It felt less like a breakup and more like something had been quietly removed from her life while she wasn’t paying attention — like she’d walked into a room and someone had taken all the furniture out, and now everything echoed when she moved. She kept reaching for her phone to text you, kept thinking I should tell her this, I should send her that video, I should ask if she ate, and then she’d remember she couldn’t anymore. Or she shouldn’t.

So she stopped trying to think about it.

Instead, she filled every single second of her life with something else.

She went out every night now. She would stay out until three in the morning, sometimes later. She would swing through the city until her shoulders burned and her hands felt raw inside her gloves. She’d pick fights she didn’t need to pick, chase people longer than she needed to, throw herself into situations that were messier and more dangerous than anything she would’ve touched before. Before, she always had this voice in the back of her head telling her to be careful because she had to go see you tomorrow, because she couldn’t show up with a split lip or cracked ribs without you asking questions.

Now since there was no one asking questions, she stopped being careful altogether.

She’d get home around three or four in the morning, peel the suit off her sore body, look at the bruises forming along her ribs or the scrapes on her face in the bathroom mirror, and she wouldn’t even really react anymore. She’d shower, collapse into bed, sleep for three hours, wake up at seven for skating practice, push through two hours on the ice with sore muscles and a heavy head, go to class until four in the afternoon, come home, sleep for another three hours, and then wake up and do it all over again.

It was a vicious cycle, and she had no intention of breaking it. Because before, she used to break her routine for you. She used to skip patrol sometimes because you wanted to watch a movie. She used to call a night session early because you had an early class and she wanted to walk you to class. She used to go to sleep at a normal time because you were staying over and she didn’t want to disappear in the middle of the night.

Now there was nothing tying her to that normal life anymore. So she stopped trying to live like a normal person.

She started living like the suit was the only real thing about her.

In the three weeks after the breakup, Alysa got more bruises than she had in the entire ten months she was with you. Her suit was torn more times and, in turn, fingers pricked more from how bad at sewing she is. Her knuckles were always scraped, her shoulders always sore, and there was a cut on the side of her face that kept reopening because she didn’t give it enough time to heal before she was back out again.

But the physical pain didn’t really matter. What mattered was that when she was out there, swinging through the city, chasing someone, fighting someone, saving someone — she didn’t have to think.

When she stopped moving, when she was alone in her apartment, when the city got quiet and there was nothing left to do and nowhere left to go, that’s when it hit her. That’s when her chest would start to feel tight, like something heavy was sitting on it. That’s when her heart would feel like it was sinking somewhere lower in her body. That’s when her throat would close up and her eyes would start burning before she even realized she was about to cry.

And she hated crying.

She would sit on the edge of her bed sometimes, still in sweatpants and a hoodie, hands hanging between her knees, staring at the floor, and all she could think about was the last time she saw you. The way you looked at her when you said you couldn’t do this anymore. The way you didn’t yell. The way you didn’t accuse her of anything. You just looked tired. Disappointed. Like you had already mourned the relationship while you were still in it.

You told her you still loved her which was the worst part. You didn’t break up with her because you stopped loving her. You broke up with her because she stopped showing up. And she couldn’t even argue with that.

So now, when she sat alone with her thoughts, she just hurt.

It was worse than anything physical she’d ever felt; worse than broken ribs, worse than sprained ankles, worse than getting thrown into a brick wall by someone twice her size. Physical pain made sense. Physical pain had a cause and an end and a way to heal.

This didn’t.

This just sat in her chest and stayed there.

She blamed herself for all of it. For being bad at time management. For thinking she could be Spider-Man and a full-time student and a competitive skater and a good girlfriend at the same time. For thinking she could keep secrets forever and it wouldn’t eventually break something.

She didn’t mean to push you away. She didn’t even realize she was doing it until you were already gone.

And now she would be swinging across the city at two in the morning, landing on some random rooftop, breathing hard, looking out over the lights, and her brain would suddenly go quiet for half a second — and in that half second, she’d think about you.

About the way you used to sit on her fire escape and read. About the way you used to fall asleep on her shoulder on the subway. About the way you used to grab her hand without thinking when you crossed the street. About the way you used to look at her like she was the most important person in the room.

And then she would jump off the building and swing again because if she stopped moving, she would have to sit with the fact that she had all of that and she let it fall apart anyway.

She didn’t stop going out at night anymore because fighting strangers hurt a lot less than missing you.

———

You didn’t handle the breakup the way Alysa did.

You didn’t fill every second with noise and movement and exhaustion so you wouldn’t have to think. You didn’t run from it. You did the opposite, actually — you sat in it. You let it sit on your chest and press down until it was hard to breathe, because somewhere along the way, probably during one of the many nights you helped Alysa study for psych exams, you learned that avoiding feelings just made them stay longer.

So you let yourself feel everything. And it was awful.

Most nights, you cried yourself to sleep. Not dramatic crying, not loud sobbing, just quiet tears that wouldn’t stop once they started. You’d lay on your side facing the wall, eyes open in the dark, and the tears would just slip down into your pillow while your brain replayed every conversation, every cancelled plan, every time Alysa said “I’m busy tonight” like it was normal.

You didn’t go out much anymore. You stopped seeing friends, stopped really talking to anyone, and instead focused on school. Now, you only left your apartment for class, and to buy food when you ran out of groceries. Otherwise, you stayed in your apartment, sitting at your desk, on your bed, on the floor, wherever you happened to land when the sadness hit the hardest. Sometimes, after school and work, you’d just sit there for hours thinking about the same three questions over and over again like if you thought about them enough, they would eventually change.

Why wasn’t I enough? What could I have done to make her choose me?When did it actually go wrong?

You kept thinking there had to be a specific moment. A specific day where something shifted and you didn’t notice until it was too late. You convinced yourself there must have been a reason she pulled away, a reason she stopped showing up, a reason she didn’t fight harder when you finally said you couldn’t do it anymore.

Because that was the part that hurt the most.

Not that she was busy. Not that she had skating or classes or whatever else she did at night. But that when you told her you felt like you were losing her, she didn’t fight for you the way you thought she would.

You thought she’d argue. You thought she’d say you were wrong. You thought she’d promise to do better, promise to make time, promise that you were still important.

Instead, she just looked at you like she already knew this was coming. And then she let you go.

You told yourself if she had just shown up that night — your ten month anniversary — everything would’ve been fine. You had already decided you weren’t going to start a fight that night. You were just going to talk to her, tell her you missed her, tell her you needed more from her, tell her you didn’t want to break up, you just wanted to feel like you were still her girlfriend. If she had shown up that night, you were almost certain you’d still be together.

But deep down, you also knew the breakup wasn’t just about one night. It was about weeks and weeks of feeling like you were at the bottom of her priority list. It was about making plans and then pretending you weren’t disappointed when she cancelled. It was about sitting in your apartment alone while your girlfriend was somewhere else and you didn’t even know where. It was about loving someone who was always half somewhere else.

You couldn’t live like that forever.

So now you were trying to heal.

You told yourself this was good. That you needed to learn how to be independent again. That you needed to remember who you were before you were someone’s girlfriend. You were too studious, too focused, too careful about your future to start going out every night and drink your feelings away. You had perfect grades and an internship you worked too hard to get. You had a career you were building piece by piece, and you weren't going to ruin that because your heart hurt. You tried to build little routines — making coffee in the morning, going on short walks, doing your assignments early, keeping your apartment clean. Small things that made you feel like you still had control over your life.

But there were landmines everywhere. Like the hoodie she left in your apartment. It was still hanging on the back of one of your chairs because you couldn’t bring yourself to move it. Sometimes you’d walk past it and be fine, and other times you’d stop and pick it up and hold it for a second and then suddenly you couldn’t breathe because it still smelled like her detergent and her shampoo and something that was just Alysa.

Or the little heart she carved into the inside of your kitchen cabinet one night when you were both drunk and laughing and she said she wanted to leave proof that she was there. You’d open the cabinet to grab a mug and see that tiny crooked heart scratched into the wood and it would feel like someone pressed on a bruise inside your chest.

Music was the worst though. Every single song somehow became about her. Happy songs, sad songs, songs you’d never even listened to before — suddenly every lyric sounded like something you wanted to say to her or something she should have said to you. So eventually you just stopped listening to music altogether. Silence hurt less than hearing a song that reminded you of the way she used to hum under her breath when she was cooking or the way she used to tap her fingers on your arm in rhythm when you walked together.

You were trying to move forward. You really were.

But healing mostly looked like sitting on your bed in a quiet apartment, holding a hoodie that wasn’t yours, staring at a tiny carved heart in a cabinet, and missing someone who was still alive, still in the same city, still only a few subway stops away but felt like she was on the other side of the world.

———

Four weeks passed, and Alysa still hadn’t figured out how to exist in a world where you weren’t hers anymore.

She told herself she was getting better, that the constant ache in her chest had dulled into something manageable, but that wasn’t really true. She just got into the habit of being busy. Busy enough that she didn’t have to sit still and feel it all the time. She still barely slept, still went out every night, still pushed herself too hard at practice and then pushed herself harder on patrol like she was trying to outrun something that lived inside her own head.

About a week ago, she started patrolling your neighborhood more.

She told herself it was just because she knew the area well. Because she knew the deli owners, knew which streets were quiet and which ones got weird after midnight. Because if she was going to patrol somewhere regularly, it might as well be somewhere familiar. That was the excuse she told herself.

The truth was much simpler and worse — she just wanted to be near you.

Sometimes she’d sit on a rooftop across from your building and watch the light in your apartment turn on and off. Sometimes she’d see you sitting at your desk, or walking around in sweatpants with your hair tied up, or standing in your kitchen making something. Sometimes she’d follow from a distance when you walked to class, staying high enough and far enough that you’d never notice, just making sure you got there safely. She wasn’t your girlfriend anymore, but she still couldn’t stop herself from making sure you were okay.

Tonight she wasn’t directly across from your apartment. She was a few blocks over, sitting on the edge of a rooftop with a bottle of Gatorade in her hand, mask pushed up just enough so she could drink. The city stretched out in front of her, lights blinking, cars moving in slow lines below, and for once her thoughts weren’t all painful. Some of them were stupid, like wondering if her professor might cancel class tomorrow because it was Earth Day and he seemed like the type of guy who would do that.

She took another sip of the Gatorade and leaned back on her hands, letting the cool night air hit her face. Then she heard the crash.

It was loud enough that it echoed between the buildings; metal crunching, glass shattering, people yelling. Her head snapped toward the sound immediately, mask already sliding back down over her face as she stood up and looked toward the street.

A van had crashed straight into the front of a deli.

It wasn't just any deli. It was that deli.

The one she saved you in front of when a car almost crashed into you. It was the one you used to go to all the time because it was so close to your apartment, where you and Alysa would go at midnight for snacks and the owner would always give you extra chips because he said you two were “good kids.” The one where the owner knew both of your names.

Alysa didn’t think. She just jumped. She landed hard on the street and ran toward the deli, trying to look inside through the broken glass to see if anyone was hurt. She was about to step through the shattered doorway when her senses went off — that sharp, electric warning that something behind her was about to go very wrong.

She spun around just in time to grab a man’s wrist as he swung at her, twisting his arm and slamming him onto the pavement before webbing his hands and feet together in one quick movement. But before she could even stand up fully, something slammed hard against her back — a wooden plank—swung with enough force to knock the air out of her lungs. She stumbled forward slightly, vision blurring for a second, then turned around and yanked the plank out of the second guy’s hands before kicking his legs out from under him.

And that’s when she saw them. More men were climbing out of the van. Five or six. This wasn’t an accident, this wasn’t a random crash. This was a setup.

She straightened slowly, rolling her shoulders, trying to ignore the way her back already hurt from the hit.

“You guys really shouldn’t do this,” she said, voice filtered through the mask. “Like, I’m actually very tired tonight and this feels like a lot.”

One of them lunged at her before she even finished the sentence.

The fight was messy and loud and fast. She moved on instinct, dodging punches, shooting webs, flipping over shoulders, slamming one guy into the side of the van, kicking another in the chest hard enough to send him sliding across the pavement. One by one, she took them down, tying hands and feet, sticking them to walls, the pavement, the side of the van.

By the time it was just the last guy standing, she was breathing hard. Her shoulders burned, her back hurt, and she was more tired than she realized. Her senses were slower now, just a fraction of a second off but that was enough.

The last guy pulled a gun and fired before she could fully move out of the way. The bullet grazed her side, tearing through the suit and skin along her ribs in a deep, burning line that made her gasp and stagger slightly. She shot a web anyway, yanking the gun out of his hand and slamming him into the ground before tying him up with the rest.

Then it was quiet.

She stood there for a second, breathing hard, then pressed a hand to her side and looked down. Blood was already soaking through the torn part of the suit. “Great,” she muttered annoyed.

She pushed the pain aside and walked into the deli, helping the owner out from behind the counter. He looked shaken but not hurt, and he immediately started thanking her and calling the police.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, looking at her side. “You need a hospital.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly.

“You are not fine,” he insisted. “You are bleeding a lot.”

“I can’t stay,” she said. “I have to go.”

She tried to lift her arm to shoot a web, but the movement pulled at the wound and pain shot across her ribs so sharply she had to stop. Swinging was not going to happen right now.

More and more people were coming out of their buildings, gathering on the sidewalk, phones out, pointing, whispering. She needed to leave. So she started walking fast, head down, pushing through the crowd, ignoring the murmurs and the looks and the blood slowly running down her side. She turned the corner onto a quieter street, one that was mostly empty, and finally let out a long breath she’d been holding.

But the street wasn’t totally empty.

You were standing there.

You had probably heard the crash too, probably walked toward the noise like you always did when something happened in the neighborhood. You were standing on the sidewalk, jacket pulled around you, looking toward the main street and then you turned your head and saw her.

You froze and she froze.

For a second, neither of you moved. The streetlight above you cast a soft yellow glow over the sidewalk, and she realized you were closer than you’d been in weeks. Close enough that if she took two steps forward, she could touch you.

You looked at her side immediately, at the dark stain spreading across the suit. “You’re hurt,” you said.

She shook her head automatically. “It’s nothing.”

“That is not nothing,” you said, already stepping closer. “You’re bleeding.”

“I said I’m fine,” she repeated, but her voice came out tighter than she meant it to.

You stopped in front of her, looking up at her mask, and for a second she forgot how to breathe. You were so close. Closer than you’d been since the night you broke up.

“You need help,” you said quietly.

“I don’t,” she replied. “I just need to get out of here.”

You didn’t move out of her way. Instead, you said softly, “You always show up when I’m in trouble.”

She swallowed hard behind the mask.

“And now you’re the one bleeding,” you continued. “So let me help you.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t know how to be Spider-Man in front of you when all she wanted to do was be Alysa and let you take care of her the way you used to when she came home with bruises and cuts and pretended they didn’t hurt.

So she just stood there, bleeding through the suit, looking down at you like you were the only thing in the world that still made sense.

Alysa told herself she was only going to your apartment because she was hurt. Because she couldn’t swing properly. Because she was bleeding and she couldn’t risk someone else stopping her on the street and asking questions or calling an ambulance or doing anything that would make this situation worse. That was the logical reason, the practical reason.

By this point, Alysa was getting very good at lying to herself. Because she wasn't actually going for those reasons, she was going because she missed you.

She missed you so badly that standing on that quiet street, bleeding through her suit while you looked at her with concern instead of anger, she physically could not say no to you. Not when you said, “Come on,” and reached for her wrist like it was the most natural thing in the world. Not when your hand wrapped around her arm and you started walking toward your building like you hadn’t broken her heart four weeks ago and like she hadn’t walked away.

She let you pull her along, quiet, trying to ignore the way her chest felt tight for a completely different reason now.

When you opened the door to your apartment and stepped inside, she followed slowly, looking around like she was stepping into a memory she didn’t belong in anymore. Not much had changed. The same blanket was thrown over the couch, the same candle burned on the coffee table, your desktop was on with a Word document open like you had just stepped away for a second. But some things were different — the shelves looked rearranged, your desk was cleaner, a few things had been moved around. It looked like the same apartment, just slightly adjusted to a life that didn’t include her anymore.

You didn’t let go of her wrist the entire time you led her straight into the kitchen and pushed her gently down into one of the chairs at the table. The moment she sat, she hissed slightly as her side pulled painfully, and you immediately disappeared under the sink and came back with a first aid kit.

You didn’t say anything for a minute. You just opened the kit and started pulling things out — gloves, gauze, antiseptic wipes, a small bottle of saline, medical tape. You grabbed a clean rag, ran it under warm water, wrung it out, and then crouched down in front of her, practically kneeling so you were eye level with her ribs.

She watched you the entire time.

You put the gloves on first, snapping them into place, then gently peeled the torn fabric of her suit away from the wound. The bullet had grazed her side in a long, angry line, not deep enough to lodge but deep enough to bleed a lot and sting like hell.

“This is going to hurt,” you said quietly.

“I’ve had worse,” she replied.

You didn’t respond. You just took the damp rag and gently wiped away the blood first, cleaning the area so you could actually see the wound. Then you poured a little saline over the cut to rinse out any dirt or debris, your movements careful and slow so you didn’t hurt her more than necessary. After that, you used an antiseptic wipe, pressing it lightly along the wound to disinfect it. She tensed when it stung, and your other hand automatically came up to steady her side, fingers resting lightly against her waist through the suit.

“What happened?” you asked quietly, still focused on the wound.

“A van crashed into the deli on the corner,” she said. “Some of the guys jumped me.”

Your head snapped up immediately. “The deli? Diego usually works the night shifts. Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Alysa said quickly. “I got him out. He’s down there waiting for the police.”

You exhaled in relief and nodded, then went back to the wound. You placed sterile gauze over it, pressing gently to stop the bleeding, then taped it down carefully so it would stay in place. It was quiet for a while after that. Just the sound of you opening packages and adjusting tape and her breathing slowly through the pain.

She couldn’t stand the silence. “How do you know how to do all this?” she asked.

You huffed a small laugh, but then your face changed slightly — softer, sadder. “My… my ex-girlfriend is a figure skater,” you said slowly. “So I would have to help patch her up when she’d cut her legs when she fell or when she’d have to grab the blade in a spin but miss and cut her hands. After like the third night of not really knowing what the actual steps were, I decided to take some first aid class and they taught us everything.”

Alysa felt like the air got knocked out of her chest.

Of course you would take a first aid class for her. Of course you would do that quietly and never tell her and just show up with bandages and antiseptic like it was normal. That was how your love always was; quiet, practical, constant. And she had taken all of it for granted.

You finished taping the gauze down and finally looked up at her, and for a second neither of you said anything. You were so close to her, still crouched between her knees, your face only inches from hers, and she had to physically stop herself from reaching out and touching your face, your hair, your shoulder, anything.

But she didn’t move.

You stood up finally and walked to the sink, threw your gloves out and any wrappers, and grabbed a glass of water, filling it and handing it to her. She took it but hesitated, realizing she couldn’t lift her mask in front of you.

You realized immediately so without saying anything, you lifted your hands and covered your eyes, turning your back to her. “I’m not looking,” you said.

She actually smiled under the mask at that before lifting it just enough to drink the water quickly, then pulling it back down.

Still with your back towards her, you leaned against the counter. “Has the city been quiet?” you asked.

She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” you said, “it must be quiet because you seem to be doing really random things lately.”

“Like what?” she asked carefully.

"Well," You sighed slightly. “Walking me to and from class doesn’t really count as helping the city.”

She froze.

You laughed a little when she didn’t respond. “I don't know, maybe someone’s impersonating you in a red and blue suit sitting on buildings,” you said. "I think you were pretty inconspicuous, but I don’t know… it’s kind of like I can feel you sometimes and know when you’re near.”

She exhaled slowly. There was no getting out of this.

You shrugged your shoulders. “Don’t worry,” you said. “I don’t mind, really. It’s nice to know someone cares enough to have my back. I was just wondering why.”

She stood up slowly and walked over to you. She gently reached up and pulled your hands away from your face so you’d look at her. Your eyes opened and met the white lenses of the mask. She stood close enough now that she could see the small freckles across your nose, the slight dark circles under your eyes, the way you looked healthier than you did two weeks ago but still a little tired.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” she said quietly. “I just… care.”

You nodded slowly, a small smile forming, but you didn’t say anything else.

“I should go,” she said.

“If you’re going to keep watching,” you said quickly, “next time you should actually stop by instead of being a stalker.”

She let out a quiet laugh and nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You were still standing very close to her, enough that she could reach out and hold your waist like she used to, like her hands were practically aching to do. But she didn’t move.

Instead, you leaned up slightly and placed another soft kiss on her cheek over the mask, just like you did the last time.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For saving my friend. Diego’s my favorite deli owner. Can’t replace him.”

Her hands twitched at her sides, every part of her wanting to pull you closer and not let you go again. It was almost painful how much she wanted to touch you. How much she missed the simple act of holding you, standing next to you, existing in the same space without pretending to be someone else. But she knew if she touched you, she wouldn’t be able to leave.

So she just nodded. “Take care of yourself,” she said quietly.

You stepped back, giving her space, and she moved toward the window and climbed out onto the fire escape. She paused for just a second before climbing up toward the roof, then shot a web into the night and disappeared between the buildings.

And the entire way back to her apartment, all she could think about was how being in your apartment again felt more like home than her own did.

———

You didn’t expect moving on to feel like this.

You thought it would be clean, in a way. Painful, yes, but straightforward — you break up, you cry, you miss them, and then slowly you miss them less. That’s what people always said, like heartbreak was a timeline you just had to survive long enough to get through.

But no one really talked about what happened if you still loved someone and started liking someone else at the same time.

That part made you feel like a terrible person.

You missed Alysa constantly. Not in the dramatic, crying-every-hour way anymore — that phase had mostly passed — but in small, quiet ways that were almost worse. You’d see something stupid on your phone and instinctively think I should send this to her, and then remember you couldn’t. You’d walk past the deli —and later reconstruction —and expect to see her leaning against the counter waiting for you. You’d hear someone laugh in a way that sounded like her and your head would turn automatically before you could stop yourself.

But life did move on, whether you wanted it to or not. You started getting used to being alone again. You started making your own routines. You went to class, finally reached out to friends, made dinner, watched something, did homework, went to sleep. You weren’t happy exactly, but you were… okay. Functional and stable. You weren’t crying every night anymore. You weren’t checking your phone hoping she’d text. You were learning how to exist without expecting someone to show up.

Which was why Spider-Man showing up started messing with your head.

The first time you noticed him watching from a building across the street, you weren’t even sure it was him. Just a figure, red and blue against the skyline, sitting on the edge of a roof like he had nowhere else to be. You didn’t think much of it. But then the next day, walking back from class, you saw him again on a different building. And the day after that. And the day after that.

You started to get this strange feeling sometimes when you walked home — like someone was nearby, not in a creepy way, not in a someone is following me way, but in a way that made you feel… safe. Like if something bad happened, someone would step in before it got worse. And after weeks of feeling like you weren’t being chosen, like you were always second to something else, having someone go out of their way to be there — even if it was just sitting on a building watching the street — was incredibly comforting.

You tried not to think too hard about it. But then you started noticing other things.

He wasn’t that tall. Slightly taller than you but not towering over you like most of the guys in the city. He wasn’t bulky either, not built like a bodybuilder — just lean, like someone who moved a lot and didn’t waste energy on unnecessary muscle. He moved fast, but when he stood still, he was surprisingly calm. And the way he talked — the little sarcastic comments, the way his voice would soften sometimes when he asked if you were okay, the way he’d pause before answering certain questions — it was… attractive. You didn’t want it to be, but it was.

The voice changer threw you off at first. The deeper voice felt unnatural sometimes, like it didn’t quite match the way he moved or the way he talked, or what you were even used to. But you told yourself that was normal. Of course he’d disguise his voice. Of course he wouldn’t sound like himself.

And then there was the worst part. He cared. He literally said so in your kitchen. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I just… care.

No one had said something like that to you in a long time and actually followed through on it.

So now you were dealing with this horrible, complicated mess of feelings where you were still very much in love with Alysa, still missed her, still sometimes looked at your phone hoping she’d text and at the same time, you were starting to develop a crush on Spider-Man, which made you feel guilty and confused and kind of like you were betraying someone who wasn’t even your girlfriend anymore.

You kept telling yourself, You’re not together anymore. You’re allowed to move on. You’re allowed to like someone else. But it didn’t feel that simple because you didn’t stop loving Alysa. You just stopped being with her.

And now Spider-Man started showing up more. At first, you’d wake up in the morning and see a little web stuck to your window spelling out “hi” in messy webbing. You’d laugh and peel it off before leaving for class. Then it turned into him actually sitting on a building across the street and waving when you noticed him. And then eventually, after about two weeks of this weird routine, he finally landed on your fire escape again.

You opened the window immediately. “Do you want to come in?” you asked.

He hesitated for a second, like he wasn’t sure if that was a good idea, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

He climbed in and landed lightly on your floor, and suddenly he was in your apartment again and standing way too close to you again because for some reason every time the two of you were in the same room, personal space just stopped existing.

Before you could even say anything else, he said, “Can I use your bathroom?”

You blinked. “Yeah, of course.”

And then he immediately started walking down the hall like he knew exactly where it was.

You frowned slightly. “Oh uh, the bathroom’s that way.”

He stopped mid-step, then turned slightly. “Right. Yeah. I remember from last time. I saw it there. Thanks.” He walked quickly down the hall and disappeared into the bathroom.

You stood there in the living room suddenly very aware of yourself. You walked over to the mirror and checked your hair, smoothing it down a little, then adjusted your shirt, then grabbed a small bottle of perfume from your desk and sprayed just a little on your wrists and neck before you could overthink it. You were nervous. Which was ridiculous. He was literally a masked vigilante who jumped off buildings for fun and you were nervous about your hair.

When he came back out, you were standing in the living room pretending you hadn’t just checked your reflection three times.

“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, of course,” you said. “I bet it’s annoying having to wear a one-piece all the time.”

He laughed quietly. “You have no idea.”

“So,” you said, shifting your weight slightly. “Do you want to sit? Or I can get you some water or something.”

He hesitated. You could see it, the way he shifted slightly, like he did want to stay, but was trying to convince himself he shouldn’t.

“Oh,” he said. “Uh. I should probably just head out.”

You stood up and walked a little closer to him, closing the distance without really thinking about it. “Right,” you said. “Of course. Busy, probably.”

He went very still when you got close. Then he took a small step back. And something about that step back felt like a wall going up instantly.

“Right,” he said again, voice suddenly more distant. “Bye.”

And before you could say anything else, he turned and climbed back out the window and was gone almost immediately. You stood there in your living room for a long moment, staring at the open window, feeling strangely disappointed.

You didn’t know that across the street, perched on a rooftop, Spider-Man was sitting with his hands on his head, annoyed and jealous and hurt all at the same time because he smelled your perfume and saw the way you were looking at him and realized you were starting to like Spider-Man in a way that you used to like Alysa.

And the worst part was, he couldn’t even blame you.

———

Alysa had never been a jealous person before you.

Not really. She’d never cared enough, never felt like she had something she could actually lose. But losing you did something ugly to her, something she didn’t like admitting even to herself. The jealousy sat low in her chest like a constant irritation, especially every time she thought about you and Spider-Man in the same sentence.

It was irrational and she knew it. You weren’t her girlfriend anymore. You were allowed to move on. You were allowed to like someone else, date someone else, kiss someone else if you wanted to. She had no claim to you anymore. But the problem was she still loved you.

And in her head, it felt like she had lost you to another person while still being that other person at the same time, which was such a ridiculous, impossible situation that it made her angry just thinking about it. Angry at Spider-Man. Angry at herself. Angry at the whole stupid situation that she created by not telling you the truth in the first place.

So she stopped going to your apartment as Spider-Man.

She forced herself to put distance between you and that suit, hoping that if Spider-Man disappeared for a while, whatever feelings you were starting to build would fade out. She told herself it was the right thing to do. That if she wanted any chance with you again, she needed to stop competing with herself first.

By mid-May, she had made up her mind. She wanted you back.

She had spent weeks thinking about everything she did wrong, every time she canceled plans, every time she chose patrol over dinner, every time she said “I’m busy” instead of “I’ll make time.” She had organized every thought, every apology, every promise she was going to make if you just gave her another chance.

So she showed up to your graduation.

She stood far away at first, watching from across the lawn while families took pictures and people laughed and hugged and threw their caps in the air. She spotted you easily in the crowd with your cap slightly tilted, gown open in the front, smiling in that way you did when you were overwhelmed but happy. Your family was around you, all dressed nicely in suits and dresses, looking proud and put together.

And then there was Alysa, littered in cuts and bruises. Loose white button-up, black jeans, and a red sweater she had taken off once the sun started to make the weather feel hotter than it was and tied around her shoulders like a cape because she thought it made her look slightly more dressed up. This was the fanciest she had dressed in years and she still looked like she had wandered into the ceremony by accident.

She watched you for a long time before finally walking over.

Your dad noticed her first. His face immediately tightened and he looked her up and down with open disapproval. Your mom sighed quietly, her hand resting on your back like she already knew what was about to happen.

Then you turned around and saw her. Your eyes went wide and for a second neither of you moved. You hadn’t seen each other face to face in two months, not without a mask, not without distance, not without pretending to be someone else.

Alysa cleared her throat slightly and forced herself to be polite. “Hi,” she said, looking at your parents first. “Mr. and Mrs. — congratulations. She worked really hard.”

Your dad didn’t respond, just looked away. Your mom gave a small nod and a faint smile. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Then Alysa looked at you. “Can we talk for a minute?”

Your parents looked at you immediately, like they were silently hoping you’d say no.

You hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Okay.”

You walked with her away from the crowd, toward a quieter area near a tree where people weren’t taking photos. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You could hear distant cheering and cameras clicking and people laughing, but here it was quiet.

Alysa spoke first. “Congratulations,” she said. “Seriously. I’m really proud of you.”

“Thank you,” you said softly, a sad little smile on your face.

She shoved her hands into her pockets, then pulled them out again like she didn’t know what to do with them. “I’m really sorry,” she said suddenly. “For how things ended. For… everything, honestly. The last two months have been hell for me. I miss you. I still love you. And I know I messed up, I know I did, but I can be better. It’s summer now, we don’t have classes, skating season is over, I have more time, I can be there for you more. I can actually show up this time. Please.”

She sounded like a complete loser and she knew it, but she didn’t care. Pride didn’t matter anymore.

You reached out and took her hands. The moment your fingers wrapped around hers, she squeezed automatically, like her body had been waiting two months just to touch you again. She didn’t even realize how tight she was holding until you shifted slightly closer.

You looked at her for a long moment before speaking. “Things are complicated right now.”

“It’s really not,” she said quickly. “I swear it’s not. I have more time now, I can be here, I love you.”

You closed your eyes for a second, like that sentence physically hurt to hear. When you opened them again, your voice was quieter.

“I know you do,” you said. “And I love you. But I can’t be with you.”

Her stomach dropped. “Why not?” she asked. “How is this complicated? We both still have feelings for each other.”

You hesitated, then said quietly, “Because I have feelings for someone else too.”

The jealousy hit her instantly — hot and ugly and immediate. “Who?” she asked.

You shook your head. “I can’t tell you.”

“No, tell me who,” she said, voice getting sharper now.

“You wouldn’t understand,” you said. “I can’t tell you.”

And then it all started coming back to her. The way you looked at Spider-Man and put on that perfume and fixed your hair to impress him. The way you’d talk about him before and how now you won't give a name.

This was about him. You were talking about him.

She actually laughed once, but there was nothing funny about it. “Are you kidding me?” she said. “Are you seriously in love with fucking Spider-Man?”

You blushed immediately and looked around like you were checking if anyone could hear. That was enough confirmation for her.

“He’s a nobody,” she said, voice rising. “You don’t know him. You don’t know anything about him. How the fuck do you fall in love with someone you know absolutely nothing about?”

You tried to pull your hands out of her grip now because she was holding too tight. “Alysa, let go.” She didn’t even realize she was squeezing until you winced. “Ow, Lys, you’re hurting me.”

She dropped your hands immediately. “I'm-I'm sorry,” she muttered, stepping back.

Now you were annoyed too. “What I do in my personal life is none of your business anymore, Alysa. We broke up. And I’m sorry, I really am. I wish this wasn’t as complicated as it is, but I can’t be with you right now and be lying to myself to make you happy. I need to go.” You turned and started walking back toward your family.

“No, wait,” she said quickly. “Please.” But you just shook your head and kept walking.

She stood there watching you go, feeling something heavy and angry and miserable all at once. Her jaw was tight, her hands clenched, and she didn’t even know who she was angrier at — Spider-Man, for stealing you, or herself, for being Spider-Man in the first place.

The worst part was, she couldn’t even punch the guy who took you from her. He was her.

———

Alysa was angry in a way that made her stupid.

Not loud angry, not the kind that came out as yelling or throwing things or dramatic declarations. It was worse than that. It was the kind of anger that sat under her skin and made every movement sharper, every thought meaner, every impulse harder to control. This was messy anger, emotional anger. It sat in her chest and made her hands shake and her jaw hurt from clenching it too hard. Seeing you earlier that day, hearing you say you loved her but couldn’t be with her, hearing you admit you had feelings for someone else — for Spider-Man — had twisted something in her head that she couldn’t untangle. This type of anger was the kind that made her want to hit something just to feel the impact of it somewhere outside herself.

She knew she shouldn’t have gone out like this. She knew it before she even put the suit on. Knew it when she pulled the mask down over her face and looked at herself in the mirror, chest still tight from the way you had looked at her that afternoon, from the way you said I love you and I can’t be with you in the same breath, from the way she’d had to stand there and hear you admit you had feelings for someone else when that someone else was still, somehow, her.

It didn’t matter. She went out anyway because that's what she always did when she didn't know what to do with her emotions. She went out and fought. Once she was in the city, it didn’t take much.

A drunk guy outside a bar in the East Village, loud and stumbling and grabbing too close at women trying to brush past him. Normally Alysa would have swung down, cracked a few jokes, webbed his wrists, scared him enough to make him stop. She was normally quick, efficient. Controlled.

Tonight she hit him. Not once. Not just enough to get him off someone. She hit him and then kept hitting him, each punch landing harder than the last, all the humiliation and hurt and jealousy from earlier pouring out through her fists because this was easier than saying I still love you and hearing that it didn’t matter. The guy went from drunk and mouthy to dazed and defensive within seconds, hands up trying to protect his face, and Alysa just kept going because in that moment he wasn’t really him at all. He was every helpless thing she hated in herself. Every moment she’d been too late. Every version of herself that chose wrong.

“I thought Spider-Man was s'posed to be friendly!” someone shouted from the sidewalk.

That snapped her out of it. Not completely, not cleanly, but enough.

She stepped back and let the guy crumple to the pavement, breathing hard through the mask, fists clenched, shoulders tight. The crowd was staring now, not with admiration, not with relief. With caution, with that quiet shift of public feeling she knew too well. The line between hero and threat was always thinner than people thought. Alysa looked around once, chest heaving, then shot a web into the dark and ripped herself away before anyone could say anything else.

She swung hard after that. Fast, reckless, not really looking where she was going so much as letting instinct pull her through the city. Every block she crossed just made her feel meaner. The thoughts kept circling. She loves you but can’t be with you. She wants Spider-Man. She looked at you like you were a problem because you are. Over and over and over until she didn’t even realize where she was heading anymore.

Of course, without really meaning to, she ended up in your neighborhood. She always did.

Your apartment was dark when she got there. No lights in the window, no movement behind the curtains. She figured you were out celebrating with friends, maybe with your family, maybe with classmates from the journalism department, people who actually belonged in your bright new future. She perched on a rooftop across the street and told herself she was only waiting to make sure you got home safe.

One a.m. came and with it the sloppy, loud noise of people too drunk and too happy to care how much sound they made on a sleeping block.

Alysa looked down and saw you immediately.

You were under some guy’s arm, half leaning into him, half trying not to trip over your own feet as you laughed too loudly at something he said. Your gown was gone, your graduation outfit slightly rumpled now, hair a little messy, your movements loose in the way that told her you were very drunk. Too drunk. Drunker than she’d ever seen you, actually. You stopped in front of your building and turned toward the guy with a smile that was tired more than flirtatious.

“Thanks for walking me home,” you said, words a little slurred. “Seriously. it was very nice of you.”

Alysa had already relaxed a fraction. Fine. Good. He walks you home, you say goodnight, he leaves, end of story. But he didn’t leave.

“Yeah, no problem,” the guy said. “You should invite me up for a drink though. Fair trade.”

You shook your head. “No, I don’t think so. I’m really drunk right now.” you said, and there was a soft laugh in your voice like you were trying to keep things light, keep it easy, not escalate.

“Exactly, you shouldn't be alone,” he insisted, stepping closer. “Come on. Just one drink.”

You shook your head, trying to pull away from his grip.

“Why not?”

“Because I said no, I just want to get to bed,”

He smiled in that ugly way some men did when they thought no was part of the conversation instead of the end of it. “Come on,” he said again, tightening his grip. “Don’t be like that.”

Alysa’s senses started screaming.

By the time the guy grabbed you harder, fingers digging into your arm while you twisted and said, “Let go of me— get off,” she was already moving.

She dropped from the rooftop fast enough to make the guy barely turn before her hand was on his shoulder and yanking him around. He looked stunned for half a second, and that was all she needed.

Her fist connected squarely with his jaw.

The hit snapped his head to the side and sent him stumbling back, but Alysa didn’t stop there. She stepped forward and hit him again. Then again. The sound of it was awful in the quiet street, flesh and bone and anger. He tried to get his bearings, threw one weak arm up, and she knocked that aside too. She was fighting almost entirely on instinct now, on the same ugly autopilot from earlier, because the second she saw his hand on you something in her just went white-hot. All she could see was his hand on your arm. All she could hear was you saying let go. All she could think about was what could have happened if she wasn’t there.

You were saying something. She heard your voice but not the words at first, just the sharp panic in it. Then louder: “Stop— Spider-Man, stop!”

She didn’t stop. The guy had gone from pushy to defenseless in seconds, falling more than standing now, and Alysa still drew her arm back to hit him again because some awful, furious part of her wanted to punish him for putting his hands on you, for making her see that, for existing at the wrong time in front of the wrong person on the worst possible night.

She pulled her arm back again, ready to hit him again, but this time your hand grabbed her arm before she could swing. The second your hand closed around her bicep, Alysa froze like someone had dumped cold water over her head. She looked over at you. You looked stunned, breathless, worried in a way that went past the guy on the pavement and landed squarely on her.

For one insane second all she could think was that she must look terrifying to you right now.

She let the guy drop to the ground and stepped back immediately, breathing hard. She ripped her arm back from you and forced herself back into some shape of control even though her pulse was still pounding.

“Get in your apartment,” she bit out. "Now."

And then she was gone.

She swung off before you could say anything else, before you could ask why she was so angry, before you could look at her long enough to maybe see something familiar in the violence of it. She left you standing there on the sidewalk with the guy groaning on the ground and the summer night suddenly too quiet around all of it.

Alysa got into your apartment through the fire escape before you even made it upstairs.

She didn’t really think about it. She was still too angry, adrenaline still buzzing through her system from the fight, from the guy grabbing you, from the way you’d laughed earlier with someone else’s arm around your shoulders like the last two years of her life hadn’t happened. Her hands were still shaking a little when she landed inside your living room, and she didn’t sit, didn’t move around, just stood there in the middle of the room with her arms crossed, waiting.

When the door finally opened and you stumbled in, flicking on the light, you froze.

Spider-Man was standing in the middle of your apartment like he belonged there.

For a second you just stared at each other. Your hair was messy, your eyes a little glassy, your graduation night turned into something else entirely. Alysa could see the exact moment you registered that he must have come in through the window again. She didn’t give you time to speak first.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” she snapped.

You blinked, still drunk enough that her yelling didn’t intimidate you the way it probably should have. “What?”

“What were you thinking going out drinking alone? Who the fuck even is that guy down there? Do you know what could have happened if I wasn’t here?”

Your eyebrows pulled together immediately, irritation rising fast now that the shock was fading. “What? I can do what I want. It’s none of your business.”

“It’s not?” Alysa shot back. “Really? So you don’t care what happens to yourself so no one else should care? Why did you even go out drinking? It’s your graduation, you should’ve been with your family!”

You groaned loudly, dragging a hand down your face. “Because I got into a fight with my family! They’re mad at me and I didn’t want to be alone tonight, not after today, and I went out! I’m 22 years old, I can do that!”

Alysa started pacing the room, hands running over the mask, trying to calm down because she could hear herself and she sounded insane, sounded like she had a right to tell you what to do when she didn’t anymore.

She heard you move closer before she saw you. She stopped pacing and looked up just as you stepped into her personal space like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your hands landed on her arms, sliding up slowly until your arms wrapped around her neck, pulling yourself closer to her.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, voice suddenly lower, more uncertain.

You smiled a little, still drunk, eyes soft. “It’s sweet you care this much,” you said. “Getting jealous?”

Alysa scoffed and rolled her eyes even though her heart was suddenly beating too fast. She gently pushed you off her. “Sit down,” she muttered.

You pouted slightly but walked into the living room and dropped onto the couch anyway. Alysa followed, still annoyed but not as explosive now, more tired than anything.

“Don’t do that again,” she said, standing in front of you. “You can’t be careless like that. You live alone. Anything can happen to you.”

You leaned back into the couch and looked up at her. “Well maybe I go out at night in case I get to see you.”

She sighed and sat down next to you, elbows on her knees for a second before leaning back. “Listen,” she said more quietly, “I don’t think you should have feelings for me. You don’t know me.”

You didn’t respond to that directly. Instead, your hand slid slowly across the couch cushion and then into her lap, resting lightly against her stomach. Your fingers traced absentmindedly along the indents of muscle under the suit, like you were mapping something familiar.

And Alysa forgot herself for a second. She forgot she was supposed to be Spider-Man, forgot to keep her distance. All she could think about was that she missed you so much it physically hurt sometimes. She missed being touched by you, missed the casual way your hands would find her, missed sitting next to you on this exact couch with your legs thrown over hers while you read articles out loud and she pretended to listen. She missed you in ways she didn’t even know how to explain to herself.

So she didn’t stop you right away.

You leaned closer, your face now only inches from hers, and she could hear your breathing, smell the faint mix of alcohol and perfume, feel the warmth of you next to her again. Her heart was racing so fast she was sure you could feel it through the suit.

You pressed a soft kiss to her cheek over the mask first, just like you had before. Soft and slow. Then you moved slightly and kissed where her mouth was under the fabric. It wasn’t really a kiss, not properly. The mask was in the way, the fabric dulling everything, but the intention was there and that was enough to make Alysa’s eyes close behind the mask. She didn’t move for a second. Didn’t stop you. Didn’t pull away. She just sat there and let it happen because it had been two months since she’d been this close to you and she was weak when it came to you. Always had been.

You shifted slightly, trying to get closer, and she let you for another moment longer than she should have. One minute, maybe less, maybe more, she didn’t know. Time felt strange when you were this close again. Then she felt your fingers move up toward the seam of the mask where it met the suit. That snapped her back into reality instantly. She grabbed your wrist gently but firmly and pushed you back a little, putting space between you.

“I have to go,” she said quickly, standing up.

You looked confused, still half leaning toward where she’d been.

She moved toward the window almost immediately because if she stayed another minute she was going to do something she couldn’t undo. She couldn’t sit there and be angry at Spider-Man for taking you away from her when she was also letting Spider-Man kiss you. And you were drunk. That was the other thing that made her stomach twist — you were drunk and leaning into her and she wanted you so badly that she almost didn’t stop it.

So she climbed out the window and disappeared into the night before you could say anything else.

And as she swung across the city, her chest felt tight again, but this time it wasn’t just jealousy or anger.

It was guilt. And confusion.

And the unbearable realization that she was somehow losing you to herself.

———

Hi! finally getting this update doneeeeee... i hc when spidey was watching reader through the window during that one week, she'd also watch reader get n@ked bc i think shes a perv. ANYWAY soz if any of u guys are strictly into women while reader is thinking abt spidey ("the guy") in that way but trust reader's intuition just knows better than she does and her body knows alysa's

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Tag list :P

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