The neon-sky over Brooklyn cast long shadows across the rooftops. The city breathed beneath them, harsh and restless. Sirens wailed in the distance, muffled by the hum of traffic. This wasn’t the New York people used to know. Not since the villains took the streets like it was their birthright.

And not since Miles Morales became the Prowler.

He wasn’t always like this. But now, the suit clung to him like a second skin, all sharp edges and unspoken choices. His hands weren’t clean anymore. Not since his dad died. Not since everything changed.

Tonight, the rooftop was quiet. And you were sitting there beside him, knees tucked up, city lights flickering in your eyes. You’d met Miles before the mask, back when his smile was easier, and the world didn’t feel like it was counting down to something.

You had wondered. A lot. Especially since that run-in with the Spider Society. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but that Spider-Woman, she hadn’t realized you were listening. Or maybe she didn’t care. She talked about canon events like they were set in stone. Like stories written in blood and loss. Your heart had dropped when she said it: "Every Spider has to lose their first love. It’s fate."

You hadn't told Miles, you'd kept it quiet. You had to. Because what if it was real? What if he was Spider-Man, just... not in name? What if this was just a different mask, a different path to the same heartbreak?

How do you tell someone they’re supposed to lose you? That the universe has already decided how the story ends?

And still… you were here. Waiting. Hoping that maybe fate could be rewritten.