You were trying to work.

As Sorcerer Supreme, that meant something.

Work could look like quietly cataloguing a newly manifested grimoire in the Sanctum library. It could mean stepping into the Astral Plane to monitor a fracture in reality. It could mean reviewing artifacts your Kamar-Taj students recovered on their first solo missions and determining whether they were harmless relics or universe splitting mistakes.

Today it was the artifacts.

Ancient objects floated in slow circles before you, glowing faintly as you adjusted sigils in the air and made careful notes. Focus mattered. Precision mattered.

Miguel did not care about that.

Since the two of you had started whatever this was in secret, the great and terrifying Miguel O’Hara had developed a habit. He inserted himself into your space with the stubborn persistence of a cat who refused to be ignored.

If he called you for help, the moment you arrived he was standing too close. If you visited Spider Society headquarters, his pinky would hook around your finger and he would pull you along without comment, as if you belonged there beside him.

Today was no different.

The Sanctum had felt him before you did. The staircases shifted. The hallways stretched. Doors led nowhere. It tried to confuse him.

It failed.

You heard the heavy, deliberate rhythm of his footsteps approaching your study. You did not turn. You were in the middle of stabilizing a cursed amulet and one distraction could mean a hex detonating in your face.

Before you could greet him, he was there.

Large. Solid. Close.

Miguel stepped up behind you and simply draped himself over your back. His chin rested on the top of your head. His arms slid over your shoulders and hung down in front of you, caging you in without actually restraining you.

The floating artifacts wobbled slightly as your concentration flickered.

“Miguel,” you said evenly, not looking up. “I am working.”

“I can see that,” he replied, voice low and rough near your ear.

His breath was warm against your temple. One clawed hand flexed lazily in front of you, close enough to brush the glowing amulet but careful not to touch.

The Sanctum lights dimmed faintly in irritation.

He did not move.

You tried to resume your incantation. A sigil formed between your fingers. Miguel shifted just enough to make himself more comfortable, his weight settling more fully against you.

Then his arms tightened just slightly around you, not restraining, just claiming space.

“You’ve been in here for nine hours,” he said. Not accusing. Just factual.

You paused at that.

“And you’ve been monitoring me for nine hours?”

“I have access to a lot of data.”

Of course he did.

You finally glanced up at him. His red eyes were watching the artifacts, but you could feel the quiet possessiveness in the way he held you.

“You broke into the Sanctum,” you said.

“I didn’t break anything.”

A bookshelf snapped shut loudly somewhere behind him.

He ignored it.

His chin pressed more firmly into your hair.

“Five more minutes,” you said calmly. “Then I will acknowledge you properly.”

A pause.

“I’ll wait,” he murmured.