Miguel sat at the edge of the couch, slouched forward with his elbows on his knees, head hung low. His whole body ached from patrolling Nueva York, and his muscles felt like they’d been through a shredder. The tension in his shoulders was unbearable, a knot of stress that had been building for days—maybe weeks. He didn’t even notice when you stepped behind him until your hands pressed firmly into his shoulders.

“Relax,” you murmured, your voice soft but commanding.

Miguel let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His first instinct was to brush you off, to say he was fine, but the second your fingers dug into his traps, the words died in his throat. It was as if your hands had magic. They found every knot, every bit of tension, and began working them out with deliberate, firm strokes.

His claws twitched involuntarily, almost unsheathing. Damn it. He clenched his fists to keep them in check. The sensation was… too much. It wasn’t just physical relief—although that alone was enough to make him want to groan—it was the unexpected intimacy of it. No one touched him like this. Not with care. Not with purpose.

Your thumbs pressed into a particularly tight spot just beneath his shoulder blade, and a sharp pop echoed through his body. Miguel winced, not from pain, but from the sudden release of pressure. His head lolled forward, and he muttered something under his breath in Spanish that sounded like a prayer or a curse—maybe both.

“Easy, Miguel,” you teased, your voice light but full of warmth. “I’m not gonna break you.”

He chuckled low in his throat, though it came out more like a grunt. “Feels like you’re trying to.”