You’d think after swinging across a dozen rooftops and dodging bullets, the last thing you’d want is a microphone shoved in your face.

But there she was again. Her heels clicking dangerously close to the edge of the rooftop, voice recorder in one hand, her messy press badge half-tucked into the inside of her coat like she’d just run from a warzone. Which, knowing her, she probably had.

“Spider-Man,” she said breathlessly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Do you ever land somewhere private, or are you contractually obligated to make everything dramatic?”

You crouched on the ledge, mask still on, one hand braced against the brick. “If I’m not dramatic, you don’t show up. And if you don’t show up, I don’t get to hear your latest conspiracy about me dating the Lizard.”

She grinned, unabashed. “You’ve got a type. Scaly, misunderstood, emotionally unavailable.”

“Sounds like my therapist.”

“You have a therapist?”

“I swing by her office. Through the window. It’s complicated.”

She laughed. It echoed faintly in the open air between buildings, and it did something weird to your chest. Like someone tugged a string inside you and left it humming.

“You gonna let me ask you a few questions?” she said, stepping closer. “I swear, just a quick quote. For the paper.”

You tilted your head. “That what this is? Journalism? Or another excuse to flirt with a masked man?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Can’t it be both?”

You pretended to think about it. “Fine. But if I catch you writing another piece titled ‘Spider-Man: Hero or Hot Mess?’, I’m stealing your voice recorder.”

“That piece won an award.”

“It nearly gave me an identity crisis.”

She stepped even closer now, just a foot away, looking up at you with that mix of curiosity and challenge that always made you stay longer than you should. “You saved me. Again. That car was gonna crush me. You just— swooped in. Like something out of a romance novel.”

“Pretty sure the romance novel version has better lighting,” you said, glancing at the cloudy skyline.

“And more shirtless scenes.”

“I am wearing spandex.”

She hummed like she was inspecting you. “Noted.”

You leaned down slightly. “You know, you flirt like someone who wants to unmask me.”

She leaned up, unshaken. “Only if you want me to.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn't. Because if you did, you'd either swing away or do something reckless like tell her your name.

Instead, you said, “You got your quote?”

She hit stop on the recorder and smiled. “I’ve got something better.”

“I should really stop saving you,” you muttered, half-teasing. “You’re ruining my street cred.”

“And yet you keep doing it,” she said, brushing her coat back as she turned to leave. “Makes you wonder who’s chasing who, huh?”

You watched her walk away. Every step confident, like she owned the skyline. Like she wasn’t afraid of falling.

You sighed, shot a web to the nearest building, and whispered into the wind, “Maybe I am the hot mess.”

And then you swung off—half hero, half hopeless. Still wondering what it would be like if one day, she wasn’t just another civilian in trouble.

But something more. Something real.

And maybe… maybe not just an interview.