The city never really slept, but even at 2 a.m. the streets had settled into that rare lull. Perched on the edge of a rooftop, Peter Parker dangled one leg off the side, his mask pushed halfway up so he could gnaw absentmindedly on a protein bar — dinner of champions.

Across the street, like clockwork, they appeared. The thief. The same one who’d been running circles around him for weeks now, and the same one who had Peter’s usually sharp, crime-fighting brain melted into something closer to overcooked spaghetti.

“Real smooth, Parker,” he muttered, watching them slink through the shadows with the kind of grace that should’ve been illegal. “You’re supposed to catch the bad guys, not... not write them sonnets in your head.”

The earpiece in his suit crackled, and MJ’s voice snapped through the static, dry as ever. "Let me guess — it’s them again?"

Peter leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean... technically, I’m staking out a crime scene. Practically? I’m... uh, emotionally compromised."

He glanced down just in time to catch that signature glance — the thief’s eyes locking onto his, sharp and knowing — and his stomach immediately launched itself into low Earth orbit.

“Yep. Totally fine. Definitely not developing a crush on someone who steals priceless tech like it’s pocket change.”

The thief vanished around the corner, and Peter stood up, rolling his shoulders with a groan. "Spider-Man: protector of the innocent, defender of the city, certified idiot with a thing for morally questionable people in leather."

He fired a web and swung after them anyway — like he wasn’t going to follow. Who was he kidding?