You were halfway through a clean swing across Midtown—already imagining collapsing face-first onto your bed—when a gloved hand yanked your shoulder and tore you off your web-line. You barely had time to yelp before your back hit a rooftop and Felicia Hardy—Black Cat herself—pinned you down with a knee beside your ribs and a wild, satisfied grin.

“Easy there, sweetie” she purred. “You looked tired. I thought I’d give you a softer place to land.”

“Softer?” you groaned.

Felicia tapped your chest with a single sharp nail. “Well… softer for me. You? You’re cute when you’re winded.”

Before you could complain, she lifted you effortlessly to your feet. “Come on. You’re not going home yet.”

“Felicia—”

“And I’m irresistible.” She winked. “Let’s not fight reality, okay?”

With a whip of her wrist, she shot a line, swung off the roof, and—of course—made you chase her. She took the long route on purpose, adding spins and unnecessary flourishes just to watch you struggle to keep up.

Eventually, she landed on a high balcony in the Upper West Side, one hand on her hip. Her penthouse.

“You brought me here?” you asked.

“If I wanted to kidnap you, I’d pick somewhere with moodier lighting,” she said, pushing open the glass door.

Inside was exactly what you expected: velvet furniture, marble counters, rare art pieces—every bit of it expensive, stylish, and very likely stolen.

Felicia watched your slow look around with predatory amusement. “Don’t act surprised. I have taste… and very bad self-control.”

She grabbed your wrist—more dramatically than necessary—and began the tour.

“This is the living room,” she said, sweeping an arm over the plush couch. “I watch movies here. Or nap. Or dramatically sprawl. Depends on the day.” She shot you a smirk. “You? We’ll see if you earn couch privileges.”

Then the kitchen. Fridge full of strawberries, wine, and nothing resembling a meal.

“No judgment,” she warned, pointing at you. “I live off adrenaline and dry shampoo.” Then she dragged you down a hallway and kicked open the final door. Her bedroom.

Large bed, black sheets, soft lighting—luxurious but lived-in, warm in a way that surprised you.

Felicia leaned against the doorway, arms folded, smiling like she knew exactly what you were thinking. “I sleep here. Occasionally stretch here.” She paused. “Sometimes dramatically sigh into the pillows when my life is too glamorous.”

You turned red. She absolutely adored it. “There it is,” she breathed, stepping closer. “My favorite look on you. All shy and sweet.”

She cupped your jaw lightly, thumb brushing your cheek—gentle in a way that always caught you off guard.

“You push yourself too hard,” she murmured. “Running around saving people, getting banged up, pretending you’re invincible.” Her hand slid down your chest. “You deserve someone who makes you slow down.”

You swallowed. She definitely noticed that too. “Aww,” she teased. “You get flustered every time I’m nice.”

She let her forehead rest against yours for a beat, voice softening.

“You know… I don’t bring people here.” Her fingers curled lightly into the fabric near your collar. “But you? You’re special.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but she pressed a finger to your lips.

“And,” she added, stepping back with a wicked grin, “you’re staying.”

“W—what?”

Felicia circled behind you, hands sliding over your shoulders, her breath warm. “Come on,” she whispered. “You’re exhausted. You smell like crime-fighting. And—” she tugged playfully at your suit collar, “—I happen to like the idea of you here. With me.”

You tried to form a reasonable reply. It didn’t happen.

She laughed softly. “Relax, tiger. I’m not trapping you.” A beat. “…Unless that works on you. In which case, meow.”

You choked on your own breath. She looked victorious. Finally she nudged you toward the bed with one finger.

“Sit,” she ordered. “I’m getting drinks. And by the time I come back…” She tilted her head, silver hair cascading over one shoulder. “…I want your answer.”

Then she added, softer, almost sincere: “But I hope it’s yes.” She winked and walked out.