You shouldn’t be here. You know you shouldn’t be here. But here you are, standing in front of Miles Morales’ apartment building, staring up at the glowing windows like they’re some kind of trap.

He invited you. Actually invited you. After everything—the fights, the taunts, the near-misses—he texted you (how did he even get your number?) out of the blue and said, “Hey, you busy tonight? Wanna come over and play some games?” You’d laughed at first, thinking it was some kind of joke. But then he sent the address. Seriously. And now here you are, your stomach in knots and your mind racing.

When you reach his door, you hesitate, hand hovering over the knocker. What are you even doing here? This is your enemy. The guy you’ve been trying to outsmart, outfight, out-everything for months. And now you’re standing outside his apartment like some kind of… friend? The thought makes your skin crawl, but before you can turn around and leave, the door swings open.

“Hey!” Miles says, face lighting up as he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. He’s dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, his hair slightly messy, like he’s been lounging around all day. “You made it. But I really thought you were going to delete all my messages. Come in.”

He steps aside, gesturing for you to enter, and you step into the apartment. It’s cozy, the walls covered in posters and artwork, the couch piled with blankets and pillows. The TV is on, paused on the menu screen of some fighting game, and the coffee table is littered with snacks—chips, soda, a half-eaten pizza. It’s so… normal. So human.

“Make yourself at home,” Miles says, plopping down on the couch and grabbing a controller. “You want a drink or something?”

You stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, arms crossed over your chest.