𝐰𝐞𝐛𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚

ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ⏯️: ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀᴛᴛᴏᴏ ʙʏ ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ

ATLANTA, GEORGIA📍𝓝𝓪𝓱𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓔𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓼 𝓙𝓸𝓷𝓮𝓼

The hum of the Atlanta night usually feels like music to you, but tonight it felt like a lonely rhythm. You were hunched over your desk at Georgia Tech, the glow of your laptop screen the only thing keeping you tethered to reality while you tackled a Physics assignment that felt like it was written in a different language. Your parents back in Houston probably thought you were sleeping, or at least studying with a group, but the truth was much quieter. You were alone in your dorm, wearing your favorite pink shorts and those oversized fuzzy socks, trying to ignore the empty space in the room that usually belonged to a boy with freeform locs and a crooked grin.

It had been three weeks since you’d seen Nahmere. Three weeks of "I’m busy, mama" texts and cryptic updates about "work" in the city. You knew what that meant, of course. It meant he was swinging through the humid night air in that jet-black suit, his fingers sticky with that gooey webbing he’d perfected, probably taking on some new threat that the APD couldn't handle. You hated the silence. You hated the way your heart jumped every time a siren wailed in the distance, wondering if this was the night he didn’t make it back to his mom’s place in the Old Fourth Ward.

The transition from Houston to Atlanta when you were twelve had been rough, but meeting Nahmere at church a few years later had changed everything. Your parents loved him—he was the polite boy who played with your younger brother and sat next to you in the pews—but they didn't see the dropout, the street artist, or the hero. They didn't see the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching, or the way he’d climb through your window just to tell you about a new mural he’d started in Midtown. To them, he was a safe friend. To you, he was everything.

The "Spider-Man" revelation had happened almost a year ago, and it had shifted the foundation of your friendship into something far more complex. You remembered the look on his face when he told you—the fear that you’d look at him like a monster, or worse, someone too dangerous to be around. Instead, you’d just reached out and touched the spider emblem on his chest, realizing then that he was the same boy who used to share his snacks with you during Sunday school. Since then, your dorm had become his sanctuary, the only place in the city where he didn't have to look over his shoulder or play a role.

You sighed, rubbing your eyes and leaning back in your chair. The air in the dorm felt still, almost too quiet. Your roommate was gone for at least another thirty minutes, grabbing a late-night bite at the dining hall, leaving you with nothing but your thoughts and the playlist humming softly in the background. You found yourself staring at the window, the one Nahmere always used, but the glass was dark and reflective. You missed the way he’d tap on it, masked and breathless, waiting for you to let him into your safe haven.

Suddenly, a heavy thud echoed from the living area of the suite. It wasn't the sound of a key in the lock or a door swinging open; it was the sound of something—or someone—stumbling. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the "good girl" instinct from your Houston upbringing kicking in instantly. You didn't call out; you reached for the pepper spray you kept tucked in the drawer of your vanity, your hand trembling just a little. You weren't a fighter, but you’d be damned if someone was going to catch you off guard in your own space.

You stood up, your fuzzy socks silent on the linoleum floor as you crept toward the door of your bedroom. The shadows in the den were long, stretched out by the moonlight filtering through the blinds. You saw a silhouette, tall and wide-shouldered, leaning heavily against the dining table. The figure was draped in shadows, but there was a familiar fluidity to the way it moved, even while injured or exhausted. You lowered the pepper spray slightly, the realization hitting you like a physical weight in your chest.

“Nahmere?” You whispered, your voice cracking with a mix of relief and lingering fear. The figure stiffened, then let out a low, gravelly groan that vibrated through the small room. He turned slowly, and the moonlight caught the reflective white lenses of his mask. He was still in the suit—the all-black, textured material hugging his lean, athletic frame in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. You could see the rise and fall of his chest, the definition of his abs through the compression-like fabric, and the way his shoulders slumped with sheer fatigue.

“Damn… I didn’t mean to scare you, mama,” he rumbled, his voice thick with that Atlanta drawl you’d grown to crave. He took a step toward you, his boots making a soft, sticky sound on the floor. Before you could even process the three weeks of worry, he was in your space, his arms wrapping around you in a tight, desperate hug. He smelled like ozone, rain, and the faint, metallic scent of the city. He buried his masked face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin, and for a second, the world outside Georgia Tech didn't exist.

He let out a shaky breath, his body finally relaxing as he realized he was safe. The gang war on the Westside had been brutal, nights filled with the sound of gunfire and the weight of people expecting him to save them all. He had spent hours crouched on cold rooftops, his muscles aching and his mind racing with the image of your face. But here, in this dorm room smelling of vanilla and expensive textbooks, he didn't have to be the savior. He pulled back just enough to look at you, the white lenses of his mask tilting as he studied your worried face.

“I missed you so much, you don't even know,” he muttered into your skin, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second before he pulled back. He didn't wait for an invite; he walked into your bedroom like he owned the deed to the building. You followed him, watching as he navigated the small space with an intimacy that only years of friendship could buy. He headed straight for your vanity, pulling out the chair you had just been sitting in and dropping into it with a heavy sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body.

You stood by the bed, watching him in silence. He reached up, his gloved fingers tugging at the edge of his mask. With a sharp tug, he pulled it off, revealing those full, thirsty lips and those deep brown eyes that looked like they hadn't seen sleep in a month. His freeform locs tumbled out, full of body and messy from the confines of the suit. He looked at himself in your vanity mirror, then looked at the array of skincare products you had lined up. Without asking, he reached for your jar of Vaseline, scooping a bit out and rubbing it over his wind-chapped lips and the high points of his cheeks.

It was such a domestic, mundane action—Spider-Man using your lip therapy—that it almost made you laugh, but the tension in the room was too thick for humor. He peeled his gloves off next, tossing them onto your physics homework, his large, calloused hands now bare. He looked at his reflection again, then back at you through the mirror, his gaze intense. He wasn't the boy from church right now, and he wasn't exactly the neighborhood hero either. He was just Nahmere, and he was looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded to the earth.

The silence stretched, filled only by the distant sound of a car horn and the hum of your laptop fan. You noticed how the suit clung to his torso, the black material shimmering over the muscles of his chest and arms. He looked like a basketball player in mid-season form, every line of his body defined and powerful. You felt that familiar spark, that attractive energy that had been building between you two for two years, but tonight it felt like it was finally reaching a boiling point. You wanted to tell him how you felt, to tell him that three weeks was too long, but the words felt stuck in your throat.

Nahmere stood up suddenly, the chair scraping against the floor. He turned to face you fully, looming over you with his six-foot frame. Up close, he was even more imposing, the suit highlighting the athletic leanness of his body. He looked down at you, his eyes scanning your face, your pink tank, your messy hair. He looked conflicted, his jaw working as if he were fighting back a thousand things he wanted to say. He looked nervous—a sight you rarely saw from the boy who faced down villains without blinking.

The space between you felt electric, the kind of tension that made the air feel thick and hard to breathe. He’d spent twenty-one days realizing that he didn't just want to be the guy who crashed through your window; he wanted to be the guy you came home to. He’d seen the way your eyes lit up when you talked about your future, and he was terrified that future didn't have room for a kid from the streets with a secret identity. He stepped even closer, his presence overwhelming, until you were backed up against the edge of your bed.

His large hands finally reached out, settling firmly on your waist and pulling you flush against the cold, textured fabric of his suit. The heat radiating from his body was a sharp contrast to the cool air, and you could feel every muscle in his thighs as he crowded you. He tilted his head down, his forehead resting against yours as he closed his eyes, his voice dropping to a low, desperate rumble. “I’m done playin’ these games with you, mama… I been out there thinkin’ ‘bout how I’d feel if I never got to tell you.” He pulled back just enough to catch your gaze, his eyes burning with a raw hunger. “I don’t want nobody else in this city but you… you feelin’ me or am I loosin’ my mind?”