For Brody Kent, the laws of thermodynamics were easier to understand than Gwen Stacy. Physics was predictable; if you applied a certain amount of Ki to an object, it moved. But if you looked at Gwen for more than three seconds, your heart rate spiked, your palms felt strange, and your internal tactical processor began to glitch.
Brody was currently sitting in the Stacy family kitchen, watching Gwen's father, Captain George Stacy, clean his service weapon. The Captain was a man who lived by the book, and he currently had his eyes narrowed at Brody.
"So, Kent," Captain Stacy said, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "Gwen tells me you're from a farm in Kansas. You've got a lot of muscle for a kid who just reads books."
Brody, wearing his **200G suit** under a thick sweater, sat perfectly still. To him, the Captain's gaze was less threatening than a training drone, but he knew he had to act "intimidated" to be normal. "Heavy lifting, sir. It's a lot of work on a farm."
Gwen walked into the room, rolling her eyes as she handed Brody a glass of water. Unlike everyone else, Gwen didn't just see the "strong, silent farm boy." She knew the truth. She knew about the pod in the cornfield, the Legendary bloodline, and the fact that Brody was currently carrying the weight of a tank on his shoulders just to sit at her table.
"Leave him alone, Dad," Gwen said, resting a hand naturally on Brody's shoulder. She felt the rock-hard tension in his muscles and leaned in, whispering just for him: *"Relax, Prince. Your aura is starting to make the microwave hum."*
Brody took a stiff sip of water. He wasn't used to being "taken care of." His entire life had been about being the shield for Clark or the anchor for Peter. But with Gwen, the roles were reversed. She navigated the social waters for him, shielding him from the "normal" world he didn't quite understand.
The "Double Date" that wasn't supposed to be a date happened at a new high-end bowling alley in Midtown. Peter was there, nervously trying to talk to Mary Jane Watson, but the dynamic shifted when a sleek black car pulled up.
**Harry Osborn** stepped out, looking like he had walked off a fashion runway. Harry had been part of their circle for a few months, but tonight, he seemed particularly focused on Gwen.
"Stacy! You actually made it," Harry said, ignoring Peter and walking straight to
Gwen. He flashed a smile that cost more than the Kents' car. "I brought the VIP passes. My dad owns the developer who built this place. We don't have to wait in line with the... locals."
Harry glanced at Brody, his eyes flickering with a hint of envy. He saw the way Gwen was standing—her hip leaned slightly toward Brody, her hand occasionally brushing his arm. To Harry, Brody was a mystery he couldn't solve with money.
"Hey, Kent," Harry said, his voice carrying a subtle edge. "Nice sweater. A bit warm for New York, isn't it?"
"I get cold easily," Brody lied, his face an immovable mask of calm.
Throughout the night, the romantic comedy of errors played out. Harry tried to show off his bowling form, hitting strikes and looking to Gwen for approval. Gwen, however, was too busy watching Brody.
Brody was struggling. To him, a bowling ball was as light as a ping-pong ball. He stood at the lane, his "warrior brain" calculating the friction of the oil on the wood with the intensity of a mid-air dogfight.
"Brody, it's a game, not a tactical mission," Gwen laughed, stepping up behind him. She reached around and adjusted his grip on the ball. To the outside world, it looked like a sweet, romantic gesture. To Brody, the sensation of her being that close was more overwhelming than a 300G training session.
"I don't want to break the floor," Brody whispered.
"Then stop gripping it like you're trying to crush a moon," Gwen teased, her breath warm against his ear. "Just let go. Trust the physics. Trust me."
Harry, watching from the seating area,
clenched his jaw. He turned to Peter. "What is it with those two, Parker? Kent barely speaks. He's like a gargoyle."
Peter, who was busy trying to find the courage to ask MJ for her number, shrugged. "Brody's just... solid, Harry. He's the most solid person I know."
The night ended with the group walking back toward the subway. Harry offered Gwen a ride in his town car, a blatant move to isolate her from Brody.
"Thanks, Harry, but I think I'll walk with Brody," Gwen said, her tone polite but final. "He promised to help me with my astrophysics project."
Harry's face fell, the mask of the rich playboy slipping for a second to reveal a lonely, envious teenager. He nodded stiffly and got into his car, leaving the four of them on the sidewalk.
As Peter and MJ peeled off toward the
Parker house, Brody and Gwen walked toward her porch in silence. The air was crisp, and the "Heat" in Brody's blood was humming—not for battle, but for the girl walking beside him.
"You were very patient tonight," Gwen said, stopping at her steps. "Even when Harry was being... Harry."
"He is under a lot of pressure from his father," Brody said, his Saiyan instincts picking up on Harry's inner turmoil. "I don't mind."
Gwen stepped up one private stair, bringing her eye-level with him. She reached out and straightened his collar, her fingers lingering on his neck. "You're a good man, Brody Kent. A terrible bowler, but a good man."
She leaned in, and for a second, Brody's "battle-hardened" brain went completely offline. She didn't kiss him on the lips—she
kissed his cheek, a soft, lingering touch that felt more powerful than a planet-cracking punch.
"See you tomorrow, Prince," she whispered, turning to go inside.
Brody stood on the sidewalk for a long time, the 200G of his suit feeling light as a feather. He looked at the Stacy house, then at the stars. He was a warrior, a prince, and a legend. But as he touched his cheek where her lips had been, he realized he was also a fifteen-year-old boy who was hopelessly, dangerously in over his head.