By late morning, the apartment stopped feeling like a hiding place and started feeling like a workshop.
Not safe—Sol didn't think "safe" existed anymore—but *managed*. Controlled chaos. The kind of place where you could hear your own thoughts long enough to shape them.
Sunlight leaked through the blinds in thin stripes, painting the living room like a barcode. Dust floated in those beams, drifting slow and harmless, and Sol tried to convince his body that harmless things still existed.
His spider-sense didn't agree. It kept humming faintly—always on, always aware, like someone had installed a smoke detector under his skin.
Still, it wasn't screaming.
That was a win.
Sol stood near the kitchen counter, bare feet on worn linoleum, wrists held out as if he was trying to balance something delicate in the air. Aaliyah's hoodie hung open now, his bandage tucked beneath it, and every time he lifted his arms his ribs reminded him he wasn't invincible.
But his body *was* stubborn.
The tightness around his stitches had eased more. The ache that had been stabbing earlier was now… manageable. Like the wound was closing with each passing hour whether he approved or not.
Hana had checked it twice already, like she couldn't stop herself. Each time her fingers had brushed the edge of the tape with careful gentleness, her brows knit in concentration, her mouth pursed like she was trying to solve a puzzle with touch.
She'd murmured "Unreal," the first time.
The second time she'd whispered, "It's like you're skipping steps."
Sol didn't know if that was comforting or terrifying.
Judy sat at the table, chin in her hands, watching him like a scientist who didn't want to admit she was impressed. Her beanie was off now, hair falling in a messy halo. She looked less like the loud, confident friend and more like a girl who'd slept on a couch with one eye open.
Aaliyah had claimed the far side of the living room as her "spot," leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, pretending she was bored even though she watched every movement like a coach.
And Hana—
Hana had made herself the quiet center of everything without announcing it. She moved in small, practical ways: refilling water, making sure everyone ate, putting the first-aid bag within reach like it belonged there.
Sol didn't say it out loud, but he noticed. He noticed everything now.
He hated that he noticed everything now.
"Okay," Aaliyah said, breaking the silence, "today's lesson: don't web the ceiling unless you mean it."
Sol shot her a look. "I got it."
Aaliyah smirked. "Do you, though?"
Judy snorted. "He does not."
Sol's blunt honesty came out without heat. "I'm trying."
Hana's voice was soft but steady. "Then we keep practicing."
She said it like it was the most normal thing in the world: *keep practicing.* Like this wasn't a weird, terrifying new biology hijacking Sol's life.
Sol inhaled slowly, feeling the pull in his ribs, and focused on his wrists again.
He pictured the pressure as a knob.
Not a switch. Not on or off.
A knob.
He flexed gently.
A thin web strand formed between his index finger and thumb, shimmering faintly in the sunbeam like a hair-thin fishing line.
Sol held it there, steady.
Then he relaxed the muscle in his forearm the way he'd practiced.
The strand snapped cleanly with a soft pop.
Judy clapped once. "Okay, that one was good."
Sol blinked. "Was that… encouragement?"
Judy narrowed her eyes. "Don't get used to it."
Aaliyah grinned. "She's proud of you."
Judy snapped, "I'm proud of the fact that he's not turning the apartment into a spider nest."
Sol's mouth twitched despite himself.
Hana stepped a little closer. "Try shaping it again. The glove."
Sol exhaled.
He stood over the sink this time, like they were doing a lab experiment.
He pushed the pressure out slowly.
A mesh formed over his palm—thin and translucent, like lace made of something sticky. It clung lightly to his skin, flexing as his fingers moved.
Sol stared, fascinated. "It's easier now."
Hana nodded, eyes bright. "Your body is learning the pathway."
Aaliyah made a face. "Stop saying 'pathway.' It makes it sound like he's growing an app."
Judy leaned forward. "Can you make it only on your fingertips?"
Sol concentrated hard.
The mesh thinned, retreating from his palm and pooling around the pads of his fingers like sticky gloves cut down to the knuckles.
Sol blinked. "Oh."
Judy's eyes widened. "That's actually useful."
Aaliyah's eyebrows rose. "Okay. So you can turn down the stickiness on command."
Sol tried to touch the faucet.
His fingertips stuck lightly—enough grip to hold, not enough to trap.
He peeled away smoothly.
Hana's shoulders loosened like she'd been holding her breath. "Good."
Sol glanced at her. "Why do you look relieved?"
Hana hesitated, then answered honestly in her own way: "Because if you couldn't control it… everything you touch would become scary."
Sol swallowed.
He hadn't thought about it like that, but she was right. The idea of accidentally sticking to someone's skin—someone's face, someone's hair—made his stomach turn.
He didn't want to be a hazard people had to endure.
He wanted to be… Sol.
Judy tapped the table. "Okay, next: aim practice."
Aaliyah blinked. "You're making a curriculum now?"
Judy shrugged. "If we're stuck here, we might as well become competent."
Sol nodded slowly. "What kind of aim practice."
Judy stood and grabbed three crumpled napkins from the counter, rolling them into little balls. She tossed them onto the floor in a triangle.
"Targets," she said. "Nothing breakable. No windows. No ceilings."
Aaliyah pointed at the ceiling. "Ceiling is banned."
Sol muttered, "I know."
Hana stepped back, hands clasped in front of her, watching with that calm focus again. "Small strands. Controlled. No panic."
Sol took position a few feet away, wrists up, like a weird reverse gunslinger.
He stared at the first napkin ball.
He flicked gently.
*Thwp.*
A thin strand shot out and stuck to it.
The napkin ball dragged slightly toward him.
Sol didn't yank. He reeled it in slowly, hand-over-hand, like fishing.
When it reached his feet, he peeled it off and let the strand dissolve into itself.
Judy nodded approvingly.
Sol moved to the second ball.
This time he fired two strands—one on each side—like reins.
He pulled both evenly.
The napkin ball came straight to him.
Aaliyah's eyes narrowed, impressed. "Okay. That was clean."
Sol tried the third ball and overshot slightly.
The strand hit the floor just beside it and stuck to the linoleum.
Sol grimaced. "Oops."
Judy smirked. "Pick up your mess."
Sol peeled the strand off carefully. It came away without leaving residue.
He exhaled. "At least it's not permanent."
Aaliyah pointed at him. "Yet."
Sol shot her a look. "Don't say 'yet.'"
Hana's voice was gentle. "It's good to think about the 'yet.' It helps you be careful."
Sol's shoulders sagged slightly. "Great. More anxiety."
Hana's mouth softened into a small smile. "Not anxiety. Responsibility."
That word hit Sol differently than the others.
Responsibility was something he understood.
Responsibility was his mother working double shifts.
Responsibility was Nia's lunch packed because Sol didn't trust the school cafeteria.
Responsibility was paying attention to the world because the world didn't pay attention to you.
Sol nodded once. "Okay."
They practiced for another hour.
Not nonstop. Hana enforced breaks like she was running a clinic.
"Water," she'd say, handing him a bottle.
"Sit," she'd say, pointing at the couch when his ankle started to shake.
"Eat," she'd say, setting crackers in front of him like they were medicine.
The strangest part was that Sol listened.
Not because he was weak.
Because somewhere in the middle of being hunted, being stitched up, and nearly losing everything, he'd realized he didn't want to be alone in his decisions anymore.
It was easier to carry things when someone else put a hand under the weight.
Around midday, Sol's spider-sense buzzed sharper suddenly—like a fork scraping glass.
His head snapped toward the living room window before he could stop himself.
Aaliyah noticed instantly. "What."
Sol's voice was low. "Someone outside."
Judy's eyes widened. "Helix?"
Hana stepped closer, calm but ready. "What do you feel."
Sol held his breath.
The buzzing wasn't a scream. It wasn't imminent danger.
It was… attention.
He moved toward the blinds slowly, controlling his breathing like Hana had taught him.
He peeled a tiny corner of the blind down and glanced out.
A man walked by on the sidewalk with a coffee in his hand, earbuds in, looking half-asleep. A normal guy.
Sol's spider-sense buzzed anyway—because his body didn't trust normal anymore.
Sol exhaled slowly. "Just a guy."
Judy's shoulders slumped with relief and anger. "Okay. So your danger sense is paranoid."
Sol's blunt honesty came out like a tired laugh. "So am I."
Hana stepped beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his lightly.
That contact was small—nothing dramatic.
But Sol felt it like a warm spark because his nerves were turned up to high sensitivity and because he wasn't used to people standing close without wanting something from him.
Hana didn't move away.
She just stayed, watching his face like she was monitoring his breathing.
"You did good," she whispered.
Sol blinked. "For what."
"For checking without panicking," Hana said. "You didn't spray webs everywhere. You didn't shut down. You just… assessed."
Sol swallowed. "Okay."
Aaliyah cleared her throat loudly from behind them. "Wow. Cute."
Hana's cheeks warmed.
Sol's face warmed too, and he hated that it did.
Judy rolled her eyes. "Aaliyah, shut up."
Aaliyah grinned. "I'm sorry. Watching them try not to be adorable is like watching two cats pretend they don't like each other."
Sol turned sharply. "We're not—"
He stopped himself before he said something dumb.
He glanced at Hana.
Hana looked away, embarrassed, but the corner of her mouth lifted slightly.
Judy pointed at Sol like she'd caught him committing a crime. "There it is."
Sol frowned. "What."
Judy smirked. "You're doing the 'gentleman' thing."
Sol's blunt honesty came out instantly. "Because I'm trying not to be a creep."
Aaliyah laughed. "Bro, your self-awareness is both impressive and exhausting."
Hana, still blushing, spoke softly: "You're not a creep."
Sol stared at her.
Hana met his eyes and held them with a quiet steadiness.
"You notice things," she continued, voice calm. "That's normal. You're just… trying to be respectful. That matters."
Sol didn't know what to do with that, so he did what he always did with feelings he couldn't carry:
He nodded.
"Okay," he murmured.
And because he was still Sol, he added, blunt: "I'm still going to mess up sometimes.... and I might not say sorry next time."
Hana's smile was small and real. "Then we talk about it."
Aaliyah made a gagging noise. "Communication. Disgusting."
Judy threw a pillow at her.
Aaliyah caught it like a reflex and laughed.
For a moment—just a moment—the apartment felt like it belonged to four teenagers again instead of four people hiding from corporate monsters.
Sol held onto that moment like it was oxygen.
They ate lunch like they were camping.
Soup warmed in a pot. Crackers crushed into it. Peanut butter spooned straight from the jar because nobody cared about manners right now.
Judy stole the "clean" spoon and declared it "hers" like a tyrant.
Aaliyah complained the entire time but ate anyway.
Hana made sure Sol ate more than everyone else, and when Sol tried to protest, she just raised her eyebrows and Sol shut up.
After lunch, the training shifted from webs to movement.
Aaliyah insisted.
"You can't just stand there and become sticky," she said. "You need footwork."
Sol frowned. "Footwork."
Aaliyah nodded, serious now. "Crane beat you with timing and angles. You won because you improvised, not because you were better. So you need to learn how to move like you belong in your own body."
Sol stared at her, surprised.
Aaliyah shrugged like she hadn't just dropped the most useful thing anyone had told him. "Dance is basically combat without punching. Balance, rhythm, reading people."
Judy snorted. "Dance is combat with glitter."
Aaliyah snapped, "I will end you."
Hana stepped between them gently. "No ending."
Sol watched Aaliyah for a second and realized something:
Under the sarcasm and bossiness, Aaliyah was scared too.
And she was coping by controlling what she could.
Sol understood that.
So he listened.
Aaliyah cleared a space in the living room by pushing the coffee table aside. She demonstrated simple steps—weight shifts, pivots, how to keep your center under you so you didn't get thrown off balance.
Sol copied.
At first he looked awkward, stiff, like he was trying to move without taking up space.
Then his spider-sense buzzed when Aaliyah suddenly stepped in closer.
Sol shifted instinctively, pivoting away without even thinking.
Aaliyah froze, eyebrows lifting. "Okay. That reaction is good."
Judy laughed. "He dodged you like you were danger."
Aaliyah smirked. "I am danger."
Hana clapped softly once, the sound gentle. "Again."
They repeated it.
Aaliyah would step in fast.
Sol would dodge.
Not perfect. Sometimes he overreacted and stumbled. Sometimes he peeled his hand off the wall too hard and nearly stuck again. But each time, he learned something: how to release his grip, how to distribute pressure in his feet, how to move without jerking like a scared animal.
And each time he succeeded, the girls reacted like it mattered.
Not with exaggerated praise.
With small things.
Judy's grin that she tried to hide.
Aaliyah's quiet nod.
Hana's soft "Good."
Those small things did something to Sol's chest that he didn't have a name for.
By late afternoon, fatigue caught up to them.
Not dramatic collapse—just the slow slump of bodies that had been running on adrenaline for too long.
Judy ended up on the couch again, this time with her legs tucked under her, shoulders resting against Sol's arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Sol froze at the contact for half a second, then relaxed.
He reminded himself: *don't make it weird.*
Judy didn't.
She just leaned.
Her eyes drifted half-shut. "My mom used to tell me I was 'too much' when I was little."
Sol glanced at her. "She still tells you that."
Judy elbowed him lightly. "Rude."
Sol's honesty was gentle. "You are a lot."
Judy's mouth twisted. "Yeah."
Sol added, blunt: "It's also why you're alive."
Judy stared up at him.
For a second, her usual sarcasm faltered and something raw showed through.
"Thanks," she whispered.
Sol nodded once. "Yeah."
Hana sat on the floor near Sol's feet again, resting her head briefly against the edge of the couch cushion like she'd run out of upright. Her shoulder brushed Sol's shin lightly.
Aaliyah sat on the other side of the room, back against the wall, arms around her knees, watching them with a look that was equal parts annoyance and warmth.
"You're all nesting," she said.
Judy didn't open her eyes. "Shut up."
Hana murmured, half-asleep, "It's efficient."
Sol's mouth twitched.
He looked down at Hana and felt his chest tighten in a way that wasn't pain.
Hana had been the calmest one in the middle of the nightmare.
And now that they weren't actively dying, she looked… small. Tired. Human.
Sol shifted slightly and draped a corner of the blanket over Hana's shoulders without thinking.
Hana blinked up at him, startled.
Sol's face warmed. "You were cold."
Hana's cheeks turned pink. "Thank you."
Judy's eyes cracked open just enough to see it.
She smirked. "Gentleman."
Sol sighed. "Don't start."
Judy's smirk softened into something fond. "I'm not. I'm just… noticing."
Aaliyah snorted. "Now you're a hypocrite."
Judy shot her a glare. "Let me have my moment."
Aaliyah rolled her eyes but didn't push further.
The quiet stretched again—this time not tense, but soft.
Sol's spider-sense hummed faintly, still present, but it didn't drown out the room anymore.
And for the first time since the lab, Sol felt something like hope creep in.
Not big hope.
Not "everything will be okay."
Just… hope that he wasn't doing this alone.
At some point, Hana shifted closer in her sleep, her head tipping to rest against Sol's knee.
Sol tensed instinctively—then relaxed when he realized she was asleep, trusting.
He didn't move.
He kept his hands where they were, open and still, like any sudden motion might break the fragile peace.
Judy's hand, still resting against his arm, tightened slightly.
Maybe in her sleep too.
Or maybe she'd done it on purpose.
Sol didn't call it out.
He just let it happen.
Aaliyah watched from across the room, eyes softer now.
"You know," she said quietly, "if we survive this, we're going to have the weirdest group chat."
Judy mumbled, "We can't use phones."
Aaliyah shrugged. "Future us problem."
Sol's voice came out low, amused despite himself. "If we survive."
Hana murmured, half-asleep, "We will."
The way she said it—simple, certain—made Sol's throat tighten.
He stared at the dust in the sunlight and let the warmth of their closeness sink into him.
Not as a distraction.
As a reminder.
People were worth fighting for.
Not as symbols.
As soft shoulders on a couch, as quiet breaths in a cramped apartment, as annoying jokes and stubborn loyalty and hands that held you steady when you thought you were going to fall.
Sol's wrists pulsed faintly with web-pressure, but he didn't fear it as much.
Because control wasn't just webs and reflexes.
Control was learning how to stay human when the world gave you reasons not to.
And in that small apartment—tired bodies leaning on him, trust settling in like a blanket—Sol realized something quiet and terrifying:
He didn't just want to protect them.
He wanted to be much more than that.