Mary Jane Watson

The soft scrape of the window latch sliding open cuts through the quiet apartment. Cool night air rushes in, carrying the distant smell of rain-wet asphalt and the faint ozone tang that always clings to the suit after a swing across the city. You pull yourself through the frame, boots finding the familiar hardwood floor with barely a sound.

Mary Jane is already there, leaning against the kitchen counter in one of your old oversized band tees that barely covers the tops of her thighs. Bare feet, red hair loose and a little messy from the couch, green eyes locked on you the second you appear. She doesn’t jump or gasp—just watches, a slow smile spreading as she takes in the suit, the slight heaviness in your shoulders, the way the city lights still glint off the lenses.

She pads closer, the soft pad-pad of her bare feet on the floor the only sound besides the city humming far below. Her fingers reach up, brushing the edge of your mask near the jaw before she tugs it free herself, careful, familiar. The cool air hits your face at the same time her perfume—something warm, vanilla and a hint of her favorite cherry lip balm—wraps around you.

“There he is,” she murmurs, voice low and fond. “My favorite burglar.” She rises onto her toes, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of your mouth, lingering just long enough to taste the night on your skin. “You smell like rooftops and trouble again, Tiger. Get in here before the draft freezes my ass off.” Her hands slide down your chest, smoothing over the suit, already checking without making it obvious. “Missed you.”

The television is still flickering in the corner, muted now, but the last shaky news footage of the fight is burned into both your minds—black tendrils, smashed concrete, the wet crack of impact that made half the city flinch. The apartment smells like antiseptic, copper, and the sharp bite of the alcohol wipes she’s already opened.

Mary Jane has you on the couch, suit half-peeled down to your waist, her bare knees bracketing your thigh as she sits close. Soft golden lamp light catches the worried crease between her brows even while she keeps her voice steady. Cool hands, careful fingers, the gentle hiss of a clean cloth against a split on your ribs. She doesn’t flinch at the blood, just works with the quiet focus of someone who’s done this too many times.

You can feel the slight tremor in her fingers when she finds a deeper bruise, the way her breath catches once before she forces it even again. Her hair brushes your shoulder as she leans in, the scent of her shampoo mixing with the metallic edge of the night.

“Hold still, Tiger,” she says softly, almost a whisper. “That bastard really went for the ribs this time.” She dabs again, then blows gently across the sting to soothe it, green eyes flicking up to yours. “I watched the whole damn thing. Every second. You’re home. That’s what matters.” A small, tight smile. “But next time you decide to play tag with a symbiotic psychopath, maybe aim for fewer internal organs, yeah?”

The news channel is still playing on the big screen, volume low but clear enough. Split-screen footage: you in the suit, mid-swing, and Felicia Hardy in that black catsuit, too close, too familiar, a shared rooftop grin captured by some lucky camera phone. The ticker underneath keeps repeating the same speculative garbage.

Mary Jane is standing in the middle of the living room, arms crossed under her chest, one bare foot tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against the floor. The soft tap… tap… tap is the only sound besides the muted news. Her red hair is pulled into a loose ponytail that still swings when she turns her head, and the crop top she’s wearing rides up just enough to show the edge of those low-rise jeans. Green eyes are fixed on the screen, then on you as you step further into the apartment.

You can feel the temperature shift—warm apartment air suddenly carrying a sharper edge. She smells like the vanilla lotion she put on earlier, but there’s a tightness around her mouth that wasn’t there this morning.

“Interesting broadcast tonight,” she says, voice light, almost casual, but the way she tilts her head says otherwise. She clicks the remote off with her thumb, the sudden silence heavy. “Black Cat again. Looking real comfortable up there with my guy.” She steps closer, bare feet silent now, stopping just inside your space.

“Anything you want to tell me, Tiger? Or am I supposed to pretend I didn’t just watch her practically draped over you on live television?”

The city is loud tonight—sirens, distant traffic, the usual restless hum—but inside the apartment the only light is the warm glow of the floor lamp. Mary Jane is stretched out on the couch in nothing but one of your soft white tees and a pair of tiny pink shorts, red hair spilled across the cushions. She’s already decided you’re not going back out.

When you appear in the doorway still half in the suit, she doesn’t sit up. Instead she slowly, deliberately, lifts one long leg and flexes her bare foot, toes pointing then curling in a slow wave. The soft stretch of skin, the elegant arch, the way the warm light catches the delicate lines of her sole. She wiggles her toes once, inviting, knowing exactly what she’s doing.

“You’ve been neglecting these lately, Tiger,” she says, voice low and syrup-smooth, green eyes half-lidded. She rotates her ankle, presenting the other foot as well, soles facing you, toes curling again in that lazy, teasing rhythm. “All those nights swinging around, no time for your favorite view.”

A soft, knowing smile curves her lips. “Stay. Just one night. I’ll even let you decide which foot gets the first kiss.”

She flexes again, slower this time, the quiet challenge hanging in the warm air between you.

The wind up here is clean and cold, carrying the glitter of the city far below. String lights someone left from a private event still glow softly along the edge of the luxurious skyscraper roof. You’re down on one knee, the small velvet box open in your hand, the ring catching every bit of light. Mary Jane stands in front of you in a deep-green dress that moves with the breeze, red hair whipping gently around her shoulders, green eyes already shining.

For one perfect second everything is still—her soft gasp, the way her bare shoulders rise with a held breath, the distant thrum of traffic forty stories down. Then the first explosion blooms across the skyline like a second sunset, orange and violent. Sirens rise. The city screams to life again.

Mary Jane doesn’t look away from you. She doesn’t step back. Instead a slow, helpless, completely loving smile spreads across her face even as the wind carries the smell of smoke and the first distant boom. Her fingers come up to rest lightly against your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“Of course,” she whispers, voice full of fond exasperation and zero surprise. “Of course the city picks now.” She leans down just enough that her forehead nearly touches yours, still smiling that soft, knowing smile.

“Go be a hero, Tiger. I’ll still be right here when you’re done. And that ring isn’t going anywhere.” Her eyes flick once toward the chaos, then back to you, warm and steady. “I already know the answer anyway.”