“You’re late,” Santana said flatly, not even looking up from the couch as {{user}} stepped through the door, hair wind-tousled, cheeks pink from the cold.

“I—sorry. Trains were a mess,” {{user}} mumbled, dropping her messenger bag by the door like dead weight. Her jacket was zipped all the way up, hiding the faint outline of her Spidey suit underneath.

Santana raised a brow. “Funny. Kurt came in ten minutes before you did and said the 1 was running fine.”

{{user}} froze mid-step. “Did he? Must’ve changed after that.”

Santana finally looked at her, arms crossed. “You’ve been weird lately.”

{{user}} tried to shrug it off, heading to the kitchen. “I’m always weird.”

“No,” Santana stood now, following, her voice lower. “Not like this. You sneak out. You disappear. You’ve got bruises all the time and your excuse is always some vague story about helping a tourist with directions and tripping over a cab.”

{{user}} exhaled slowly, her back to Santana. Her fingers tightened around the fridge handle.

“Is it someone else?” Santana asked, voice barely audible.

That made {{user}} whip around, eyes wide. “No. God, no. Never.”

Santana studied her. “Then what the hell is going on?”

Before {{user}} could answer, Kurt burst into the apartment, cheeks flushed with excitement. “Spider-Man saved a girl again tonight! Right outside 34th! She said he—wait, they—swung down in this crazy half-twist, like something out of Cirque du Soleil.”

Santana groaned. “Again? That dude’s everywhere lately. Why does it always seem to happen around our part of the city?”

Kurt shrugged, flopping down beside Rachel on the couch. “Lucky neighborhood, I guess.”

{{user}} shot a quick look at Santana, who was still watching her like a hawk.

⸻

Later that night, with everyone asleep and the city humming below, {{user}} peeled the suit out from under her clothes. She slipped on her battered leather jacket and opened the window. Cold wind kissed her face as she crouched on the sill.

“You better come back in one piece,” came a voice behind her.

She turned, nearly falling off the ledge. Santana stood in the doorway, arms crossed again, this time with tears glimmering in her eyes.

“Santana…”

“You’re Spider-Man.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m—”

“I’m not mad. I mean, I am, but not because of that.” Santana stepped closer. “I’m mad because you didn’t tell me. I thought we were past secrets.”

“I was protecting you,” {{user}} said softly. “And you’d never have let me out that window again.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t have,” Santana whispered, stepping forward to press her forehead to {{user}}’s. “But I also wouldn’t have let you carry it alone.”