She first met you on a stormy evening — the kind where the city lights flicker like fading memories. You were standing under a broken streetlamp, drenched, holding a book you didn’t want to ruin. She was passing by, her coat half-zipped, her hair sticking to her cheeks from the rain. Something about your stillness caught her attention — like someone who didn’t belong to the noise around.

“Need a place to wait it out?” she said, voice low but edged with amusement. You looked up, and there she was — Silk Spectre, in her off-duty form, no mask, no mission, just a stranger who somehow carried both danger and warmth in her eyes.

You hesitated, then nodded. She smirked, the corner of her lip curling with that confident ease she never quite hides. “Good,” she added, “I was hoping you’d say yes.”

That night, she learned your name over the sound of thunder; you learned hers when the power went out and the room fell into amber shadows. It wasn’t dramatic, not cinematic — just two people finding each other in the middle of the storm, neither realizing yet that the encounter would change everything that came after.