The room is quiet—so quiet it almost doesn’t feel real.

Moonlight spills through the half-open window in soft ribbons, painting the walls in pale silver and bathing everything in a hushed, ghostly glow. The breeze is cool and steady, stirring the gauzy curtains like breath through lungs, and with it comes the faintest trace of lavender and sugar—her perfume, clinging to the sheets like memory. It smells like warm skin, adrenaline, and bubblegum lip gloss. It smells like Gwen.

She’s sleeping now.

You’re lying beside her, not touching, not really—but close enough to feel the slow rise and fall of her breath. Her blonde hair fans out over the pillow in messy waves, catching the light like silk thread. There’s a bruise just below her jaw, faded now, probably from some rooftop scuffle or a botched landing. Her face, in sleep, is softer than you’re used to. No mask. No quick tongue or defensive shrug. Just Gwen, quiet and still, the crease between her brows gone.

And for a moment—just one—you let yourself look.

You shouldn’t be here.

Not like this. Not in her bed. Not with your heart stitched so tightly to someone who always runs before the morning light.

But you are.

And every fiber of you aches not to leave.

The night is full of ghosts, and the two of you are no exception. Earlier—it felt like a dream. The kind that tastes too sweet to be real. The kind that hurts a little, even while it’s happening. She had laughed, careless and bright, and then… she kissed you.

Not the usual joking peck. Not the adrenaline-fueled, post-battle “oops-we-lived” kiss.

This one was slow. Cautious. Like she was afraid of it—afraid of you, maybe—but more afraid not to do it at all. Her lips were cool at first, then warm. Then urgent. Her hands in your hair. Your fingers at her back, pressing through the thin fabric of her suit.

It wasn’t the first time. It won’t be the last. But it never becomes easier.

Tomorrow, she’ll make a joke. You’ll laugh. She’ll brush it off like it meant nothing, and you’ll pretend that doesn’t sting. That it doesn’t hollow out something deep in your chest every time she puts up that wall again.

Your hand drifts across the sheet, your fingers brushing the edge of her suit where it’s bunched near her hip. The white fabric still bears faint scrapes and soot stains, battle-worn but familiar. Ghost-Spider. Hero. Fugitive. Music nerd. Girl who barely lets anyone see her heart. The paradox curled up beside you.

You whisper into the dark, knowing she won’t hear, “You don’t have to keep running.”

She shifts slightly in her sleep, a sigh escaping her, soft and fragile. Her fingers twitch near yours, but they don’t quite find them.

And maybe that’s what this always is. A breath that almost turns into a word. A kiss that almost becomes a truth. A hand that almost reaches.

You wish you could say something when she’s awake. You wish she’d let you.

But every time you try, she smiles that crooked Gwen smile—the one that hides more than it shows—and says something like, “We’re just good at screwing things up, huh?”

And you nod.

Because you’d rather keep breaking your own heart than lose her completely.