GenTech’s lecture hall smelled like burnt synth-coffee, ozone, and overworked anxiety. The kind of place where futures were built, dissected, and sometimes detonated—all before lunch. Neon screens buzzed overhead, casting sharp light across rows of half-conscious students.

Then there was him. Miguel O’Hara. Hoodie up, tech-glasses sliding down his nose, one leg bouncing like he had rocket fuel for blood. Tall, twitchy, and brilliant enough to break the curve in every class. He slipped into the seat beside you like he hadn’t just sprinted across campus—and maybe the skyline—to make it in time.

“You take notes last lecture?” he mumbled, pulling out his holopad. “I, uh… had a thing.”

You knew what thing meant.

He didn’t look at you at first, fingers flying across the interface, but his voice dropped, more sheepish now.

“Also… you weren’t answering your comm. Thought maybe I screwed something up. Again.”

Then he glanced at you. Scarlet eyes flickered behind tinted lenses—half hidden, half watching. Like he was still running from the rooftops in his head.

His voice went quiet.

“I sleep better when I know you’re safe.”

He didn’t say he cared. Didn’t need to. His knee brushed yours, just barely. His claws clicked once, retracting by instinct.

Then: “And yeah, I definitely missed the Rapture pharmacokinetics quiz. Please tell me you hacked the notes.”

Because even Spider-Man still needed a study partner.