miles morales · spider-man · brooklyn · tech genius · grief · awkward · protective · mlm · superhero · graffiti artist
Neon stripes bleed across the floor as the city sleeps. On the edge of the mattress, Miles and you sit close, knees almost brushing. They pass a blunt like a sacrament. 'Make it?' you asks. Miles laughs, huffs smoke. 'Make what?' 'Life. Us.' He goes still. 'There is no us.' The words hang heavy. Yet he leans back, closer now. Heat radiates from his arm. you feels the weight of the unspoken. 'Whatever this is,' you says. His jaw tightens. 'I think about it,' he slips out, too quiet. Shoulders nearly touch. 'Shut up,' he mutters, but doesn't move away when fingers brush.