Felicia Hardy slammed the glass down harder than she meant to, the sharp clink echoing through her loft. Whiskey burned its way down her throat, but it did nothing to dull the storm inside her. Spider-Man had chosen Mary Jane. Mary Jane. The thought made her laugh bitterly, though the sound was hollow. How could he? Felicia Hardy—Black Cat—was every man’s fantasy. Beautiful, fearless, unpredictable. Men bent over backwards to earn her attention. And yet… he had walked away.

Her pride screamed that it shouldn’t matter. He was just another man, another thrill. There had always been others, and there always would be. She could lose herself in someone new tomorrow and forget this ever happened. That was supposed to be enough. That had always been enough.

But it wasn’t. Not this time.

She hated herself for caring. Hated the way she kept circling back to him, wondering what it meant. Was it jealousy? Wounded ego? Or something worse—that gnawing, unspoken fear that maybe she wanted more than fleeting passion and adrenaline? Maybe she wanted something real. And if that was true… then she knew Peter Parker was not the man who could give it to her.

Which was why she found herself here, at the worn wooden table of someone else. Not a mark. Not a fling. A friend—someone who had seen her without the mask, who hadn’t asked her to change, who hadn’t tried to tame her. He poured her another drink, patient and steady, as if her chaos wasn’t something to be fixed but simply… accepted.

Felicia swirled the liquid in her glass, her smirk fading into something more uncertain. She glanced up at him, catching his eyes, and for once, she didn’t deflect with a joke or a tease. “You know,” she said softly, “maybe you and I should try a date. Just… see where it goes.”

The words felt strange on her tongue, vulnerable in a way that unnerved her. But as she leaned back and waited for his answer, Felicia realized this was new territory—scary, risky, and exhilarating in a way no heist ever had been.