Je t'aime, je te hais, je t'aime, je te hais

I love you, I hate you, I love you, I hate you

The day he met you, Miles Morales knew he should’ve walked away. The cold of Brooklyn didn’t bother him anymore; it was the emptiness of it that got under his skin. People here didn’t smile. They didn’t dream. They survived—or they didn’t.

But you? You made survival look easy. Like a game.

The worst day of his life, that day he crossed paths with you, yet one he could never regret.

Ce jour où je t'ai rencontrée, j'aurais peut-être préféré Que ce jour soit jamais arrivé

On that day when I met you, maybe I would rather that it never happened to me

The heist was supposed to be simple—grab the vibranium shipment, deliver it to Aaron, and disappear into the night. But when Miles dropped into the shadows of the warehouse, his target was already gone.

“Looking for this?”

Your voice was smooth, teasing, the faintest echo off the cold metal walls. He turned, his eyes narrowing as his mask illuminated you: standing atop a stack of crates, one hand resting on the case he’d come to collect.

“Give it back.” His voice was low, commanding.

“Didn’t know it belonged to you,” you replied, tilting your head. “You’re the famous Prowler, huh? Gotta say, I expected more.”

Miles stepped forward, his gauntlets humming to life. “This is your last chance.”

You smirked, tossing the case from one hand to the other. “Or what? You gonna fight me over it? Go ahead, Morales.”

The sound of his name snapped through the air like a whip. Miles froze.

“How do you—”

“Please,” you interrupted. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

He lunged forward, a neon blur, but you were faster. You jumped down, using the crate as leverage to kick him back. His gauntlet grazed your suit, leaving a faint scorch mark, but you didn’t flinch.

“This city doesn’t need another vigilante,” you said, darting past him. “Especially not one hiding behind his daddy’s name.”

That hit harder than any punch could.

By the time he recovered, you were gone, and so was the case.

“Next time,” he muttered, clenching his fists, “you’re not getting away.”

La pire des bénédictions

La plus belle des malédictions

The worst of all blessings

The best of all curses

The next few months were a game of cat and mouse. You’d show up where you weren’t supposed to be—hijacking his missions, stealing his leads, leaving behind nothing but frustration and the faint scent of your perfume.

“You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me,” Miles growled one night, his voice cutting through the cold as he cornered you on a rooftop.

“Aw, I’m touched,” you replied, leaning against the railing. “But admit it—you’d miss me if I were gone.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” You stepped closer, your mask reflecting the faint purple glow of his suit. “Face it, Morales. You need me. Without me, you’d have nothing to chase.”

“I don’t chase. I catch.”

“Not tonight,” you said, slipping past him before he could react.

Miles spun around, his gauntlet sparking, but you were already gone.

“Damn it,” he muttered, slamming his fist against the railing.

One night, Miles found you bleeding in an alley. You were slumped against the wall, your suit torn, your mask cracked. For a moment, he considered walking away. But something stopped him.

“Didn’t think I’d see you like this,” he said, his voice tight as he crouched beside you.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, wincing as you tried to move. “I’m not dying. Not yet.”

Miles sighed, pulling a medkit from his belt. “Hold still.”

“Why are you helping me?” you asked, your voice softer now.

He didn’t answer right away, focusing instead on patching up your wounds. Finally, he said, “Because no one else will.”

You laughed, the sound brittle. “You’re full of surprises, Morales.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

But you did.

After that night, things changed. The fights became less about winning and more about testing each other. You weren’t just his enemy anymore—you were something else.

Tu sais c'qu'on dit

"Soit près d'tes amis les plus chers"

Mais aussi

"Encore plus près d'tes adversaires"

You know what they say

Stay close to your dearest friends

But also

Even closer to your adversaries

“Do you ever think about walking away?” you asked one night, your voice cutting through the quiet.

The two of you were sitting on a rooftop, the city stretching out below. It was an uneasy truce, a temporary pause in your endless battle.

“Walking away from what?” Miles asked, not looking at you.

“All of this. The fighting. The masks. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Finally, he said, “It doesn’t matter if I’m tired. I don’t have a choice.”

You turned to him, your expression unreadable. “There’s always a choice, Morales.”

“Yeah? What’s yours, then?” he shot back. “Why do you do this?”

You hesitated, the mask slipping for just a moment. “Because it’s all I know.”

Miles stared at you, something in his chest tightening. For the first time, he saw the cracks in your armor, the same ones he tried so hard to hide in himself.

“Maybe we’re not so different,” he said quietly.

“Don’t push your luck,” you replied, but your voice lacked its usual bite.

C'est quelle émotion, ta haine

Ou de la douceur

Quand j'entends ton prénom

What kind of emotion, is it hatred

Or pure sweetness when I hear your name?

Miles should’ve seen it coming. The hesitation in your voice, the way you avoided his gaze during the mission. But he didn’t.

“You set me up,” he said, his voice deadly calm as he stared at you across the empty warehouse.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you said, your mask in your hands, revealing the guilt etched across your face.

“There’s always a choice,” he snapped, his gauntlets sparking. “You said that yourself.”

“They had my family, Miles,” you said, your voice breaking. “If I didn’t give them what they wanted—”

“You should’ve told me,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “I could’ve helped you.”

“And risk you getting hurt? Or worse?” You shook your head. “I couldn’t do that.”

Miles stared at you, his anger warring with something deeper. Finally, he turned away.

“Get out,” he said. “Before I change my mind.”

Fuis-moi, le pire, c'est toi et moi

Flee from me, the worst is you and I

Weeks passed, but Miles couldn’t stop thinking about you. He hated you for what you’d done, but he hated himself more for still caring.

“You’re distracted,” Aaron said one night, watching as Miles fumbled with his gauntlets.

“I’m fine,” Miles muttered.

Aaron smirked. “Still thinking about her, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“Look, kid, I get it. She messed you up. But if she’s all you think about, maybe she’s not your enemy.”

Miles didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to explain the war raging inside him—the hatred, the anger, the longing.

When Miles saw you again, you were cornered in an alley, three gang members closing in.

“Couldn’t stay out of trouble, could you?” he said, dropping into the fray.

You looked up, surprise flickering across your face. “What are you doing here?”

“Saving your ass,” he replied, taking down one of the attackers with a single punch.

Once the fight was over, he turned to you, his mask retracting. “We need to talk.”

You nodded, wincing as you leaned against the wall. “Yeah. We do.”

Mais ma meilleure ennemie, c'est toi

But my best enemy is you

Brooklyn was still broken, still dangerous. But for the first time, Miles felt like he wasn’t fighting alone.

“You trust me now?” you asked one night, your mask tucked under your arm.

Miles hesitated, his gaze meeting yours. “Not completely.”

You smiled, your eyes softening. “Fair enough.”

As the two of you disappeared into the night, he couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, his best enemy had become his best ally.

Je t'aime, je te hais, je t'aime, je te hais

I love you, I hate you, I love you, I hate you