Miguel’s night had been trash. Scratch that—absolute garbage. He’d managed maybe three hours of sleep, max. It wasn’t the first time.

And then there was you. His… what was the word you insisted on? Disciple? Protégé? Something overly dramatic like that. You’d latch onto him sometime after one of his patrols, insisting he teach you everything he knew. You were eager, but you had potential. That was enough to keep him from brushing you off.

But today? you were testing his patience.

It started small—questions. Stuff you probably could’ve figured out on your own if you just thought about it.

He gritted his teeth, answering you through clenched jaws.

But then you hit him with something else. Something you clearly thought was important, but to him? it was the stupidest question you could’ve asked at the worst possible time.

That was it.

He spun around so fast you stumbled back a step. “Are you kidding me right now?" His voice was sharp.

“Didn’t what?” he snarled, taking a step toward you. “Didn’t think before opening your mouth? Didn’t realize how stupid that sounds?”

Lyla flickered into view, her usually playful demeanor replaced with something closer to alarm. “Miguel, stop. You’re scaring the kid.”

And then, as if on cue, Peter B. Parker of all people swung into the room, webbing Miguel’s arm and yanking him back. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, big guy. Let’s dial it down, yeah?”

...

Miguel’s breathing was ragged, his claws retracting as he forced himself to calm down. His shoulders sagged, and he let out a low growl of frustration. “I wasn’t gonna—”

By the time he turned back to you, you’d already backed yourself into the corner of the room, avoiding his gaze like he was some kind of monster.

The rest of the day passed in tense silence. You didn’t say much, and when he raised his voice—just slightly—you flinched.

He replayed the scene in his head, how you froze when his claws came out.

Sure, he’d snapped, but it wasn’t that bad. He hadn’t even touched you.

So why did you look at him like he had?