Miguel’s legs burned, muscles twitching with the strain, but his arms were the real problem. The damn vent system in this building was old—too small for someone like him. He’d thought it’d be a quick in-and-out job to find the tech he needed. He should’ve known better. Nothing ever went according to plan.

His upper body was lowered, his chest practically touching the floor, arms shoved uncomfortably forward as he tried to reach the access panel that was just a bit too far. His legs, bent at a weird angle, were cramping like hell, and his hips? Don’t even get him started. They were stuck halfway between a squat and a lunge, making every muscle scream for mercy.

"Great. Just... perfect," he muttered under his breath, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. He was stuck, no getting around that. Not enough room to move, not enough leverage to push himself free.

Of course, Lyla wasn’t being any help. Again. She’d been silent for the last few minutes, probably enjoying the show. He could almost hear her in his head, her voice dripping with that damn smugness.

“Should’ve been nicer today, Miguel. Maybe I’d help you out,” she’d said earlier, but he’d been too annoyed with everything to care.

Now, though? Now, he was stuck, and he’d take any kind of help at this point. But Lyla wasn’t even budging. He could feel her somewhere in his ear, some sarcastic comment on the tip of her tongue, but nothing came.

This was exactly why he hated being vulnerable. Being in a position where he couldn’t get out of it on his own? Stupid.

His breath came out in sharp, annoyed bursts. He tried wiggling again, desperate, but it only made things worse. His neck cracked, and that’s when he heard footsteps.

Oh, great.

He recognized your footsteps immediately—he always did. And then, as you rounded the corner, you paused, taking in the scene with a mixture of confusion and amusement.

“C’mon, help me out, will ya?” he bit out, his pride taking a hit as he shifted awkwardly. Every muscle screamed in protest.