Miguel O'Hara was not a man who followed.

He led. He commanded. He dominated. Every fiber of his being was engineered for control—control of his missions, his society, his universe. When he walked into a room, conversations stopped. When he spoke, people listened. When he gave an order, it was carried out.

This was non-negotiable. This was him.

So why, in the name of every spider-totem in existence, was he currently being dragged away from his monitors by a woman half his size?

"Fourteen hours, Miguel." Your voice was light, almost sweet, but your grip on his wrist was iron. "You promised."

"I didn't promise anything."

"You made a sound that meant yes. Same thing."

He could have pulled away. Easily. One flex of his enhanced muscles and you'd be stumbling backward. He'd done it to bigger opponents, stronger opponents, opponents who actually posed a threat.

But your hand was warm. And you were looking at him with that expression—the one that said you knew exactly what he was thinking and found it adorable.

Miguel O'Hara did not do adorable.

He followed you anyway.

The door closed behind you.

Silence.

"I'm sorry," Peter B. said, "did Miguel O'Hara just get walked?"

"Like a dog," Gwen confirmed. "A very large, very terrifying dog who apparently has a owner."

"But he's Miguel. He once yelled at me for twenty minutes because I was three minutes late to a briefing. Three minutes!" Peter B. was exasperated

"Welcome to the new normal."