Archive of Our Own

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Spider-Man hit the side of the garbage truck with a grunt, his shoulder slamming into rusted metal before he flipped off it with the kind of grace that only came from doing this way too often. He landed hard, knees bent, fingers skimming pavement for balance, and straightened with a breathless little laugh.

“Nice,” he muttered to himself, breath fogging in the cold night air. “Ten out of ten for style. Three for execution.”

The truck honked violently as it sped past, its driver yelling something about insurance and maniacs in spandex. Spider-Man gave a lazy salute, webbed himself onto the nearest lamppost, and launched up into the air again with a practiced flick.

The city was a blur below him—glass and steel and blinking traffic lights, noise pulsing up from the streets like a heartbeat. He moved through it easily, like a second skin, like gravity had rules but none that applied to him.

“Okay, that was a little close,” Van’s voice crackled through the earpiece, dry with concern. “You good?”

“I’m thriving,” he replied, twisting mid-air to shoot a web between two buildings. “That truck needed to be humbled anyway.”

A beat of static. Then, another voice cut in, sharp and cheerful.

“See, I told you he was gonna go for the dramatic entrance,” Misty said. “You owe me five bucks, Van.”

“You weren’t even supposed to be on this channel—”

“I cloned the frequency. Calm down.”

Spider-Man landed on the edge of a fire escape with a metallic clang , pausing to peer down at the street below. The target was two blocks east, last pinged moving fast. Probably another smuggler with fancy high-end tech knockoffs, and probably not smart enough to know they’d been made.

He crouched low, suit glinting faintly under the streetlights, and adjusted the volume on his comm.

“Guys,” he said, tone wry, “I love this family bonding time, really. But do we want to catch the guy, or...?”

“I’m working on it,” Van replied, already typing furiously on their end. “He ducked into the subway system. I’m pulling up the grid now.”

Misty added, “If we lose him, I’m writing the apology letter. It’ll include glitter.”

Spider-Man groaned, loud enough for them both to hear. Then he leapt again, soaring between buildings like a thread stitching the skyline together, the wind sharp against his skin, adrenaline hot and bright in his chest.

It still hit him sometimes, moments like this—when the sky opened up above him and the city blurred below—that none of this was supposed to happen. That a year ago, he’d just been another girl sneaking smokes behind the dining hall, skipping class, ducking under fences for kicks. Just Natalie, just trying not to feel anything too deeply. And then—well.

Well.

The ground rushed up to meet him as he landed on the edge of the station’s roof, knees bent, breath steady. His shoulder ached faintly from an earlier dive, but he shook it off, rolling it once as Van’s voice came sharp through the earpiece.

“Subway grid’s up. Q line, moving northbound—twenty seconds ahead of you if you drop into the 68th Street entrance. If he hops off at 72nd, we lose him.”

“You really think he’s that strategic?” Misty cut in. “He looked like the kind of guy who forgets his password and just keeps typing ‘1234’ until the computer explodes.”

“Still dangerous,” Van muttered. “The pack he was carrying’s not low-voltage.”

Natalie didn’t answer right away. He was already moving again, launching from the rooftop and twisting midair to thread a clean arc through the frame of an old billboard. It creaked behind him, dust trailing in his wake like sparks.

His focus narrowed. The city melted into instinct. The distance to the station, the angles of descent, the rhythm of the train beneath the street—he didn’t have to think about it anymore. It was muscle memory now. A new kind of fluency he never asked for, but learned anyway.

“Approaching the station,” he said, voice low. “Gimme the door.”

Van was already on it, rerouting a maintenance lock to stall the entrance to the train for a few more seconds. Misty hummed a little victory tune. “God, I love being a hacker. It’s like real life Mario Kart.”

“Except with less banana peels and more federal crimes,” Van snapped.

Spider-Man dropped into a back alley just beside the station entrance, tucking and rolling behind a stack of broken wooden pallets. The station stairwell yawned ahead—dimly lit, the scent of ozone and piss hanging in the air like a bad memory.

He slipped inside without hesitation.

The train screeched faintly below, a sound he was intimately familiar with by now—late nights, stakeouts, the metal-on-metal grind that echoed in his ribs. One year of this and it hadn’t dulled.

He perched on the rail over the stairs, crouched like a shadow, waiting.

“You know,” Misty said in that musing, troublemaker tone, “if he misses the train, we could track him to the next station and corner him in a more dramatic way. Like the movies. Fire. Smoke. A monologue.”

“I swear to God,” Van sighed.

Natalie didn’t say anything. He just waited, body tense, senses stretching out like threads, trying to catch the pulse of motion beneath his feet. And then—

There.

A flicker of movement below. The glint of metal. The faint, tinny rhythm of footsteps on tile that didn’t belong to a tired commuter.

“Got him,” he whispered, voice tighter now.

He leapt, landing silent and clean on the edge of the platform just as the train’s doors slid open with a ding . The guy—mid-thirties, hoodie drawn low, something bulky under his arm—looked up too late.

They locked eyes.

Spider-Man raised one hand slowly. “Evening.”

The man bolted.

“Yep,” Natalie muttered, sprinting after him down the platform. “That tracks.”

He weaved through half-empty cars, dodging metal poles and startled passengers. The man threw open the door into the next car and stumbled, clutching his bag tighter. Natalie could already hear the high whine of powered tech inside it—unstable, sparking, definitely not subway friendly.

He vaulted over a woman’s luggage and kept going. “Van, what’s in that pack?”

“Based on the pulse readings? Could be a kinetic charge. Could also be a Bluetooth speaker with a really bad attitude.”

“Misty.”

“Don’t worry, I’m on it,” she chirped. “Cross-checking it against the black market item list now. Also—love the suit today. New stitching?”

“Focus,” Van groaned.

They burst into the next car. The guy threw the pack onto the floor like it burned and drew something from his belt—something that crackled blue at the edges.

“Stunner,” Natalie hissed, yanking himself to a hard stop and grabbing the overhead bar.

The man swung the weapon up, but Spider-Man was faster. Webs shot out in a blur, pinning the man’s wrist to the emergency brake lever before the device could fully charge. Another shot tangled around his legs, yanking him off balance.

The man hit the floor with a thud and an oof that echoed down the train.

The train had stopped completely now, locked in place between stations, emergency lights blinking against dull steel walls. Webbed up and very unconscious, the guy wasn’t going anywhere.

Natalie crouched beside him, tugging the pack free and checking for active charges. There weren’t any left. Whatever he'd been trying to pull, it was over before it started.

“Another clean one,” he muttered, flicking the earpiece back on.

“Clean-ish,” Van corrected. “There’s a lot of paperwork in your future.”

“Yeah, well, you love paperwork.”

“I do not—”

“You do ,” Misty cut in. “You alphabetized your playlists.”

“They’re mood-coded!”

“Exactly.”

Natalie smirked, stepping over the sprawled man and heading for the emergency ladder hatch at the back of the car. “I’m heading up. I’ll leave this guy for the NYPD. They’ll love that.”

Van was already pulling up the usual police band. Misty started humming the theme from Law & Order under her breath.

It didn’t take long to climb up and out of the train tunnel. Natalie ducked out onto the street, feet hitting the pavement in the alley behind the station, where the air smelled like fried dough and warm concrete. The kind of spring night New York did best.

He stretched his arms over his head, cracking his neck. His knuckles were still buzzing from the impact.

“You ever think about how weird this is?” he said, out loud this time, just walking. “Like. This is just my night now. People chase trains, I chase them. Sometimes they have bombs.”

“I mean, your version of weird is just Tuesday to me now,” Van replied. “You’ve been doing this over a year.”

“Year and a half, technically,” Misty added. “Well, almost.”

“Feels longer,” Natalie said quietly.

He turned onto a fire escape and climbed three stories without thinking about it, steps echoing behind him. From there, it was just one more swing and a wall-run to get to the roof. The city opened up around him like a held breath, stretching out in flickers and shadows.

Natalie walked to the edge of the roof and stood there, wind tugging at the loose ends of his suit. The mask was off now, hanging off one hand. The sweat on his neck cooled fast in the breeze, raising goosebumps.

Below, the city moved like it always did—lights flickering in quiet patterns, sirens in the distance, laughter from some open-window party across the block. None of it stopping. None of it slowing down.

“I’m fine, by the way,” he said absently, into the mic. “Thanks for asking.”

“I asked last time,” Van replied. “You’re not allowed to be mad until I miss two in a row.”

“I brought you protein bars,” Misty said. “Emotionally, that counts as caring.”

Natalie let out a soft huff of laughter. Then silence.

And then—

“I didn’t mean to become this,” he said.

No one answered right away. The moment just sat there between them.

He pressed his thumb against the inside of his ear, clicking off the comms and cameras.

Just the city now. Just him and the rooftop.

It had been a long time since he’d let himself think about how it started. Usually, he didn’t let it in. What was the point? It didn’t change anything. He’d been bitten, changed, chosen—whatever people wanted to call it. It didn’t matter now.

But tonight, with the wind pushing past his ears and the streetlamps pulsing like little dying stars, it all came back.

Not loud. Not fast. Just—

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

The lab was old, sun-dappled through cracked windows, and smelled like dust, metal, and something vaguely burnt. Natalie had found the door propped open while she was taking photos of the brickwork for a photo series she’d half-forgotten about, and one little peek had turned into full-blown exploration. Classic.

The spider bit her somewhere between the broken centrifuge and the warped shelving unit, and at the time, Natalie didn’t even notice.

She was too busy looking through her camera viewfinder, adjusting the aperture to get the perfect shot of a cracked glass beaker catching the afternoon light. The abandoned lab was tucked in a forgotten corner of campus, half-swallowed by ivy, locked from the front but not the side. She’d found it after class while killing time before sunset, hoping to get a few eerie, industrial shots for her final project in Experimental Photography.

Natalie liked places like this—quiet, derelict, just eerie enough to be interesting without anyone asking questions. Art happened in places like this. Or, at least, that’s what she always told herself.

She brushed her arm absently when something tickled against her skin. Thought it was a loose thread. Thought nothing of it.

But there was a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision—just for a second—a shiny black body disappearing up her sleeve. She jumped and instinctively shook her arm out, muttering, “Ugh, gross ,” before peeling her leather jacket back. Two faint red dots, like a lazy vampire had taken a polite nibble, stood out against the inside of her elbow.

“Cool,” she said flatly. “Guess I’m patient zero now.”

Still, it didn’t hurt . Maybe the tiniest sting. A weird warmth under her skin. But no swelling, no weird rash. And since her dumbass had already ignored an allergy warning once and survived, she figured it was probably fine.

She popped open a protein bar, stuffed half of it in her mouth, and went right back to photographing the rusting lab benches like nothing had happened.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

The next morning, she woke up with her sheets twisted around her like a python and her senses dialed up to eleven.

At first, she didn’t even open her eyes. She just laid there, blinking slowly under the covers, letting the world… simmer around her.

Something was off. Her ears were ringing—but not in the usual post-concert, forgot-your-earplugs kind of way. It was more like she could hear… everything.

The drip of the communal bathroom faucet five doors down. The creak of someone’s mattress down the hall. The flutter of wings outside her window.

The world wasn’t quiet. It was alive . Loud and twitchy and filled with movement.

“Am I high?” She whispered, her voice absurdly loud to her own ears.

Her blanket rustled, and the sound scraped against her brain like sandpaper. She sat up—and immediately flinched.

The light . Harsh white sunlight stabbed through the blinds like tiny daggers, hitting her eyes with brutal precision. Her entire room was too sharp, too clear. The texture of the ceiling tiles was suddenly interesting. The speck of lint on her camera lens ten feet away was driving her insane.

Her hoodie clung to her skin like glue. She tugged at it and realized her fingers weren’t letting go of the fabric. Like, physically stuck . She had to yank her hand free with a weird pop.

“Oh, fuck no.”

She stood—and immediately stumbled.

Except… she didn’t stumble so much as she over-corrected, springing forward with way too much force and slamming into her desk.

The desk chair skidded three feet, bounced off her bed, and flipped onto its side.

Natalie froze.

She was panting like she’d just run a marathon, but she hadn’t even made it across the room. Everything felt like it was vibrating—her blood, her bones, the air itself.

Cautiously, she reached for her desk.

Her hand stuck again. Stuck . She yanked it back, panicked, and the entire desk wobbled.

“Jesus Christ,” she hissed.

She turned toward her mirror and stopped cold.

Her reflection didn’t look wrong, exactly—but she looked more . Brighter. Her eyes, usually a soft hazel, were… golden? Sharp, like there was a ring light behind her pupils. Her freckles stood out like someone had painted them on with a fine-tip brush. Even her hair looked like it had more gravity.

“What the actual fuck ,” she whispered.

She took a step back. Her sock caught on the floorboard. She tripped—and somehow caught herself mid-fall by grabbing the doorframe across the room. Not “fell and caught herself,” no—she leapt , landed, and hung there with one hand like some kind of haunted Olympic gymnast.

She stared at her hand. Her feet dangled off the floor.

“…This is fine.”

She dropped down hard, wobbling.

Then: “Nope. Not fine. Definitely not fine.”

Natalie looked around her dorm room in horror, the messy laundry pile in the corner now looking vaguely sinister. She glanced at her phone on the nightstand. Thought about texting someone. Her first instinct was Van, because of course it was—but what was she even going to say?

‘hey u up? i think i’m turning into a spider’

No. She couldn’t possibly say that. She would sound insane.

Her phone vibrated on the desk, and she heard it coming before she saw it.

Her stomach flipped.

“Oh my god,” she said aloud. “That spider did give me superpowers.”

Silence.

Then she added, with growing hysteria, “I have superpowers.”

Then she promptly tripped over her chair trying to walk and knocked her water bottle off her desk—only for it to bounce, and for her to accidentally catch it mid-air behind her back like she was in The Matrix .

She froze.

“…Okay,” she said, breathless. “Okay. I need—Van. I need to call Van. And probably Google ‘radioactive spider side effects.’ And then maybe call poison control.”

She pressed her forehead against the wall. It stuck .

She groaned.

She peeled her forehead off the wall with a sticky pop and blinked at the light switch, which now looked…offensive, somehow. Too bright. Too loud. How could a plastic switch be loud?

Nope. Not thinking about it.

“Just… coffee,” she said aloud, which had never gone wrong before.

Except now, when she turned toward the kitchen, she didn’t walk—she sort of ended up there. One second she was at the door, the next she was gripping the edge of the counter, chest heaving like she’d been yanked through the space between. She stood there for a moment, blinking at her trembling hands, then slowly looked down at her socks, which had skidded halfway across the tile, nearly taking her with them.

“Okay,” she said again, to no one. “So teleporting. Or sprinting at light speed. Or spontaneous relocation. That’s… chill.”

She opened the cabinet to grab a mug and immediately ripped the door off its hinge.

There was a beat of silence.

Natalie stared at the cabinet door in her hand like it had personally betrayed her. She slowly placed it down on the counter, like maybe if she was gentle, the laws of physics would agree to a truce.

“This is fine,” she mumbled. “I’ll just drink straight from the pot. Like a beast. A beast with object permanence issues.”

The coffee pot, it turned out, shattered when she so much as breathed near it. Glass rained across the counter and floor like glitter on steroids. Natalie backed away, arms raised like a bomb squad tech.

“What the fuck is happening to me?”

Her phone buzzed on the kitchen table, and she dove for it, only to misjudge the distance entirely and launch herself across the table like a missile. Her shoulder slammed into the far wall. A picture frame rattled, then crashed to the ground.

She groaned, slid down to the floor, and reached out for her phone with trembling fingers. Two missed texts from Van and a meme from Mari. Of course.

She was still catching her breath when she noticed the spider bite again. The inside of her elbow was tingling—no, buzzing. Like static was humming just under the skin, radiating outward through her bones.

Every sound in the apartment had turned up to eleven. The refrigerator hum was a chainsaw in her skull. The neighbor’s dog three floors down had a respiratory issue she could now diagnose from the living room. Even the light coming through the blinds felt too sharp , like it was trying to slice her open just by touching her skin.

Natalie curled into herself, forehead thudding softly against her knees.

“I'm glitching. I’m glitching in real life.”

She reached for her phone again, thumbed in Van’s number, and then paused.

How the hell was she supposed to explain this?

‘Hey, so, small thing—remember that abandoned lab I broke into yesterday for my light-and-shadow project? Yeah, I got bit by something and now I can hear clouds and phase through drywall. Should I be worried?’

She pressed call.

Van picked up on the second ring. “Hey, what’s—”

“I think I’m dying,” Natalie said immediately.

A pause.

“Oh,” Van replied. “So, a normal Wednesday, then.”

“Shut up. You know what? Never mind”

“Noooo,” Van drawled. “I’m sorry. My bad. What’s up? What’s dying, you?”

Natalie opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. There were no words to summarize this . The unrelenting buzz under her skin. The shattered mug. The wall sprint. The fact that she was, at that very moment, gripping the edge of the counter so hard it was starting to splinter.

She actually couldn’t tell Van. Not right now. Not when she still didn’t know if she was hallucinating or mutating or having a very specific kind of stroke.

Something outside caught her eye—a flicker of movement past the window. A bird? No. Too fast. A car reflection? No, again. She couldn’t explain it, but something in her gut tugged her toward it.

“I’ll talk to you later,” she said.

“But—”

She stared at the phone for a second longer, then slipped it back into her pocket like nothing had happened. Like her skin wasn’t tingling, like her heartbeat wasn’t skipping like a scratched record.

She needed air.

She walks until she gets to campus, which was quiet this late, just after dusk. She walked with her hoodie drawn up, sneakers scuffing along the sidewalk as she tried to convince herself she wasn’t about to throw up or spontaneously combust. One or the other. Maybe both.

It wasn’t just that everything was louder—it was everything. The hum of power lines buzzed through her molars. A beetle skittering across the sidewalk a foot away felt like it echoed. She could smell the vending machine from thirty feet and four species of tree pollen. Her limbs didn’t feel heavy anymore, just… sharp. Twitchy. Like every cell was vibrating, just waiting for a command she hadn’t figured out how to give yet.

She cut across the quad, heading nowhere in particular, hands jammed into her pockets.

Something pulled at her again—instinct, impulse, maybe just curiosity turned feral—and she followed it. Wandered up the back steps of the science building, glanced around, then climbed onto the rusted scaffolding where the old greenhouse had been. Before she really processed it, her fingers were curled around the ledge, and she pulled herself up in one fluid, perfect motion.

It should’ve been hard. She should’ve struggled. Instead, it was like her body had just… known. No strain, no slipping. Just lift and swing and land.

She blinked at her own hands.

And then she kept going.

She wasn’t thinking anymore. Just acting. Moving across the rooftop with surprising balance, not even trying to stay low or hidden. Her steps were light, sure. The wind picked up, cool against her cheeks, but her hoodie stayed in place. She laughed—quiet, surprised—when she realized she was walking along the sloped edge of the roof like it was solid ground.

Okay, she thought. Okay, this is weird. This is—

Her phone buzzed again. She ignored it. Instead, she crouched down, fingers brushing the tar-paper roofing, and looked out across the campus. Lights in dorm windows. The occasional early morning jogger. The buzz of traffic farther out, every detail sharp in her ears.

She wasn’t scared. Not really. Not yet. Just wired. Like her bones were filled with static.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

The next couple of days were worse.

Not disaster-worse—at least not in a way anyone else would’ve noticed. But Natalie knew.

She was different now.

She kept going to class. Sat through her science lecture like she wasn’t sweating through her t-shirt, senses dialed up to eleven. She answered two questions perfectly without taking notes, which only made Professor Camden raise a brow at her. Then she bumped into a guy leaving the art building and nearly knocked him over. He was at least 200 pounds. She weighed maybe 120.

“Sorry,” she said, but her voice cracked weird and sharp. She ducked her head and walked faster.

She stuck to quiet corners after that. Skipped dinner. Went to the park near the edge of campus and ran the length of the trail, just to move. Just to see how fast she could go. Turns out: fast. Not Olympic fast. Not-human fast.

That night, she climbed up the water tower behind the football field. Sat up there with a camera in her lap and her hoodie pulled over her knees, watching the lights flicker across the city. She didn’t cry, didn’t freak out. Just watched.

Thought about her mom. About the trailer. About the time she was nine, her dad had put a hole in the wall three inches from her head because she spilled beer on his boots.

He'd been gone for years now. Shot himself in the driveway one fall morning.

Natalie was thirteen.

She’d never planned to pull the trigger. She just wanted him to stop. He’d been yelling—drunk, red in the face, stumbling toward her with that look in his eye, the one that always came before things shattered.

So she’d grabbed the rifle. The old one he kept above the fridge. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely aim, but she pointed it at him anyway and told him to back off . He didn’t listen.

He laughed.

And then he lunged.

The rifle  was ripped from her hands before she could do anything. He flicked the safety off, like it was muscle memory, like it was nothing, like she was nothing—and then he tripped.

It was so fast, she still wasn’t sure it had really happened. One second, he was cursing her name. The next, there was a sharp noise, a mess on the pavement, and her mom screaming so loud it made Natalie’s ears ring.

No one ever blamed her. No one even knew the full story. The official report said accidental discharge.

But Natalie did. And for a long time, that knowledge hollowed her out.

Now, standing alone above the city, wind brushing through her hair like a whisper, she thought of that morning. Of her shaking hands. Of the way her chest had felt cracked open, raw and buzzing with too much emotion to name.

This thing inside her—this impossible strength, this strange gift—didn’t erase any of that.

But it gave her something she never had before.

A choice.

She pressed her knuckles to her lips and looked away from the city, up toward the sky.

It wasn’t a curse. It wasn’t a glitch. It wasn’t something to run from.

It was the first time in years she’d felt powerful.

And she wasn’t gonna waste it.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

At first, she only meant to stop the mugging.

No costume, no plan, just a hoodie pulled tight over her face and the adrenaline buzzing under her skin like a live wire. The guy had a knife and shaky hands, and Natalie barely knew what she was doing—just that she could move faster than he could blink and that she had to do something. She didn’t even throw a punch. She just yanked the woman out of the alley and webbed the guy’s hand to a lamppost.

(The webs were still a work in progress then. Too sticky. She ended up stuck to the woman for a solid thirty seconds before yanking herself free with an awkward “sorry.”)

The next night, she did it again. A carjacker this time. Then someone breaking into a bodega.

She wasn’t graceful. She wasn’t cool. She once ran face-first into a clothesline. Another time, she landed on the wrong rooftop and had to awkwardly climb down a fire escape while a very confused couple watched from their balcony.

But she was getting better. Stronger. More focused.

And she was building.

It started with the web fluid—half a joke at first, something she scribbled in her sketchbook between figure drawing studies and annoyed notes about polymer chains. But it spiraled fast. She haunted chem labs after hours, patching formulas together from biochem electives and stolen supplies. The first batch exploded in her backpack. The second batch melted her favorite hoodie. The third held strong.

It shot. It stuck. It worked.

Next came the shooters—wired together with repurposed 3D printer parts and some deeply unsafe soldering. They were janky, temperamental, borderline combustible… and perfect. They felt like hers.

And so did the suit. If you could call it that.

It was just dark fabric sewn by hand, a mask stitched out of an old turtleneck, reinforced elbow pads from her skateboarding phase. A symbol drawn in white paint across the chest, simple and sharp. She wasn’t trying to be anyone. Not yet. But people started noticing. Videos popped up online—blurry shots of someone swinging through Brooklyn, someone saving a bike courier from being flattened by a garbage truck.

“Spider-Man,” one headline said. “Brooklyn’s Own Friendly Neighborhood Vigilante.”

It made her laugh. Made her feel something in her chest she couldn’t name.

She didn’t correct it.

He made sense in the suit, in the air, above it all. Like something else took over when the mask went on. Like he could breathe a little easier.

So Natalie let them call him that— Spider-Man. She let herself become him.

And she kept it all to herself.

At least, until the night she came home through the window and found Van sitting on the floor, holding a bowl of popcorn, looking directly at her.

“…Hi,” Van said, slowly.

Natalie froze halfway through pulling her mask off.

Van blinked. “So, weird question—are you the dude who's been webbing muggers to hot dog stands?”

Natalie groaned and flopped onto the floor. “Goddamn it.”

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Getting rid of Van—or even just Van’s curiosity—was impossible after that night. Especially when they started every conversation with, “Okay, so hypothetically, if you were Spider-Man…”

Natalie held out for a week. Maybe two. She told herself it was safer if Van didn’t know, if they kept their nose out of it. But Van was a film major with way too much free time, an alarming knowledge of open-source surveillance software, and the kind of gamer reflexes that translated scarily well to tracking criminal activity online.

So eventually, Natalie caved.

“Fine,” she’d muttered one night, pulling off her mask and chucking it on the kitchen table. “You wanna help? You’re in. But no more hypotheticals.”

Van had screamed into a pillow for a full minute before composing themself and immediately drafting a color-coded spreadsheet labeled: Spider-Man Ops: Version 1.0. They named themselves “the guy in the chair” without irony. They designed a web tracker, a secure comms system, and a live heat map of Brooklyn crimes, all in under a week.

Natalie didn’t admit it out loud, but it helped. It made things easier. Made him feel less alone.

Then Misty figured it out.

Not because anyone told her. Misty didn’t need to be told things—she just watched. She noticed when Natalie started showing up to practice late, bruised, distracted, twitchy. She noticed the web-like burns on her sleeves and the faint smell of melted rubber clinging to her backpack. She noticed Van ducking out of parties to whisper into their phone like they were running an underground casino.

One night, Misty cornered Natalie in the laundry room of her building.

“You’re Spider-Man,” she said, casually, like it was a weather report.

Natalie had stared at her, mid-fold, holding a sweatshirt like a shield. “I’m sorry?”

Misty smiled. “You don’t have to admit it. I already know. I just wanted to see your face when I said it.”

“…Okay. And now that you’ve said it?”

“Oh, now I help.”

“I don’t need—”

“You do. You just don’t know it yet.”

Getting rid of her was even harder than Van.

So, she lets them help. Fuck it.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Remembering soccer always felt like a different thing altogether. 

Natalie hadn’t planned to stay long that time, that day.

She told Van she was just heading to the quad, maybe the rec center. Instead, she found herself perched on the lowest bleacher of the south field, hoodie up, headphones in, pretending not to watch the chaos of soccer tryouts in full swing. A fall breeze tugged at the edges of her sleeves, the sun slanting low and golden across the grass. Her camera hung unused around her neck.

She wasn’t here for anything in particular. At least that’s what she told herself.

The girl in the center of the field, though—that was a different story.

Jackie Taylor moved like she was made for the spotlight. Every pass smooth, every shout crisp, posture perfect even when she was jogging. She wasn’t the fastest or the flashiest, but there was something about her game that demanded attention. Not like she wanted it, but like she already knew it was hers.

Natalie tried not to stare. Failed. Tried again. Failed harder.

Tai and Van were on the field too, trying out like actual normal people, and she could recognize Misty’s voice from across the way, screaming something unintelligible from the sidelines. But they didn’t matter, not right now. Not with Jackie taking a shot on goal that slammed into the net like a bullet.

She didn't celebrate. Just turned, calm and unbothered, like it was the only possible outcome.

Natalie looked away quickly, her face hot despite the breeze.

She didn’t know what it was. Just that something about Jackie made her feel like she was still standing on the edge of that rooftop again—heart in her throat, unsure if she was falling or flying.

She left before tryouts ended.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

The stadium lights hummed faintly overhead, casting long shadows across the empty turf. It was late—too late for anyone else to still be out there—but that was exactly why Natalie had come.

She didn’t belong on a team. Not really. She wasn’t like Tai, with her natural drive, or Van, who played like it was just another extension of a game controller. And she definitely wasn’t Jackie.

But soccer was the one thing that made sense when nothing else did. The rhythm of her feet against the ball, the steady drag of her breath, the burn in her thighs after every sprint—it was something she could hold onto. Something real.

So she played. Alone, under the lights. A hoodie tied around her waist, headphones blasting some half-finished playlist. She sprinted up and down the field, weaving around invisible defenders, talking to herself between breaths like it was a game she was playing in her own head.

Goal. Reset. Midfield. Steal. Shot.

A blur of movement, sharp and fluid, like something more animal than girl. The ball snapped into the back of the net, and she jogged back, grinning to herself.

“Nice shot,” someone called.

Natalie froze.

She turned slowly, heart jackhammering, already ready to deflect or lie or swing off into the dark.

Coach Martinez stood by the fence, arms crossed, a paper coffee cup in hand. He looked more amused than surprised, like he’d been watching her for a while.

“You ever think about trying out for the team?”

Natalie blinked. “No.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged, wiping sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. “Didn’t think I was good enough.”

Coach raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m out here drinking instant coffee at 9 p.m. just to watch people who aren’t good enough?”

Natalie didn’t answer. She just kicked the ball back toward midfield and tried not to smile too much.

Coach Martinez didn’t ask again. He just started showing up.

For the next week, every time Natalie took to the field under the lights, he was there. Sometimes with a clipboard. Sometimes with nothing but that same paper cup and a raised brow. She tried ignoring him. It didn’t work. By the fourth night, he walked up mid-drill and said, “Tryouts are over, but if you show up to practice tomorrow, I’ll make room.”

She stared at him. “You’re not even gonna ask if I want to?”

“I don’t have to. You keep showing up.”

That was how it started. No paperwork, no dramatic locker room reveal. Just Natalie lacing up the next day with a borrowed jersey and a tight knot of nerves in her stomach, trying to look like she hadn’t spent the last year dodging any kind of spotlight.

The field was busier now—buzzing with laughter and easy trash talk and the thud of cleats against turf. Van waved from across the field, already jogging laps with Tai. The rest of the team milled around, stretching and tossing balls between them.

And then there was Jackie.

Natalie had seen her before, of course. Months ago, during the original tryouts. She hadn’t even played that day—had just shown up under the excuse of “boredom” and ended up lingering way too long at the edge of the bleachers, pretending not to watch. Jackie had been in her element, already golden. The kind of girl who played like she was being filmed, like the whole world should be watching. She smiled like she meant it, like it came naturally.

She hadn’t noticed Natalie back then. But Natalie had noticed her.

Up close, she was prettier. Prettier in a way that felt unfair. Glossy ponytail, folded arms, jaw slightly clenched like Natalie was already a problem. Natalie didn’t flinch.

Coach did the whole introduction thing. “This is Natalie. She’ll be joining us moving forward.”

The blonde  barely nodded. “This isn’t a charity, you know.”

Natalie blinked. Okay.

“Good,” she said, slow and dry. “I’m not looking for a handout.”

She didn’t expect the girl to laugh. But she thought maybe she’d say something else, something not laced with annoyance and veiled judgment.

Instead, she turned and walked off.

Huh.

Practice started again. Coach gave her a ball and some directions. The blonde didn’t look her way again, but Natalie felt the flicker of attention from time to time, subtle like a flashlight beam catching on something shiny.

Fine. She’d play.

And she wasn’t bad. Maybe a little rusty, maybe a little loose around the edges, but her legs remembered what to do. Her body still knew how to move. She matched their speed and then some. Not to show off. Not really. Okay—maybe a little.

After practice, towel slung around her neck, sweat sticking to her neck, she jogged up beside the brunette. Still unreadable. Still annoyingly put-together.

“You guys are pretty good,” Natalie said, tone light, teasing.

The brunette crossed her arms. “Yeah, because we put in the work. It’s not just about showing off.”

Natalie raised a brow. “Oh, is that what I was doing?”

“Obviously.”

There was something about the way she said it. So certain. Like she had Natalie figured out already. It made Natalie grin, slow and crooked. “Right. Well, you can keep showing off too. I’m sure it’ll work out.”

The girl blinked, like she wasn’t sure whether to roll her eyes or throttle her. She walked off again without answering.

Natalie stood there a second longer, breath still heavy, hair stuck to her forehead. She turned back toward the empty net, lips twitching, grin lingering even though no one could see it.

She hadn’t meant to care. Not about the team. Not about soccer. Not about the girl with the glossy hair and the attitude problem.

But here they were.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

It had been months since that first day on the field, and somewhere between early drills and late-night swings through the city, Natalie realized she had a problem.

A Jackie Taylor–shaped one.

It wasn’t even about soccer anymore. It was the way Jackie said her name now—clipped, like it left a weird taste in her mouth. The way she always had something to say when Natalie so much as tied her shoelaces wrong. And then, right after practice, she’d be in the locker room talking about Spider-Man.

“Did you see the video of him last night?” Jackie would say, towel around her neck, cheeks still pink from the cold. “He literally caught that guy midair. Like— come on . That’s so hot.”

Van would glance over at Natalie and smirk, subtle but evil. “Yeah, Nat. So hot, right?”

Natalie never answered. She just shoved her cleats into her bag and stared at the floor.

Tai, stretching on the bench next to Van, chimed in with a grin. “Hey, what do you think he smells like under that mask? Leather and Axe body spray?”

“Leather and regret,” Misty said flatly from across the room, without even looking up from her phone. “And he’s probably really bad at taxes.”

“Still hot,” Jackie insisted.

Natalie wanted to die.

The new suit didn’t help. Van had helped her design it after some guy in Hell’s Kitchen said she looked like a crime-fighting raccoon in her old hoodie and ski mask combo. It was sleek now—dark, minimal, with a modified web pattern and custom lenses. People online started calling her Spider-Man more often than not after that. She didn’t correct them. It was easier that way. Cleaner.

And Jackie? Jackie latched onto the whole Spider-Man mythos like a goddamn hobby.

“Do you think he has a girlfriend?” she asked once, tossing a granola bar at Natalie without looking. “Or boyfriend. Or both.”

Natalie caught it mid-air, barely. “Why would I know?”

Jackie shrugged. “Just asking.”

“Because she’s in love with him,” Mari sing-songed from the other side of the room.

“I am not in love with him,” Jackie snapped.

Van grinned. “You said he had ‘great thighs’ last week. And you’ve said that about his ass, too.”

“I said he had impressive quad control, which is an objective observation,” Jackie corrected, deadly serious.

Natalie buried her face in her hoodie sleeve and mumbled something about having to be somewhere.

Tai leaned into Van’s side with a laugh. “She’s gonna combust.”

Van nodded solemnly. “Implode first. Then combust.”

The thing was—Natalie had tried to stay away. She’d thought she could manage it. Liking someone who ‘hated’ her wasn’t exactly a new experience. But the Spider-Man thing? That made it so much worse . Because Jackie didn’t hate him. Jackie thought he was funny and brave and hot —her words, not Natalie’s. And it was like watching someone write a love letter to your reflection in a funhouse mirror.

She could deal with the late-night patrols. With bruised ribs and homework at 3 a.m. With keeping secrets from half the people she lived with.

But this? Watching Jackie fall in love with a version of her that wasn’t even real?

That was brutal.

So, she did the only possible sane thing.

He saved her.

Jackie was getting mugged, and she didn’t look even remotely sober. Her jacket was half-zipped, her hair was a mess, and Natalie could see the stubborn, stupid fight in her eyes even from two rooftops away.

There wasn’t time to think. No time to weigh the pros and cons of Spider-Man swooping in like some overdramatic vigilante cliché.

She just moved.

One kick, one web, and one extremely mortifying quip later—Jackie was safe. Bleeding a little, but safe. Natalie should’ve left after that. Should’ve saluted and disappeared into the night like a decent superhero.

Instead, she stayed.

Walked her home. Let Jackie lean on her a little too long. Rambled at her like he was the one who was high. Ignored the way her hands were shaking when she held her steady near the entrance to the building. Pretended she didn’t want to throw up from how fast her heart was beating.

She finally, finally had her attention.

Sure, Jackie had been kind of a bitch about it—snappy and defensive and too proud to say thank you—but Natalie expected that. She was shaken up. She had a scratch on her pretty face. Natalie hated how much she noticed that.

The next day, she made it worse.

Barged into Jackie’s apartment like it was a crime scene, demanding answers about the bruise on her jaw and spitting out some excuse about Van seeing Jackie at breakfast and being worried. 

It only got worse from there.

Weeks passed. Then months. Somewhere in between saving strangers and pretending she wasn’t in love with someone who hated her in real life but flirted with her masked alter ego, Natalie developed a pattern .

She started hanging around Jackie’s building after patrol. Swung past her fire escape like it was her own personal Starbucks. She told herself it wasn’t stalking. It was just—casual observation. Occasional neighborhood watch. With light romantic obsession on the side.

Sometimes, even when she was bruised and exhausted and still bleeding under her suit, she’d go. Just to see if Jackie was there. Just to hear her say something dumb or roll her eyes and smile a little when she thought no one was looking.

She even started listening for her name on campus. Leaned in too close to conversations. Showed up “coincidentally” near the library or the field. She told no one. Not Van, not Tai, definitely not Misty.

Until she didn’t.

Because secrets only stay secret until someone watches you sneak out your window in a full Spider-Man suit and mutter “goddammit Jackie” under your breath.

Van caught her first.

They blinked from where they were microwaving leftover noodles at 2 a.m., stared at him  like he’d grown a second head, and then said, “Did you just Spider-Suit up because you heard Jackie was at a party on 9th?”

Natalie froze. Halfway out the window.

“No,” he said, which was technically a lie and emotionally a cry for help.

By morning, everyone knew.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

“She’s stalking her,” Misty said, matter-of-fact, stirring her tea.

“I’m not stalking her,” Natalie snapped, face flushed.

“You have a GPS sense for her,” Tai added, munching popcorn from Van’s lap. “Like. Bat-level echolocation.”

“I just—look, she was in danger. Once. I helped. And now I’m… making sure she doesn’t die. That’s all.”

Van looked at her like they were witnessing a slow, tragic brain melt. “You lingered. You walked her home. You lied to me. You invented a whole-ass surveillance schedule. ”

“It’s more of a routine than a schedule,” Natalie muttered.

“You’re in love with her,” Misty said, serene as a cult leader.

“I’m not —”

“She said your thighs were nice,” Tai reminded her. “Indirectly. That counts.”

Natalie slumped onto the couch, groaning into her hands. “I’m gonna die. I’m gonna actually die. And it’ll be because Jackie Taylor accidentally flirts with me while simultaneously hating me and now I’m—”

“In love with her,” Misty repeated.

Van tilted their head. “So, when were you planning on telling her ?”

Natalie peeked through her fingers like a possum caught in headlights.

“Never?” she tried.

Van threw a couch pillow at her. “Tell her the truth, dumbass.”

“I can’t!” Natalie yelped. “She hates me! But she likes Spider-Man . If she finds out, she’s gonna kill me. Or worse— stop liking me .”

Misty shrugged. “Sounds like a her problem.”

Natalie flopped back onto the couch with a groan. “This is a disaster.”

“You’re a disaster,” Tai said, grinning. “But like… in a really gay, really entertaining way.”

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

It had started as a throwaway line.

“You ever wanna clear your head or just—get away,” Spider-Man had said once, crouched beside her on a fire escape, “go there again.”

And he’d pointed to the rooftop across from her apartment—just a few stories up, tucked behind a row of old brick buildings and barely visible unless you knew to look.

Jackie had gone once, then twice, and then enough times that it quietly became theirs. A secret little corner of the city she didn’t have to share with anyone else.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it had its own kind of charm. String lights someone had left behind years ago still worked, casting a warm amber glow in the dark. There was a rickety lawn chair, a weather-beaten loveseat, and a surprisingly clear view of the skyline—just far enough from the noise, close enough to feel like part of something bigger.

Tonight, Jackie was there again.

Alone.

Curled up on the loveseat in a hoodie, headphones half-on, head tipped back to look at the sky. She wasn’t crying, not yet. But she looked tired. Deflated. Like the fire in her had gone out just a little.

Natalie saw her from two rooftops away.

She didn’t even hesitate.

A quick swing downtown, past midnight traffic and glowing windows, and a quiet stop at a bodega tucked behind a flower stand. She didn’t go for the sad, plastic-wrapped daisies. She went for the real bouquet. Bright sunflowers, small orange roses, delicate white daisies, and pink poppies wrapped in brown paper. It was… nicer than she expected it to be. Nicer than she meant it to be.

By the time she returned, Jackie was still there—alone in the golden string light glow, hair messy, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands.

Natalie landed with a soft thud on the roof and didn’t say anything. Just walked over and offered her the flowers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jackie blinked.

“…What the hell?”

Natalie shrugged, still masked. “You looked like you needed them.”

Jackie stared at the bouquet. Then at him. Then back again.

“These are… actually really nice,” she said slowly, taking them with both hands. Her voice was cautious, like she wasn’t sure if this was a prank or some elaborate guilt-trip apology.

“Yeah, well. I have taste.”

Jackie raised a brow. “You also have a limp.”

“Not related,” Natalie said. “Definitely unrelated.”

Jackie laughed—just a little. Barely a sound, but real.

She looked at the flowers again, then pulled one of the orange roses free and tucked it behind her ear without looking up. “Thanks.”

Natalie scratched the back of her neck awkwardly. “You don’t have to say anything. I just—wanted to do something good.”

Jackie didn’t answer. She just scooted over and patted the loveseat cushion beside her.

Natalie sat down, careful and quiet, shoulders barely brushing. The city spread out in front of them, all soft light and far-off traffic and a sky clear enough to see the stars.

They didn’t talk.

They didn’t need to.

It was enough just to sit there, flowers between them, and the ache in Natalie’s chest curling into something warmer—something she didn’t have a name for yet.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Deciding to show up at Jackie’s place for help instead of going to Misty—who was, to be clear, a literal nursing student and extremely competent with injuries—was, in retrospect, probably one of the stupider choices she’d made lately.

Which was saying something, considering she’d also gotten thrown into a moving car windshield two hours prior.

Jackie didn’t know how to stitch a wound. Jackie barely knew how to microwave soup. But still, Natalie went. Crawled up the fire escape with blood on her ribs and a grimace that made her see stars, hoodie zipped up over her shirt, because showing up at Jackie’s front door was a guaranteed way to get said door slammed in her face.

Also, the building had a front desk. And Natalie looked like a crime scene.

So. Window it was.

Jackie didn’t scream when she climbed in and didn’t slam the window back down in her face. She just looked tired and confused and maybe a little bit scared. And after the briefest, grumpiest pause, she helped.

The whole thing was clumsy—Natalie walking Jackie through the steps, telling her how to stitch her up, cracking jokes between clenched teeth just to keep her from passing out. Jackie’s hands trembled more than she wanted to admit, but her eyes were sharp with concern, and that was… new. Unexpected.

Kind of heart-shattering.

Once the patch job was over (bad, but passable), Jackie handed her one of her own hoodies to wear—something oversized and soft and probably sacred—and offered her bed with, “I mean, you shouldn’t be walking around like this. You can take my bed. I’ll take the couch.”

Which was probably softer sounding than Jackie had meant.

Natalie tried not to seem too thrilled. She failed, obviously.

But it was only once she was curled up in Jackie’s room, staring at the ceiling in her hoodie and boxers and bruises, that it hit her.

She was a fucking idiot.

She’d rambled. Casual stuff. Dumb jokes about rooftops and close calls and windshields, things she should’ve kept locked down because Jackie wasn’t stupid. She was smart. She noticed things. And Natalie had basically handed her a spider-themed confession on a bloody platter.

Maybe it was fine.

Maybe Jackie was too tired to connect the dots.

Still, she left before sunrise. Slipped out the same way she came, scribbled a quick “Thanks. You’re less annoying when I’m bleeding out,” on a sticky note and stuck it on the fridge.

And then she limped home like an idiot with a crush and half her blood volume missing.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

The apartment was dark, save for the bluish glow of the TV screen playing some ancient rom-com on low volume. Natalie landed on the fire escape as quietly as she could, muscles aching, hoodie sticking to the half-healed wound on her ribs. She eased the window open, slid inside, and—

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Three heads turned in unison from the couch. Tai, Van, and Misty—all half-asleep, half-wrapped in throw blankets, and very much not amused.

“Hi,” Natalie said, mid-step, already caught.

“You’re bleeding again,” Misty noted, not even blinking.

Natalie looked down. “Technically, it’s dried.”

Tai rolled her eyes. “Technically, you're an idiot.”

Van groaned and rubbed their eyes. “We thought you were dead , Nat.”

“You didn’t answer any texts,” Tai added.

“You bailed on movie night,” Misty said, like that was the gravest sin of all. “And you never bail on movie night.”

Natalie stood frozen in the middle of the living room like a criminal caught mid-break-in, guilt pooling in her chest. She opened her mouth to explain, but Misty was already squinting at her like she was doing math in her head.

Before she could actually speak, Natalie groaned. “Can I have five minutes before the lecture?”

“No,” Tai said, now very much awake. “You ghost us for hours after your worst fight in weeks and then sneak in like you're some cool vigilante—oh wait.”

Van rubbed their eyes, blinking at her. “Where were you?” They looked her up and down. “Did you get worse? Did you see a doctor?”

Misty didn’t even blink. “She went to Jackie.”

Natalie froze. “I—what?”

“Oh, come on,” Misty said. “You disappeared after patrol. Didn’t text. Bleeding. Bruised. Wearing a hoodie that definitely isn't yours. Jackie’s.”

Tai raised an eyebrow. “Wait, Jackie ?”

“Oh my god,” Van said, eyes wide. “You went to Jackie ? After getting wrecked like that?”

“ Natalie! ” Misty barked. “You went to your crush instead of your team medic ?!”

Natalie groaned again and flopped onto the floor like a dead body. “She gave me her bed, okay? And a hoodie. And she was—ugh— nice .”

Van immediately threw a pillow at her. “You are so far gone . Like, it’s embarrassing.”

“She stitched you up?” Tai asked, disbelieving. “Jackie Taylor??”

Natalie buried her face in the carpet. “I had to walk her through it.”

Misty nodded solemnly. “And yet, you lived. Must be love.”

“Shut up .”

“Oh no,” Van said. “You like like her.”

Natalie groaned and dropped onto the arm of the couch. “It wasn’t even a big deal, okay? I was hurt. Jackie helped. That’s it.”

“Uh-huh.” Van reached for the remote, muting the TV completely.

Tai just sighed, then got up to grab her an ice pack. “You’re gonna have to tell her eventually, you know.”

“Yeah, tell her, Nat,” Misty cut in, all too pleased with herself. “Before you get yourself killed and we have to explain to Jackie that Spider-Man died doing something stupid because he was too busy being in love with her.”

“I’m not—”

“ Sure, ” they all said, in practiced unison.

Misty leaned back down, grinning ear to ear. “But until then, we reserve the right to mock you relentlessly.”

“You guys suck.” Natalie dropped her face into her hands and groaned. Yeah. She was so screwed.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

She wasn’t supposed to be out tonight.

Her ribs still ached when she breathed too deep, and her stitches pulled every time she moved the wrong way. But Natalie couldn’t sleep—so she went out. Told herself it was just a quick loop. Just to check in. Just to make sure no one was dying.

Now she was dangling off the side of a fire escape with one hand, a switchblade grazing her ankle, and a guy in a ski mask yelling something incomprehensible at the cops from behind a stolen car.

“Fun,” she muttered, swinging herself up and landing—too hard—on the rooftop.

Two more guys were on her tail, both armed, both fast. One had a crowbar, the other a pipe. The classics. Why was it always pipes?

Natalie ducked the first swing, webbed the guy’s sleeve to a railing, and then caught the second one with a hard kick to the chest. Her side screamed in protest. She ignored it.

“You know,” she panted, flipping backward and crouching low, “you guys really oughta try therapy instead of organized crime.”

Crowbar Guy ripped his arm free and lunged again. She dodged, barely. Her footing slipped, ankle rolling off the ledge, and for a second it was all air and weightlessness. Then her fingers caught the edge of a metal drainpipe, and she was back, swinging in a half-arc and landing in the middle of the alley like it was on purpose.

It wasn’t.

She webbed the pipe, yanked it from the guy’s hands, and flung it against the brick wall.

The sirens were louder now—close. One of the goons made a run for it, but she shot a web and yanked his legs out from under him. The other one hesitated just long enough for her to sweep him into a trash bin and slam the lid closed.

“Stay there,” she said, pointing. “Think about your choices.”

The cops arrived seconds later, floodlights flooding the alley.

Natalie was gone.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

By the time she landed on the rooftop across the street, chest heaving, hands shaking just a little, the adrenaline was starting to wear off. Her suit clung to her back with sweat. Her ribs felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to them.

But she was smiling.

She peeled her mask halfway off, letting the night air cool her face. Somewhere below, someone shouted, “Yo, Spider-Man’s back!” and a few claps echoed up the block.

Natalie didn’t answer; she couldn’t, obviously. Just sat there, legs dangling off the ledge, heart still racing.

And for the first time in days—maybe weeks—she felt a little better.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

She can’t say she’s entirely surprised when Jackie figures it out.

Honestly? She’s surprised it didn’t happen sooner. Jackie had been getting suspicious—like, seriously suspicious—side-eyeing her every time Spider-Man swung by campus like he’d knocked on her window, not just New York’s.

It was like watching someone put together a puzzle they already had the answer to. They just needed proof.

Which is why Natalie had been avoiding her. Avoiding her as herself. Avoiding her in the suit.

It was easier that way. Cowardly, sure—but easier. Easier than sitting her down and saying, Hey, so that guy who’s been swinging through your window and giving you flowers? That’s me. Surprise.

She flirted with her in the suit. Got her flowers. Held her after a panic attack. Told her things she hadn’t said out loud in years.

And Jackie had told him things, too.

God, she was such an idiot.

She could still hear Misty’s voice in her head: “She came by my dorm. Asked questions. She’s onto you.”

Misty said it casually, like she hadn’t just lit a fuse. And maybe she would’ve told Jackie the truth herself if Natalie hadn’t beat her to it—just to spite her. Or maybe to put her in her place, force her hand. Make her stop lying.

And now?

Now Jackie’s the one doing the avoiding.

No more cutting jabs in the locker room.
No more “I hate you”s with a smile tucked behind them.
No more anything.

Natalie still looks for her when she’s out patrolling. Out of habit. Out of hope.
But it’s like Jackie’s dropped off the map. Like her absence is its own kind of punishment. Like she’s saying, You don’t get to look for me anymore.

Days pass.

The team wins. The bar’s packed. Someone’s pouring shots and someone else is screaming about playoffs, and Natalie’s trying— trying —to pretend. To celebrate. To be normal.

But then the city flares to life in red and blue. And instinct pulls her away mid-laugh. Mid-drink.

She has to go, even if the look on Jackie’s face makes it painfully clear—she already suspects something. And Natalie’s running won’t help.

Another fight. Another alley. Another bruised rib she won’t mention.

By the time it’s over, she’s not even thinking. Her legs are moving on their own.

She ends up on their rooftop. Because of course she does.

And Jackie’s already there.

Of course she is.

She looks like she’s been waiting. Like she knew. Like Natalie’s a punchline she’s already heard and didn’t find funny the first time.

She’s furious. Natalie can tell. Not loud-angry— dangerous angry. Controlled. Quiet. Like her whole body is a dam about to break.

Her arms are crossed. Her mouth set in a way that used to make Natalie grin.
Her eyes are glassy in the dark.

She’s either been crying or she’s about to. Natalie hopes it’s neither and knows it’s both.

Jackie speaks first. No hesitation. No lead-up. Just:

“I know it’s you.”

Like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been obvious. She tells her to stop pretending. Tells her to take the mask off.

Natalie hesitates. Her heart pounds like it wants out. She shouldn’t be thinking about how beautiful Jackie looks right now. Not when she’s this angry. Not when Natalie’s the reason.

But of course she is. Of course she does.

She pulls the mask off anyway. Slowly. Carefully.

There’s silence.

Then Jackie’s face crumples—like betrayal and heartbreak just collided on impact. And she steps back.

Too far back.

Time slows. Natalie doesn’t think. She moves.

One web. One leap. One scream caught in her throat.

She catches her. Of course she does. She always will.

They land hard. Jackie tries to shove her away. Natalie doesn’t let go.

“Don’t touch me.”

It’s not a yell. It’s not even loud.  It’s worse. It’s real .

Natalie lets go.

Jackie storms off. Natalie stays. Mask in hand. Bruised ribs aching. Heart somewhere on the pavement.

She doesn’t chase her. Doesn’t call after her.

She just watches.

And for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t feel like a hero. Not even close.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

The punch lands harder than it should.

Not because the guy is strong—he’s not, not really—but because Natalie’s distracted. Her jaw snaps sideways with the impact, head ringing as her shoulder slams against a dumpster.

“Jesus Christ,” Van’s voice crackles in her earpiece. “You let him hit you? Are you high right now?”

“No,” Natalie snaps, already flipping back to her feet. “Just—”

“Emotionally compromised?” Tai chimes in from god knows where. “Maybe dealing with the fallout of a deeply preventable identity reveal?”

“Shut up,” she growls, ducking a crowbar swing and landing a web to the guy’s ankle, yanking him off balance. He hits the pavement with a heavy thud, groaning.

“You told her, didn’t you?” Misty asks, way too casual for someone watching her best friend get pummeled in real time. “Or she figured it out. Same difference. You let her get too close. Classic rookie move.”

“I didn’t tell her, she fell off a roof,” Natalie snaps, hurling herself into another goon with way more force than necessary.

“Romantic,” Tai deadpans. “Bet she loved that.”

“She looked at me like I was something she scraped off her shoe,” Natalie mutters. Another guy down. Another bruise blooming under her suit.

“That’s fair,” Misty says, unbothered. “You did lie to her for weeks.”

“Guys?” Van cuts in. “Not to ruin the emotionally charged gossip hour, but there’s another one behind you, and he’s got—”

Too late.

The taser connects with her side and everything lights up—nerves on fire, muscles seizing, lungs refusing to work.

She hits the ground hard, gasping.

“Goddammit, Nat!” Van barks. “You’re off your game, like badly. That should’ve been a three-minute cleanup, tops.”

“Yeah, what the hell is going on?” Misty asks. “You never get zapped. Your reaction time is—like—literally documented as above average.”

“She’s spiraling,” Tai says, sounding like she’s smirking. “It’s kind of impressive. I give her... two more fights before she gets herself killed or confesses her love. Whichever comes first.”

Natalie groans and flips over, breathing hard. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying,” all three of them say in perfect unison.

She’s not fine.

She says she is—spits it out between clenched teeth and shaky breath—but her body’s not buying it, and neither are the three voices buzzing in her ear like judgmental wasps.

The next guy comes at her swinging, and she’s sloppy —dodging a half-second too late, webbing with the wrong wrist, nearly hitting herself mid-swing. It’s like her instincts are half-asleep, dulled by the rooftop memory playing on loop in her head.

Jackie stepping back.
Jackie falling.
Jackie looking at her like she’d ruined everything.

“You’re moving like you got dumped,” Van mutters. “Did you get dumped? You lied and got dumped, didn’t you?”

“She wasn’t mine to get dumped by,” Natalie grits out, ducking under a pipe swing and landing a kick that sends the guy flying. “We weren’t—she didn’t even—” She catches a punch and snaps the guy’s wrist maybe a little too hard. He screams.

“Okay, ouch,” Misty says mildly. “He’s definitely going to need surgery. Love that for you.”

Tai laughs. “This is like watching someone get possessed in real time. Are you trying to get arrested tonight?”

“I said I’m fine ,” Natalie growls, blood in her mouth and a tear in her suit.

Another guy steps forward. This one’s bigger. Confident. Got that smug I’ve-seen-the-YouTube-videos-and-I’m-not-impressed kind of look.

“Oh, great,” she mutters. “You look like you peaked in high school.”

He lunges.

And she doesn’t dodge.

The guy tackles her to the ground with a grunt, knocking the wind out of her. Her back slams against the concrete. She’s on the defense now, rolling, blocking, barely landing any clean hits. Her head’s spinning. Her heart’s not in it.

This is what heartbreak feels like, she thinks vaguely. Getting your ribs stomped in by a man who probably unironically says “alpha male.”

A punch lands hard in her side. She hears a crack. Hopes it’s the pavement.

“Jesus Christ , Nat!” Van’s voice goes sharp. “Get out of there—NOW.”

“Abort mission,” Misty says, already rerouting her. “I’m pinging your GPS. Rooftop exit six blocks over. You can’t keep fighting like this, you’re—”

“Falling apart,” Tai finishes. “And not even in the hot, dramatic way. Just the pathetic one.”

Natalie wheezes out a laugh that sounds more like a sob and fires two webs, yanking herself out of the guy’s grip. Her side is screaming. Her vision blurs. She doesn’t care.

She escapes, barely. Heart racing, limbs shaking. The city blurs past her in streaks of neon and shadow as she swings into the night.

She doesn’t land on the usual rooftop. Can’t. Not when that rooftop is still haunted by the way Jackie looked at her.

Instead, she finds an unfamiliar fire escape, crumples into a corner like she’s melting into it, mask half-off, blood dripping from her lip.

Her comm crackles.

“…Nat?” Van’s voice is quiet now. Careful. “Talk to us.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just leans her head back against the wall, chest heaving, heartbeat screaming in her ears.

Then, finally:

“I broke it,” she whispers.

“The mission?” Misty asks.

“No.” Her voice cracks. “Her. Us. I broke it.”

Silence on the line. For once, even Tai doesn’t have a snarky comeback.

Only the sound of the city below her, and the ache of what she’s lost.

She rips the comm off.

Doesn’t think. Just does it—yanks the piece out with shaking fingers and hurls it across the rooftop like it burned her.

It clatters somewhere in the dark.

For a second, there’s nothing. Just wind and blood and the tight, gasping noise clawing its way out of her throat.

And then she’s sobbing.

No warning. No graceful lead-in. One second she’s sitting there trying to breathe, and the next her whole body’s folding in on itself like it’s finally collapsing under everything—Jackie’s face, Jackie’s voice, the fall, the scream, the don’t touch me .

She cries like she’s bleeding out. Chest heaving, hands pressed to her face, teeth clenched like she’s trying to keep it quiet, like if she lets the sound out it might kill her.

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” she chokes, voice barely audible. “God, I’m so fucking stupid —”

She presses her palms against her eyes so hard she sees stars.

How did she fuck it up this bad?

She hadn’t meant to lie. Not really. She just… hadn’t meant to not tell her either. Not at first. And then it was too late. And then Jackie was smiling at her, trusting her, laughing at Spider-Man’s dumb jokes and leaning into his comfort, and Natalie thought—maybe if she held onto that just a little longer, it would be okay.

Maybe she could have both.

The mask and the girl.

But now she has neither.

She sits there until her sobs burn out into quiet, shaky breathing. Until the blood on her lip crusts. Until her muscles ache from the tension.

Then—footsteps.

Soft, deliberate.

She doesn’t lift her head.

“Didn’t peg you for the dramatic rooftop cry type,” Tai says dryly, coming into view.

Natalie doesn’t respond. Just wipes her nose on the back of her glove, eyes still blurry.

Tai lets the silence hang. Then drops into a crouch in front of her, one brow raised.

“You gonna talk to me, or should I go get the tiny blonde gremlin you call a sidekick or my girlfriend?”

A breath escapes Natalie—something between a laugh and a groan.

Tai sees it. Softens. “Misty is being dramatic about this. She’s saying she’ll come out and drag you back.”

Natalie groans and lets her head thunk back against the brick wall. “Of course she is.”

“And Van is saying you just ‘committed romantic suicide and are spiraling.’ Her words.”

Natalie closes her eyes. “Sounds about right.”

Tai exhales through her nose and sits next to her. Not touching, not pushing. Just there.

“You look like shit, by the way.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

More quiet.

Then Tai nudges her leg lightly with her boot. “You really liked her, huh?”

Natalie doesn’t answer for a long time.

When she finally does, her voice is small.

“I think I still do.”

Tai nods slowly. “Then don’t give up.”

“She hates me.”

“She’s hurt.” Tai looks at her, firm. “There’s a difference.”

Natalie turns her head. “I lied.”

“You panicked ,” Tai corrects. “You’re a dumbass with the emotional intelligence of a breadstick, but your heart’s not the problem.”

Natalie laughs, bitter and tired. “Thanks, I think.”

Tai leans back, arms crossed. “You got two options. You let this wreck you. Or you get back up, fix your shit, and fight for her.”

Natalie stares at the skyline.

Quiet.

Then: “What if she never forgives me?”

Tai shrugs. “Then you live with it. Like the rest of us mortals who’ve messed up something good.”

She stands and offers a hand.

“Come on. You smell like blood and self-pity.”

Natalie hesitates.

Then takes it.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

She’s been sitting on the fire escape for ten minutes, knee pulled up to her chest, trying to decide if she’s brave or just selfish. The city sprawls beneath her like it always does—indifferent, endless, full of windows she doesn’t belong behind. She wonders, not for the first time, if this is a mistake. If coming here, after everything, is just going to make things worse.

But she needed to see Jackie.

Not because she thinks she can fix it. She’s not that naive. But because there’s something clawing at her chest—sharp and relentless—that won’t let her stay away. She hasn’t stopped thinking about the look on Jackie’s face when she pulled the mask off. How she just stared at her like Natalie was the most disappointing thing she’d ever seen. 

She deserves that, probably.

Tai’s voice echoes in her head—steady, grounding. Telling her she’s not alone. That she’s still here. That she needs to stop running.

And this, standing outside Jackie’s window like a goddamn raccoon, is her attempt at not running. It’s pathetic, but it’s all she’s got.

When the window finally creaks open, Natalie startles. For a second, she’s convinced Jackie’s going to slam it shut in her face. But she doesn’t. She just stares. Eyes wide. Hurt. Angry. Confused.

Natalie hates herself for what she put in those eyes.

She climbs through, slow and quiet, not wanting to overstep more than she already has. Once inside, she hovers by the window, too aware of how out of place she looks. She doesn’t take a step further. Her limbs feel heavy, like moving might make her fall apart again.

Jackie’s voice cuts through the silence—low, brittle, barely holding together.

“Seriously? You can’t just—”

“I wanted—no, I needed to see you,” Natalie blurts, because if she doesn’t say it now, she’ll lose the nerve.

It’s the truth. She doesn’t know how to apologize the right way. Doesn’t know how to reach across this gap between them without making it worse. But she had to try.

Jackie scoffs, but she doesn’t kick her out. Doesn’t throw something at her head. That’s something, right?

Natalie stays near the window. The apartment is warmer than the night air outside, but she feels cold anyway. Her fingers won’t stop twitching. She picks at the hem of her shirt, head down, trying to find the words.

She hears Jackie’s voice again. Snapping. Guarded. But not as sharp as it could be.

“So, what? You’re just gonna break into my place whenever you feel like it?”

She looks up, and for once, doesn’t deflect. No smirk. No one-liner. Just honesty, even if it stings.

“I didn’t think you’d let me in if I knocked.”

And it’s true. She wouldn’t have. Natalie’s not an idiot.

The silence between them stretches like wire. Tight. Strained. She watches Jackie bite her lip, chest rising and falling like she’s holding back everything she actually wants to say. Maybe they both are.

Natalie finally speaks. Voice rough. Heart lodged in her throat.

“I’m not good at this. Any of it. Talking, explaining… feeling.” She huffs out a laugh, barely there. “I didn’t mean for it to get this complicated.”

Jackie’s voice is quieter now. “You didn’t mean for what?”

“For you to get… caught up in it,” she admits. She can’t look at her. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. I didn’t mean to lie.”

She hears the shift in the air—the way Jackie sucks in a breath like she wasn’t expecting her to say it out loud. Natalie doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

She wants to move closer. Wants to take Jackie’s hand and tell her she’s sorry. But she stays where she is, rooted like her body won’t let her take the chance.

She sees the flicker in Jackie’s eyes when she looks back at her. The conflict. The hurt. And something else, buried deep, that Natalie doesn’t dare name.

“I know I messed up,” she says, her voice quieter now. “And I know you probably hate me for it.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“I do,” Jackie says.

It hits her harder than she expects. Not because it’s a surprise—she’s been expecting it—but because part of her hoped Jackie wouldn’t say it out loud.

She nods. Doesn’t argue. What would be the point?

“I hate you,” Jackie repeats, louder this time. Like she’s trying to convince herself.

Natalie nods again, but she can’t hold her gaze anymore. It’s too much. Jackie doesn’t mean it. She knows she doesn’t. But hearing it—twice—feels like a bruise blooming across her ribs.

She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t break down. She just stands there, waiting for something to shift. But it doesn’t. The silence wins.

Eventually, she realizes she should go.

She doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t offer any parting shot. Just moves toward the window again, heart heavy, body aching in ways she can’t explain.

And when she’s gone, she knows she’ll keep thinking about the way Jackie looked at her like she wanted to say more—but didn’t.

Because Natalie doesn’t blame her.

Not one bit.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Natalie lands softly on the fire escape outside their apartment window, barely making a sound. She slips through it like muscle memory, careful not to wake Tai—who’s probably asleep in her room, earbuds in, blanket cocooned around her like armor. The place is dim, lit only by the muted glow of the hallway light Van always leaves on in case Natalie comes home late.

Van's on the couch, curled up in a hoodie that probably used to be Tai’s. A movie flickers across the TV screen, the volume low enough to be almost atmospheric, more mood than sound. Natalie pauses in the doorway, her fingers twitching at her sides. She doesn’t know what she expected—Van passed out with popcorn in her lap? A half-hearted, “you okay?” from the kitchen? Maybe for no one to be here at all, so she could pretend tonight didn’t happen.

But Van looks up. And she sees her. Like, really sees her.

"Hey," she says gently. She pats the spot on the couch beside her, no questions asked. No pushing. Just… here if you want it.

Natalie doesn't even try to front. The second she sits down, her body folds in on itself like paper. She doesn’t mean to cry. It starts slow—just a deep inhale that doesn’t make it all the way in. Then her shoulders tremble, and her fingers curl into fists, and her head drops forward.

“I apologized to her,” she manages to get out between breaths, “and I told her the truth. Not all of it, but enough.”

Van says nothing. She just shifts closer and wraps an arm around her, warm and grounding.

“She said she hates me,” Natalie whispers.

The words sit there in the space between them, raw and awful and still ringing in her ears. Not because she didn’t expect it, but because Jackie had said it like she meant it. Like she was convincing herself as much as Natalie. And that— that —is what gutted her.

“She doesn’t,” Van says softly, chin resting on Natalie’s shoulder now. “You know that, right?”

“She said it twice. ” Natalie huffs, the sound shaky, wet with unshed sobs. “I heard her, Van. She meant it.”

Van shifts so she can look at her face. “No. She meant something, but not that. Jackie’s like a freaking vending machine of feelings with a broken coin slot—you gotta kick it a few times before anything good comes out.”

That draws a small, involuntary laugh from Natalie, which makes her cry harder. Great. Now she’s laugh-crying.

“I screwed it all up,” she mumbles into her sleeves. “I shouldn’t have gone. I should’ve just left her alone. She looked at me like I was—like I ruined everything.”

“You didn’t screw it up.” Van tugs her a little closer, so Natalie’s practically tucked under her arm. “You were honest. That’s a big deal for you.”

Natalie wipes at her eyes with her sleeve and mutters, “Wow. Thanks.”

“You know what I mean.” Van’s voice is full of that familiar warmth that only childhood best friends can muster. The kind that reminds Natalie of sleepovers and long summer nights on the roof, talking about aliens and death and whether or not Laura Lee had had a crush on Lottie back then. (Spoiler: she did).

“She looked so mad,” Natalie whispers, voice cracking. “And I—I just stood there. Like an idiot. I didn’t even know what I was hoping for.”

Van doesn’t try to give her answers. She doesn’t throw clichés at her like “it’ll get better” or “she just needs time.” She just reaches for the remote, scrolls through their saved movies, and puts on something comfortingly dumb—one of those old ‘90s movies they’ve seen a thousand times, where everything gets wrapped up in ninety minutes with a killer soundtrack and a stupid prom scene.

Natalie lets herself sink into the couch, head leaning on Van’s shoulder. Her breathing evens out eventually, her fingers still fidgeting with the cuff of her sleeve, but the worst of the storm has passed.

“You always do that,” she murmurs.

“Do what?”

“Know what I need. Even when I don’t.”

Van smiles. “That’s what best friends are for. You’d do the same for me.”

“I have done the same for you,” Natalie says, her voice a little steadier now.

Van snorts. “True. You did punch that girl in sixth grade who made fun of my freckles.”

“She said you looked like a connect-the-dots puzzle,” Natalie mutters, eyes narrowing at the memory. “She deserved it.”

They fall into silence again, but it’s not the heavy, painful kind. It’s the kind that lives in the space between two people who know each other too well to need words.

Eventually, Natalie sighs. “What if she doesn’t forgive me?”

“She will,” Van says, certain. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But she will.”

Natalie doesn't respond. She just watches the movie for a while, her body still leaning into Van’s, her heart still aching but not quite splintering apart anymore.

She’s not okay.

But for the first time that night, she thinks she might be on her way there.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

The bar’s warm in that cloying, uncomfortable way—like it’s trying to hug her and choke her at the same time. Natalie’s skin feels like it doesn’t fit right, like it’s about to slide off her bones if she exhales too hard. The lights are dim but sharp at the edges, the music’s low but insistently throbbing, and the air smells like sweat, cologne, and celebration. Fake celebration. The kind that makes her want to peel her face off and go home.

She should be happy. That’s the protocol. Big win. No rolled ankles. Jackie Taylor’s out here being a golden retriever in cleats. Everything’s great.

Except Natalie’s at the bar, elbow planted like she’s bracing for impact, beer sweating in one hand, joint smoldering in the other. No one's told her to put it out yet. Probably because Van slipped the bartender a twenty and promised them “eternal coolness.” Or something equally chaotic.

Van blows out smoke beside her and says, “She really said that? Like, not in her head, not in a dream—out loud?”

Natalie snorts, bitter and breathy. “Yep. Deadpan. ‘You’re fine.’” She flattens her voice into a terrible impression of Jackie’s. “‘You’re fine.’ Like she’s reading my Yelp review.”

Van physically cringes, whole body folding like a lawn chair. “Ow.”

“Right?” Natalie drags off the joint. “Like, how did I end up spiraling in a bar over someone calling me ‘fine’? She scores two goals. I get an assist. And suddenly I’m the tragic extra in her highlight reel.”

She doesn’t mean to say it like that. But it slips out dressed in truth.

Van nods slowly, exhaling. “You like her.”

Natalie shrugs, too sharp. “I like a lot of people. Doesn’t mean I sit here psychoanalyzing the geometry of their shoulder touches.”

Silence.

Van’s face does that thing—like she’s waiting for gravity to do its job and let the lie collapse in on itself.

Natalie groans. “God. She touched my shoulder. Just once. And now I’m dissecting it like it was some holy gesture from the Book of Jackie.”

“To be fair,” Van says, flicking ash into a coaster, “it was hot. Like, reverent. Rom-com lighting. Shoulder as sacred ground.”

“Don’t make this adorable.”

“I’m not. I’m being clinical. That touch had emotional consequences.”

“She called me fine, Van.”

“Which is unhinged. Who says that?”

“People who want to emotionally neuter you.”

Van nods solemnly. “People who have weirdly repressed feelings and a tragically beautiful face.”

“Stop giving her lore.”

“She already has lore,” Van mutters. “That’s the problem.”

They go quiet for a second. Natalie stares at her drink like it might tell her something useful. In the corner, their teammates are crammed into a booth, all knees and elbows and noise. Lottie’s triple-strawing a drink like she’s in a cartoon. Tai’s halfway to choking on laughter. Jackie’s perched at the edge, smiling politely at Shauna, but—

But.

Her eyes keep flicking toward Natalie. Like she’s checking to see if Nat’s still there. Still watching. Still caught.

Every glance lands like a needle under skin.

“She’s looking again,” Van says without even glancing up.

“Don’t.”

“She is.”

“I said don’t.”

Van leans in anyway, dramatic as hell. “She’s looking at you like you’re a falling star, and she can’t tell if she’s supposed to catch you or let you burn.”

Natalie tips her head back and stares at the ceiling like it might offer her divine intervention. “I hate her.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I kind of do.”

“Nope.”

“I literally said I do.”

Van just smiles. The kind of smile that says you’re already toast and I’m just here to watch it happen. “I’m just saying, maybe don’t drunk-text her something tragic like, ‘Am I fine to you or fine -fine?’”

Natalie chokes on her own spit. “Why would you even plant that thought in my head?!”

“Because I love you and I know what kind of chaos you’re capable of. I’m your emergency brake tonight.”

Natalie drags her fingers down her face. “I felt like—last night—she saw me. Really saw me. And today she looked at me like I was a browser tab she forgot was open.”

Van leans her head on Natalie’s shoulder, soft and steady. “She’ll figure it out.”

“And if I don’t want to wait?”

“Then don’t.” Van shrugs. “But you will. Because you like her. And because you fall apart in the most poetic ways when you like people.”

Natalie huffs a laugh. It’s jagged, but it counts.

The joint dies in the shot glass graveyard. Her beer’s lukewarm. Her heart’s in the wind somewhere, half-beating, half-begging for a reset.

“You wanna get out of here?” Van asks. “Go home, watch something stupid, let our brains rot gently?”

“Yes,” Natalie says, too fast.

They grab their jackets. Nobody notices them leaving. Not even Jackie. Which is fine.

It has to be.

Natalie repeats that in her head like a rosary as they step out into the cold, which hits her like a slap and a favor all at once.

Van loops their arm through hers. “Let’s watch But I’m A Cheerleader . You need to be reminded that people are idiots and still get happy endings.”

Natalie exhales, shaky but standing. “God. Yeah. That sounds really fucking good.”

They don’t look back.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Natalie’s alone on the rooftop, sitting on the edge like she’s daring gravity to make a move. The city’s lights shimmer around her, blurring through the dried salt of tears she didn’t mean to cry. Her hoodie’s half-zipped over the suit, mask shoved into her pocket like it’s mocking her.

She flips backward off the ledge on impulse—lands in a crouch with barely a sound. Springs into a back handspring just to burn the tension. Lands hard. Stands. Wipes her face. Breathes.

She shouldn’t be here. She should be swinging through alleys or pounding on some guy’s ribs for mugging tourists, doing anything that feels like purpose. Instead, she’s here. Haunting the place they used to talk. The place Jackie once said made the city feel small. Manageable.

Natalie’s fingers twitch at her sides. She wants to climb, jump, vanish.

But she stays.

Because for all the masks she wears, this one—this rooftop—was never just hers. And maybe, stupidly, she’s hoping she won’t be alone for long.

She doesn’t hear the rooftop door creak open—she feels it. The shift in air. The way her shoulders tense like they know who’s behind her before her brain catches up.

Then: “Seriously?”

And yeah, there it is. That voice. Familiar in a way that guts her.

She turns. Slowly. Like if she moves too fast, it won’t be real.
“Didn’t think you’d come up here tonight,” she says, and her voice doesn’t shake, but only because she’s been practicing the lie.

Jackie steps into the space like she owns it. Like they still share it.

They talk. Or argue. Or maybe just bleed in front of each other without the actual wounds. Words hurt worse anyway. Natalie keeps flinching at the ones she’s already played in her head a thousand times. You lied to me. I thought it was real.

She doesn’t try to defend it, not really. Just tells the truth, raw and shaking.

And then—

Jackie kisses her.

Natalie freezes. Then softens. Then melts like a fucking candle.

She kisses back like it’s a reflex. Like breathing. Like all the parts of her that never fit finally click into place. It’s warm. And quiet. And a little desperate.

She’s scared to move when it ends. Scared to say the wrong thing. Scared to say anything at all.

But Jackie doesn’t leave.

Jackie stays.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Natalie watches the rooftop door close behind her, then stares at the spot Jackie just stood like it might still be holding the heat of her.

Her lips are still tingling.

Her knees feel like jelly and her heart is doing a little drum solo against her ribs and—oh. Okay. She’s spiraling. In a good way? In a horrifying way?

She presses both hands to her face and lets out a muffled, feral-sounding noise.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay. Okay. Cool. That was… fine. Normal. Casual.”

It was none of those things.

Her fingers trace her jaw, like her own body might give her answers. But all it gives her is the sensation of Jackie’s hand, soft and certain and there .

Natalie does the only thing that’s ever helped when she feels like this:
She runs.

Sprints straight to the edge of the roof and leaps without hesitation, launching into a clean swing that sends her soaring over the streetlights like a shot of espresso to the soul.

The wind hits her in the teeth. She laughs out loud—short and shocked—and keeps going.

She’s flipping between buildings before she even thinks about it, twisting midair with the kind of reckless glee that used to get her grounded. Her body moves before her thoughts catch up, all instinct and exhilaration and oh-my-God- Jackie-kissed-me .

She parkours off a window ledge. Wall-runs halfway up a water tower. Swings through a billboard gap like she’s trying to outrun her own heartbeat.

She kissed me back.

She lands on a rooftop and immediately hurls herself into a backflip, tucking tight and landing in a perfect crouch that no one will see but still feels worth sticking.

She lets herself fall onto her back, suit still zipped halfway down under her hoodie, chest heaving like she just finished a fight.

But she didn’t.

She won .

There’s something feral and smug curled up in her chest, purring with satisfaction. Not cocky—just… relieved. Like something she’s been waiting for finally clicked into place.

She palms her mask, staring at it. Her reflection in the lenses is a little too flushed, a little too bright-eyed.

“Get it together,” she mutters. But she’s grinning now, wild and breathless and a little in love with the wind.

She’s not running away tonight.
Not from herself.
Not from Jackie.

Just… running. Because she can. Because the city is hers again. Because the world feels a little softer now.

And yeah—maybe it’s stupid.

Maybe it won’t last.

But right now, Natalie’s flipping off rooftops with a smile she can’t wipe off her face, and for once, she doesn’t care how it ends.

Because it started.
And that’s more than she ever let herself want.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Natalie is going to ask Jackie Taylor out.

On a date . Like, with words. Spoken out loud. Using her mouth .

She's going to do it today .

After practice.

Probably.

Maybe.

Hopefully before she throws up from sheer nerves.

She paces her room like it’s a crime scene and she’s the lead investigator trying to reconstruct the series of emotional events that led to this . Her hoodie’s on backwards. There’s an empty bag of chips on her bed. A half-scribbled script on a sticky note that says:

Hey, do you wanna—like, get food? Not just food-food, but like… romantic food? Together? With me?’

She crumples it before Misty sees.

Because Misty cannot know.

Not yet.

If Misty knows, she’ll say something insane like “do you want me to run recon on her for intel?” or worse, “you should double date with me and Elijah from econ—he’s super into aliens.”

Natalie shudders.

She tries to act normal as Misty prattles on about her latest “subtle” efforts to seed misinformation online about Spider-Man’s whereabouts (“I posted a blurry picture of you in New Jersey. You’re welcome.”), but she’s vibrating out of her skin. Her voice cracks when she says “I’m just gonna shower and go to bed early,” which earns a suspicious look.

“You? Voluntarily showering? Who are you trying to impress, Jackie?”

Natalie laughs too loud. “No.”

Misty narrows her eyes. “Wait. Are you blushing?”

“No.”

“You are ! You’re totally—”

“I’m not ,” Natalie snaps, grabbing her towel and fleeing like the couch is on fire.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Her heart’s still racing from running drills.

Or maybe just from Jackie.

Because Jackie looked really good today.

Because Jackie smiled at her during warm-ups and Natalie almost faceplanted into a cone.

Because her brain short-circuits whenever Jackie does anything, and now she’s stuck riding the high-speed rollercoaster of hope, terror, and gay panic with no brakes in sight.

So it’s really no surprise when she blurts, “…Fine. You owe me dinner.”

It takes exactly one second for the words to register.

Another second for the existential dread to slam into her like a truck.

She wants to bite her own tongue off and chuck it straight into the Hudson.

Jackie stares. Blinks. Tilts her head like she’s replaying it in her own mind.

Then, slowly—annoyingly slowly—she says, “Okay.”

Natalie exhales. Possibly out of every pore.

Jackie turns to leave, intending to go with her, but Natalie, apparently still possessed by the spirit of Awkward Ghosts Past, opens her mouth again.

“You really want to go on a date?”

Jackie glances over her shoulder, already smirking. “Yes, really. Text me the details. And maybe… don’t call it ‘romantic food’ next time.”

Natalie groans. “I was nervous.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Jackie says, deadpan, and laces their fingers together before Natalie can recover enough brain cells to respond.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

She lies flat on the rooftop, her hoodie pulled up over her face like she’s trying to hide from the moon.

A date. A date . With Jackie Taylor .

Her legs are still twitchy from practice, but it’s the jittery energy of something good . Something that might be hers.

She stretches one leg up and kicks into a lazy handstand just because she can. Lets the city buzz below her while she balances upside down, hoodie slipping toward her ribs, curls hanging loose.

Everything feels light.

Less like she’s holding her breath. More like she’s learning how to exhale.

She flops back down again, arms flung wide, whispering into the night, “I think I’m in so much trouble.”

And for once, it doesn’t feel like a warning.
It feels like a promise.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

The guy goes down hard—webbed to a streetlamp, unconscious, and hopefully done with the whole carjacking hobby for good.

Natalie swings upward, perching herself on the edge of a building like it’s nothing. Which, okay, it kind of is. At this point, the city feels like an extension of her limbs. Concrete veins. Steel bones. If she had to pick a place to fall apart in, it’d be here.

Static buzzes in her ear, then Misty’s voice crackles through like an overeager game show host.

“Clocked him. That makes three for the night! And hey, maybe stop flirting mid-fight next time?”

Natalie snorts. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Mm,” Van cuts in. “You said, and I quote, ‘Sorry, I’ve got a girlfriend and she’s way hotter than you.’ ”

“She is, ” Natalie argues.

“Not the point,” Van says, dry as hell.

Natalie adjusts her mask and launches across to the next rooftop. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Misty chirps. “But it was the verbal equivalent of writing ‘Jackie’s Girl’ on your forehead in glitter pen.”

Natalie groans. “Can we not roast me over the radio?”

“Oh no,” Van says. “This is the only reason we’re even on the radio.”

Natalie flips over a fire escape, lands on a ledge, and squints at a scuffle two blocks over. Just a mugging. Handled. She doesn’t intervene.

And then, because the air’s clear and the adrenaline’s fading, her brain does the worst possible thing: it drifts.

To her.

To Jackie, grinning like a dumbass during their first date because Natalie accidentally said “my heart did a thing” when Jackie smiled.
To Jackie pressing her forehead to hers after walking her back to her building.
To Jackie whispering, “You’re mine now, huh?”
And Natalie whispering back, “You’re stuck with me.”

She’s smiling under the mask before she can stop herself.

“She’s worried,” Natalie says, out of nowhere. “Jackie. About me getting hurt.”

There’s a pause on the line. Then Van, quieter this time: “You’ve been sneaking around with her for how long now?”

“A few days,” Natalie mutters. “We wanted to… just have it. For ourselves. Before anyone ruined it.”

“You think we’d ruin it?” Misty asks, sounding genuinely offended.

“I think you’d post about it,” Natalie replies.

Misty doesn’t deny it.

“She thinks it’s too dangerous,” Natalie continues. “Us. Me. This life. The mask. All of it.”

“Well, she’s not wrong,” Van says. “But that’s love for you.”

Natalie exhales, watching a pigeon land beside her like it owns the place. “I wanna do something for her. Like, big. A gesture.”

“Romantic or stupid?” Van asks.

“Yes,” Natalie says.

There’s a brief silence on the comms. Then Misty, too chipper to be helpful: “I vote skywriting. Or stealing the Empire State Building and leaving it in her apartment.”

Natalie groans. “I’m being serious.”

“So are we,” Van says. “Kind of.”

“I want her to know I’m in. Like, all the way. That I don’t just care about her—I’m choosing her. Every time. Even if I’m bleeding. Even if I’m scared. Even if it’s hard.”

“Now that’s the romantic food,” Misty mutters.

“Shut up,” Natalie says, but she’s smiling again.

She doesn’t know what the gesture’s gonna be yet. But she’ll figure it out.

She always does.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

She hangs up before she can talk herself out of it.

Her hands are shaking. That probably has more to do with the fact that she just finished rigging a twenty-foot-wide web art installation in front of the Brooklyn Bridge than the phone call, but the phone call definitely didn’t help.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sign your name in blood or something?” Van had asked earlier.

“I think it’s romantic,” Misty said. “Well, terrifying, but romantic. Which is kind of your whole brand.”

Natalie just stared at the finished web, still catching her breath, heart hammering from the drop she took between streetlamps to stretch it into shape. It gleamed when the light hit it—fine threads strung so precisely it almost didn’t look real. And in the middle, cut clean through with control she didn’t know she had:

I SEE YOU.

And under it, spray paint. Messy red heart. Off-center. A little crooked. Hers.

Now she’s ditching the suit, hauling ass into jeans and a hoodie, hair still damp from a five-minute panic shower. Every single nerve in her body is screaming. Her adrenaline is already crashing. She might vomit. Or cry. Or both.

She’s never done this before. Not the fighting, not the danger, not the city-flipping rooftop life—that part’s old news. It’s the other thing. The soft thing.

Choosing someone. Saying it out loud. Letting herself be known.

Jackie had looked at her like she was some kind of question mark at first. Like Natalie was all edges and shadows and “I don’t do feelings.” But then… then she saw her. Actually saw her. And Natalie’s been spiraling ever since.

So now, here she is. Sprinting across wet pavement. Breathing like she just outran a tsunami. Going to meet the girl she loves in front of a romantic crime scene she made out of webbing.

She slows when she spots the crowd. Doesn’t get too close. Just watches from the edge—hood pulled up, hands in pockets, chest tight. Jackie’s standing there, curls a little wild from the breeze, face lit up like someone painted her into the frame.

Natalie forgets how to breathe.

Then Jackie turns.

Soft footsteps. Eye contact. Heart in throat.

“Hey,” Natalie says.

Jackie smiles like that’s all she needed to hear. Like that’s the whole movie.

And when Jackie teases her— you webbed a love note to a bridge —Natalie leans into it, into the sarcasm, into the safety of them, because that’s the only way she knows how to survive vulnerability: by flirting with it until it flirts back.

But then Jackie’s in her arms. And Natalie’s holding her like she might disappear.

Later, walking under the streetlamp, Jackie’s hand in hers, Natalie stares at her for a long second and thinks, I would burn the whole city down for you.

But instead, she just says, “You’re not scared?”

And when Jackie answers, honest and unflinching—I’m terrified. But I’m in love with you—Natalie stops thinking altogether.

She kisses her.

Not because she planned it. Not because it fits the moment.

Because she has to.

Because it’s the only thing big enough to contain what she’s feeling.

And when Jackie melts into it, Natalie feels herself settle for the first time in her entire life.

No rooftops. No webs. No mask. Just this.

Just them.

Their kiss is soft. Warm. Jackie sighs into it, fingers tugging gently at Natalie’s jacket, grounding herself like she might actually float away otherwise. And Natalie leans in like she’s finally figured it out—how to be someone’s girlfriend, how to let herself want this.

It’s quiet, and it’s not flashy, and it’s not meant for anyone else to see.

But it’s theirs.

They pull apart just slightly, noses brushing. Jackie’s still smiling, eyes glassy in the soft light. Natalie swallows, suddenly aware of how fast her heart is beating. How her palms are sweating. How her brain is still very much broken by the fact that Jackie Taylor is, in fact, kissing her.

“I think my lungs stopped working,” she blurts.

Jackie blinks, then laughs. “Is that… a compliment?”

“Yeah,” Natalie says, nodding solemnly. “Top-tier smooching. Highly lethal.”

Jackie rolls her eyes, but the smile doesn’t fade. “You’re such a dork.”

Natalie grins, all teeth. “Your dork.”

And that’s how they walk off—hand in hand, hearts full, and absolutely no chance Natalie’s ever living that line down.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚