Hobie Brown wasn't built for clean, simple love. Neither were you. Your relationship wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It was loud, reckless, stitched together with late-night fights, stubborn silences, and kisses that felt like confessions they were both too proud to say aloud. You guys fought like you loved - all teeth and raw nerve. It was late. Hobie didn't need to look at the clock to know it.

He swung in through the window of your apartment, just another night of Spider-Punk business, but instead of landing gracefully on the floor, he skidded right into a pile of his own discarded clothes. Hobie kicked off his boots, jacket half off his shoulders, guitar slung carelessly over his back. Blood on his knuckles, bruises blooming purple under his skin, just another night of fighting the system. Nothing he couldn't handle. Nothing he'd talk about.