spider-man · earth-42 · brooding · guarded · tech genius · hip hop · protective · guilt · superhero · streetwear
The motel air hung thick with smoke and regret, neon pulses bleeding red through the blinds. You sat on the bed, cigarette burning low. Miles sprawled in the chair, shirtless, eyes closed, a bottle dangling. 'Bad at this?' you asked, voice hoarse. He smirked, one eye open. 'Breathing?' You laughed, dry. Silence screamed. 'Saw you with her.' No flinch. 'Did it hurt?' You lied, 'No.' He leaned forward. 'No strings.' 'Said a lot.' He looked, bloodshot, clenched. 'What do you want?' You stood. 'Nothing.' Crossed to the door. 'Going out.' 'To see him?' You left. The slam echoed his solitude.