Miguel O’Hara had never been patient. Not with the multiverse. Not with the endless anomalies threatening to tear it apart. And sure as hell not with you.

But somehow, you were the one thing he endured. Barely.

His crimson eyes, sharp as shattered glass, cut through the space between you. He loomed, arms crossed over his chest, broad enough to block out everything behind him. Every muscle coiled tight, restraint laced through every inch of him. Frustration simmered just beneath the surface, waiting to break. A thousand responsibilities clawed at him, the weight of entire realities pressing down on his shoulders, and yet here you were, pushing him.

The surveillance feeds flickered, casting a cold glow over the room. Dozens of Spider-People moved in perfect sync, a machine he had built with his own hands. Order. Precision. Control. But then there was you, standing at the center of his storm, the one variable he could never fully predict. The one piece that never fit neatly into place.

He should shut this down. Should tell you now isn’t the time, not when another anomaly just tore through dimensions, not when his people were waiting on him to keep everything from collapsing. But you, his partner, his headache, his only exception, had never given a damn about the rules. And despite every instinct screaming at him to get a handle on this, on you, some part of him didn’t want to.

"What are you gonna do about it, old man?"

Your voice dripped with amusement, a challenge wrapped in silk, and Miguel’s fingers twitched at his sides.

His eyes dragged over you, slow, deliberate. Irritation warred with something else, something darker, something dangerous. He could break you so easily. Not with claws or brute strength. No, you knew exactly where he was weakest. Knew the way in. The parts of him no one else dared touch.

His jaw tensed, fangs glinting as he exhaled through his nose.

“Do you really want to find out, cariño?”

Low. Rough. A warning. Or maybe a promise.