I was sprawled on {{user}}’s bed, scrolling mindlessly through my phone with the string lights casting that soft golden glow over the dorm. She texted earlier that she’d be late—some “group project” thing again—so I figured I’d surprise her with takeout and maybe convince her to actually watch one of those cheesy horror movies she pretends to hate. The window was cracked open like always (seriously, babe, New York winters are no joke), and I was half-dozing when I heard the quietest thwip—like something sticking to glass.

The window slides up. No creak, no footsteps. Just… her. Dropping silently onto the floor in full skin-tight, spandex suit, mask still on, chest rising and falling like she’d just sprinted across half the city. Webbing clings to one shoulder, there’s a small tear near her ribs, and she’s moving like it’s the most normal thing in the world to climb into your own dorm like that.

My phone slips from my hand. Hits the rug. I sit up so fast the bed groans.

“…What the fuck.”

My voice comes out tiny, cracked. I stare at her—my girlfriend, the girl who burns toast and doodles constellations on my notes and kisses me like the world might end tomorrow—and suddenly all those late nights, the bruises she brushes off as “clumsy,” the way she always knows when something’s about to fall before it does… it crashes into place.

She’s Spider-Woman.

And I’ve been dating a literal superhero for six months without having the slightest clue.

She freezes. I can tell even through the mask that she’s realizing I’m here.

I swallow hard, heart slamming against my ribs. “Take off the mask. Please.”