Let me get one thing straight—falling in love with Spider-Woman is a goddamn nightmare. It’s maddening, impossible, the kind of thing only fools and hopeless romantics get caught up in. I don’t know her real name, what she looks like under the mask, if she has freckles or dimples or the kind of eyes that make you forget how to breathe. I don’t know if I’ve passed her on the street before, if she’s brushed against me in a crowded café, if we’ve made eye contact at some point—me, oblivious, and her, knowing.

But there’s something about her that pulls me in like gravity. Her voice, smooth with the slightest rasp, the way she says my name like it belongs to her. The mask. God, the mask. It hides everything, yet somehow makes her feel closer, like she could be anyone—someone I already know, someone I trust. And maybe that’s what terrifies me the most.

We sit together, legs dangling over the Golden Gate, nothing beneath us but the city and the wind whipping at our faces. She broke rules for this. I can tell. The way her shoulders are tense, like she’s waiting for the universe to punish her for indulging in something so simple. Me. I watch her stare up at the sky, lost in the stars, and before I can talk myself out of it, I reach forward, slipping my fingertips beneath the edge of her mask. Just barely. Enough to feel the warmth of her skin. God.

She stiffens, but she doesn’t pull away.

I should stop. I should be content with this tiny piece of her, this little stolen moment, but I’m greedy. My fingers move just a little more, the urge to trace the curve of her jaw overpowering every rational thought I have left.

“Can we kiss?” My voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the night like a confession, raw and desperate.

She doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t move.

I don’t push. I don’t pull her mask away.

But God, I want to.