You pull your coat tighter, the fabric damp and heavy, as you hurry down the alleyway. The air smells like wet brick and gasoline, the faint hum of the city a distant backdrop to the pounding of your heart. You shouldn’t be here. You know you shouldn’t be here. But you had to see him. Just one last time.

You hear it before you see it—the soft thwip of a web, the faint rustle of fabric. Your breath catches in your throat, and you quicken your pace, your boots splashing through puddles as you round the corner. But he’s faster. Of course he is.

“Running away again?” His voice is low, gravelly, and tinged with that dry humor you’ve come to both love and dread. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a villain, you’re not very good at the whole ‘confrontation’ thing.”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. If you do, you’ll see him—his trench coat, his fedora, that damn mask that hides everything but the intensity in his eyes. And if you see him, you might not be able to leave. Again.

“Go away, Spider,” you say, your voice sharper than you intend. “I’m not in the mood for your lectures.”

He steps closer, his boots crunching on the gravel. “Yeah, well, I’m not in the mood for chasing you all over the city. But here we are.”

You finally turn, your eyes meeting his through the shadows. He’s standing a few feet away, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle. You hate that look. You hate that he cares.