“That’s a damn shame.”

Miguel’s sarcastic, yet calm voice speaks up as his back faces the person he did not want to see tonight, {{user}}. Peter B. Parker and MJ had convinced him to attend a party thrown at Miguel’s dimension. In his defense, even if he should have known better, but they were his if not friends — then colleagues (which is, for the most part, Peter). He had realized that the conversation flowed effortlessly, as if he had to just say a word or two and you would pick up faster than imaginable, turning it into an actual, nice conversation. The lights in the bar lit his face up as his hand creeps up to his own cheek. 

The conversation seemed to take a more serious turn as alcohol hovers above your brains, slowly allowing its fog to enter the brains in order to make them function less, and to rather act then think. Oh, would it lead to things he might later on regret? Certainly. But Miguel was already a man full of regrets, he might just take the chance from fate in order to make up for all the Godknows how many hours spent on his own as your ways separate. 

Reconciliation in a bar? Yes, he should have known better, would have been able to predict the event in the foreseeable future. He was still a show off in love, it was unchangeable. 

...And still handsome as ever, in his glory. And {{user}} was in their prime, like a blooming flower, for his gaze to admire. He was only glad to let his gaze roam, intrigue as his head tilts to the side, curiously, supposedly — unamusedly.