeat melody filled the air.
"What? It's catchy," Mr Salas defended himself, raising his hands in mock innocence, a bemused grin spreading across his face despite the chaos that had just ensued.
Frustrated yet slightly amused, you rolled your eyes and leaned your head against the door again, now straining for any signs of life from inside. But then all sounds ceased abruptly, plunging the space into an unsettling silence. Just then, the janitor strolled by, whistling the same infectious tune that had just erupted from the office, seemingly unbothered by the unfolding drama.
Mr. Salas quickly explained the predicament, grumbling about the troublemakers, while the janitor chuckled and reached into his pocket for a key, a casual look on his face . With a quiet click, the janitor unlocked the door, and as it slowly creaked open, a scene of complete disarray revealed itself. Piles of dishevelled papers and forgotten trinkets lay strewn across the floor like remnants of a battle. But amidst the chaos, your heart sank at the sight—or rather, the sight that was missing: Miles.
The open window flapped gently in the breeze, curtains billowing like the sails of a ship. Your heart raced as you dashed into the room, quickly gathering up the clothing he had discarded—his shirt, shoes, and backpack—each item a reminder of his hasty escape. Glancing out the window, you leaned out as far as you could, your eyes frantically scanning the grounds below for any trace of him, any sign of where he had gone. Desperation clawed at your insides as you searched for the familiar figure of your friend, your mind racing with possibilities of where he might have fled.
"Left!"
You turned your head to the left, your heart racing as you caught sight of Miles, half-dressed and precariously balanced on the side of the building. The side of the building? A wave of panic washed over you, and your imagination spiralled into an avalanche of horrifying scenarios—each one ending with Miles plummeting to the ground below. The gravity of the situation pulled at your chest, squeezing tighter with every passing second.
Ignoring Mr. Salas, who was still rambling about the chaos Miles had left in his wake, you bolted out of the room. The sleeves of Miles' blazer fluttered behind you like wild flags, a stark reminder of the urgency that propelled you forward. Most people might have rushed outside, arms outstretched, ready to catch a falling body. But you felt an unsettling instinct urging you to reach Miles and Ganke's dorm instead, ready to pull him out of whatever reckless stunt he was attempting.
As you finally reached the dorm room, you flung the pile of clothes you'd hastily gathered onto the floor, a chaotic heap of fabric. With adrenaline fueling your actions, you threw open the window wide, letting the cool air rush in. Peering out, your eyes widened as you saw Miles clumsily edging closer to the precipice.
"Miles, over here!" you shouted, your voice echoing against the brick façade. His head whipped around at the sound of your voice, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and relief as he spotted you. Without hesitation, he lunged for your outstretched hand, and with a surge of strength, you hoisted him into the room. He landed with a thud, tumbling into a sea of comic books scattered across the floor, his fingers accidentally snagging one as he fell.
"Stop sticking..." he read aloud, his voice trailing off as he squinted at the page, "Don't stop sticking..." He mumbled something else, a reference to Spider-Man, but you were too preoccupied with his state to catch the details.
His skin glistened with perspiration, a sheen exaggerated by the chaos he'd just escaped, and his face wore an expression of confusion mixed with lingering fear. Furrowing your brow, concern washed over you as you took in his condition.
"Are you alright?" you asked, your voice softer now, trying to gauge his mental and physical state.
"Yeah, I'm... I think I'm okay," he stammered, though the uncertainty in his voice suggested otherwise. You reached out your hand again, and with a gentle tug, you helped him up from the floor. As he stood, you felt a tug against your palm and realized half a page from the comic book had ripped off and adhered itself to your hand.
Your eyes danced over the colourful drawings and speech bubbles, momentarily distracted by the artwork before Miles broke the silence. "Have you, by any chance, been bitten by a spider recently?"
"Um, yeah, I have. Why do you ask?" you replied, a puzzled expression creeping onto your face. The question caught you off guard—how on earth did he know?
"No reason," he said with a nervous grin, though the look in his eyes suggested there was much more to his words than he let on.
After that, you began to sift through the contents of your bag, your fingers brushing over various items as you searched for your favourite pen. However, each time your hands wandered, they inevitably returned to the crumpled shard of a comic book page that had been stuck to you earlier that morning.
Bringing the scrap closer, you squinted at the faded print, the words partially obscured but still legible in your mind. It was from a Spider-Man comic—a pivotal moment that detailed the transformation of the young man beneath the iconic mask. The text read, "Ow! Something bit me!" The accompanying illustration depicted a spider sinking its fangs into an unsuspecting hand. This image sparked a flood of memories, drawing you back to the events of that bewildering day and the one prior.
The spider bite, the strange way you seemed to adhere to various surfaces, and the tingling sensation you came to recognize as Spider-Sense—all of it overshadowed your thoughts. You weren't alone in this phenomenon; Miles was also experiencing the same extraordinary changes. Yet, a question nagged at you: Why wasn't Charlotte impacted the same way? She, too, had been bitten. So why wasn't she sticking to things like you and Miles?
Confusion knitted your brows, but you steered your thoughts back to the immediate need for clarity. Mentally, you knew the person whose perspective mattered most right now was Miles, and he was who you were determined to find.
With a burst of urgency, you scribbled a note for Charlotte and tossed it on the nightstand stand taking your bag alongside your headphones. You dashed out the door, heart racing, hoping to avoid detection this time. This felt too crucial to be hindered by anything else.
When you arrived at Miles' door, your heart thudded with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. You took a deep breath, collected your thoughts, and knocked three times before letting your hand fall to your side. This was a moment fraught with uncertainty; if anyone would understand your bizarre situation, it would be Miles. But a nagging doubt curled itself around your mind—what if you were mistaken? What if the bite hadn't changed you at all but rather, you were just being foolish?
Just as you contemplated retreat, the door swung open, revealing Miles with a curious expression.
"Y/n?" he questioned, his voice warm and inviting, erasing your worries in an instant. There was something indefinable about Miles that always put you at ease, a comfort that drew you in like a lighthouse guiding a lost ship to shore.
"Hey, Miles. I need to talk to you about something important. Do you have a minute?"
His face lit up with recognition, and he beckoned you inside. The inviting warmth of his room contrasted starkly with the cool air outside.
"Do you remember when you asked if I'd been bitten by a spider recently?" you began, feeling the weight of your confession. He nodded attentively.
"Well, I think I might be turning into Spider-Man," you said, biting your lip, your heart racing.
"Really?" The surprise in Miles' eyes was palpable, but just as you had hoped, he grasped the gravity of your revelation.
You took a deep breath, eager to unload everything. "When—"
"You too?" Miles interjected, his eyes wide.
He then shared his own story, explaining how he had been bitten by a spider just days before, coinciding with your own extraordinary experience.
You exchanged thoughts about the comic, noting its eerie similarities to the events unfolding in your lives. You also voiced your concern for Charlotte, who had seemingly been left unaffected by the spider's bite.
"I think we need to return to Hugo's storage room," you suggested, your mind racing with possibilities. "We should check to see if the spider that bit her is still there. It might have just been a regular spider."
Miles nodded, sounding contemplative.
"And from there, we need to visit the spot where I was bitten. I just... I need to know if there's really another Spider-Man, or if I'm meant to be one at all. I don't know if I can live up to that, man."
You wanted to tell him not to be ridiculous, but the truth was that you felt the same doubt gnawing at your insides. Questions swirled around your mind like leaves caught in a whirlwind. What if you weren't cut out for this role?
"I understand what you're feeling," you sighed, your voice steadying. "But we're in this together, alright?"
His gaze met yours, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. Your heart quickened at the thought of being so close to him, Were his eyes always that pretty? You tried to shake the thought away; this wasn't the time for distracted feelings!
Miles' expression softened, and a hint of reassurance appeared in his eyes.
Have her eyes always been that pretty?
"We're in this together," he echoed, and in that moment, you felt a surge of unspoken strength between you.
Ten missed calls. Ten missed calls from Charlotte. The screen of your phone glowed dimly in the low light of the diner, each notification a reminder of the concern tightening in your chest. You felt a pang of guilt, but deep down, you sensed that sharing your secret with her could put her life at risk. Perhaps it was your heightened instincts warning you, like a quiet whisper urging you to keep this burden to yourself.
"Y/n? Y/n!" Miles called out, his voice pulling you back to reality. He waved a hand in front of your face, concern creasing his brow.
"Sorry, I was just thinking about Charlotte calling me so much. I hate to ignore her, but I just can't risk putting her in danger, you know?" You glanced at Miles, your voice heavy with the weight of your secret.
Miles nodded knowingly; he understood the conflict that raged within you. "Yeah, my dad's been blowing up my phone too. He despises Spider-Man, so telling him I'm also Spider-Man would not go over well," he responded, a hint of humour lacing his tone despite the seriousness of the topic.
A soft laugh escaped your lips, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly as Miles flashed a reassuring smile. The sound of the diner's door chimed as you stepped inside, greeted by the familiar scents of coffee and breakfast. As always, you received a warm welcome.
"Ah, y/n l/n! My favourite customer! Who's your friend?" Hugo called from behind the counter, his voice booming with joviality. He mistook the intimate atmosphere for something romantic as Miles awkwardly broke eye contact, his face tinged with crimson.
"This is Miles; he's just a friend," you replied, the words tumbling out quickly. In the heat of the moment, you instinctively grabbed Miles' hand, causing warmth to spread across your cheeks. 'That obviously isn't going to help my case,' you thought, rolling your eyes inwardly at yourself.
Hugo chuckled, an amused glint in his eye. "Whatever you say, l/n. Anyway, you up for helping me out again?"
Relief washed over you like a wave, thankful for the distraction of work. "As always!" you assured him, grateful that this task would allow you access to the storage room without raising any suspicion.
"All I need today is a light bulb for the kitchen. It cracked into pieces when Jerry flipped a pancake too high," Hugo explained, a nostalgic smile on his face as he recalled the culinary disaster.
"No problem! Can I bring Miles with me?" you asked eagerly, and Hugo shrugged with a grin, "Why not?"
You and Miles dashed down the stairs, your flashlights cutting through the dimness like beacons as you navigated the cluttered space.
"There it is! That's the one that bit Charlotte!" you exclaimed, pointing at the floor where a vibrant pink spider sat, making the dust around it shimmer in the light.
"Woah," Miles breathed, eyes wide with amazement. "It doesn't look like a normal spider."
Your expression shifted to one of focus, deep in thought as your mind raced. "Well, what if she just didn't contract any powers from it?" you pondered aloud, the possibility lingering in the air.
"It makes sense," Miles said, tapping a skewer idly against the floor. "It has to be pretty rare to get superpowers from a spider. Maybe the two of us just got lucky."
His words hung heavy between you, a mix of excitement and apprehension filling the space as you both regarded the bizarre creature before you.
As you glanced around the dimly lit room, your eyes searched for any sign of the spider that had sunk its fangs into your skin, despite having only a vague notion of what it might look like. The beam of your flashlight sliced through the darkness, illuminating corners and nooks, but after a few anxious minutes of scanning, it was clear that the eight-legged creature was nowhere to be found. "That's strange," you mumbled under your breath, a tinge of unease creeping into your voice.
With a slight frown, you declared, "I can't find the spider that bit me," and spun around one last time, the light dancing across the dusty shelves and forgotten items. "It must not have died." The words hung in the air, a mix of frustration and bewilderment.
Shaking off the unsettling feeling, you refocused on the task at hand. "Anyway, we should get this bulb to Hugo. He's going to wonder where we are," you said, carefully bending down to pick up a solitary light bulb resting on a cluttered shelf. Its glass surface glinted faintly in the flashlight's glow, a small yet vital piece of the puzzle that would guide you back to safety.
After receiving your hot, salty payment of fries from Hugo, you and Miles set off towards the subway, laughter and conversation swirling around you like the autumn leaves scattered along the cracked pavement. The sun sank low, casting a golden hue over everything, making the moment feel almost ethereal.
As you walked along the weathered tracks, your fingers brushed against each other several times while reaching for the same fry, a silly but delightful accident that sent a rush of warmth through you. It felt juvenile yet thrilling as if something unspoken was hanging between you—an uncertainty that tangled with excitement in your stomach.
"So, Miles," you began, your words muffled by fries, "can you explain to me what that shoulder-touching thing was earlier today?" His eyes widened in surprise, nearly causing the fries he held to tumble from his grip.
"Oh, that? That was—well, that was something my uncle taught me," he managed to stammer, an awkward grin creeping onto his face.
You let out a light chuckle. "Yeah, and...?"
"Well, it's supposed to make a girl like you," he replied, a hint of vulnerability lacing his tone.
"But I don't think it worked out too well for me."
Your heart fluttered against your ribcage; he wanted you to like him. Confusion mingled with hope as you wrestled with your own feelings. You had already developed an affection for him—not quite like a crush, but something deeper, more complex.
"Here it is," Miles said, diverting your attention and breaking the spell of silence.
You turned to find a vibrant array of graffiti sprawled across the wall before you. Among the wild colours, your eyes locked onto a striking piece, dominated by bold blue and yellow letters that proclaimed "no expectations." In its centre, a stark black outline of a person stood out, creating a fascinating juxtaposition that drew you in.
"I did that one," Miles remarked, a hint of pride spilling into his voice as he rubbed the back of his neck.
"You did?!" you exclaimed, stepping closer in disbelief. He nodded, and you noticed the way his face lit up at your excitement.
"This is amazing, Miles. You're an incredible artist!"He would have blushed, a modest "thank you" poised on his lips, but then a dead spider on the ground caught his attention. He crouched down for a closer look, and you mirrored his actions, curiosity piqued. Your heart raced when the creature seemed to glitch—in reality, it was simply a still moment stretching impossibly long. Miles squinted, his features contorting as if he faced some unseen pain.
"That's the— that's the spider that bit me," he finally said, a tremor betraying the composure he struggled to maintain. Without thinking, you grabbed his hand, gently nudging the spider with your foot.
"Poor thing," you murmured softly.
Miles turned to you, incredulous. "Seriously?! That thing?"
You couldn't help but let out a quiet laugh.
"Well, I meant you, but yeah, the spider too!"He rolled his eyes, turning his flashlight towards a tarp drooping from the ceiling, revealing a shadowy corridor beyond—a dark invitation that beckoned you both to explore. As you ventured down the narrow passage, a wave of awareness enveloped you.
The space was alive with the unsettling presence of spiders, wriggling bugs, jagged pieces of metal, and barrels marked with hazardous symbols, each item spilling its own story of neglect and abandonment. Thoughts raced like wildfire in your mind, chaotic yet lucid. You squinted against the dimness, the atmosphere thick with anticipation, and sensed that Miles was grappling with similar thoughts.
"Why is this happening??" he asked, his voice tense, laced with confusion and concern. You both paused in front of a random wall, silence stretching like a taut string between you; yet, you never relinquished your grip on his hand. The moment hung heavy with unspoken questions and shared fears, until—
"LOOK OUT!"
Instinctively, you jerked your hand away, leaping to the side just in time. The wall erupted in a deafening crash, and the familiar voice of Spider-Man echoed like thunder as you searched for Miles through the cloud of debris. He emerged from behind a battered structure, grabbing your hand again, his grip firm and reassuring, as if to promise you wouldn't get lost in the chaos. You both ducked low, making sure that no eyes were upon you as you observed the spectacle. Spider-Man was hurled into a shipping container, the metal groaning under the force, creating a significant dent that sent a ripple of awe and fear coursing through you.
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