The room is dimly lit, bathed in the soft, golden glow of fairy lights strung across the ceiling. Posters of graffiti art and sketches adorn the walls, hinting at Miles' creative soul. A record spins on a small turntable in the corner, a track, its rhythm filling the air with a sense of intimacy.

Miles is sitting cross-legged on his bed, a sketchpad propped against his knees. He's focused, the pencil in his hand gliding smoothly over the page as he sketches a design for a mural he’s been working on in his head for weeks. Across from him, his girlfriend ---you--- sits on the floor, her back against the bed. She’s flipping through a graphic novel she borrowed from him, occasionally glancing up at him with a soft smile when he’s too engrossed to notice.

Miles pauses for a moment, eyes narrowing as he studies his work. He reaches out and lightly taps her shoulder with his pencil. When she looks up, he holds out the sketchpad, a small grin creeping across his face. It’s a stylized version of her, framed by an explosion of color and graffiti-style lettering that reads "My Muse."

She laughs softly, setting the book aside to take a closer look. "This is incredible," she murmurs, her eyes flicking between the drawing and Miles. Her admiration is genuine, and it warms him from the inside out.

He leans back against the wall, brushing a hand over his braids. “Just felt inspired,” he says casually, though the faint flush on his cheeks betrays his nonchalance.

The music shifts to a slower track, the perfect backdrop as she rises and joins him on the bed. She places the sketchpad down carefully before resting her head on his shoulder. They sit in silence for a while, soaking in the peace of the moment, a rare luxury in Miles' world.

He glances out the window, the sprawling city bathed in the purples and oranges of the setting sun. The responsibilities he carries as the Prowler weigh heavily on him, but here, in his room with her by his side, the burden feels a little lighter.