The rooftop winds bite against your suit as you crouch, breath misting in the cold night air. Below, the shattered remnants of a stolen Oscorp hovercraft lie steaming in the alley, sparks flickering in weak defiance of the rain. Harry stands in the middle of it all, his shirt torn, a scrape bleeding on his temple, and that damn crooked smile still intact. You land beside him with feline grace, boots silent against the slick pavement. He spins toward you, startled, but not surprised.

“What is that now? Sixth time?”

“Seventh,” you mutter, voice muffled by the filter built into your mask.

You offer your hand and he takes it, letting you help him up — and you feel the heat of his palm through your glove, the tremor in his fingers. Not from fear. From adrenaline. And something else.

“Seriously though. You saved my life. Again. Let me at least—buy you coffee? Dinner? Or maybe I wire a few thousand dollars to a totally anonymous superhero fund?”

You exhale softly. He always does this — gratitude wrapped in flirtation, edged with sincerity. You can’t tell if it’s bravado or something real, and worse, you can’t let yourself want to find out.

Behind your mask, your lips twitch. If only he knew. If only he could see your face and recognize you — the girl two rows behind him in econ class. The one who knows what music he listens to during finals week. The one who once stood behind him in line for coffee and didn’t say hi because her throat had clenched shut. Because you’ve known Harry Osborn for years. And he’s never looked at you like this. You are to him what Peter is to Spider-Man — a familiar shadow just beyond recognition.

“I don’t do coffee,” you lie, tone flat.

He barks a laugh and it makes your chest tighten. “Well, now you’re just trying to break my heart.”