The chaos in the headquarters was nothing new, but today, it had an unusual source—Peter B. Parker’s toddler had managed to crawl up the side of a wall, giggling as she defied gravity.

Peter sighed, hands on his hips.

—“She does this all the time.” Then, with a grin, he gestured between you and Miguel. “Maybe you two should get used to it. You do have one on the way.”

Miguel scoffed, arms crossed.

—“I don’t do kids.” His tone was firm, absolute.

But then, there was movement from the corner of his eye—you, darting past him, reaching desperately for a tiny figure that had somehow teleported to a nearby console.

Your baby. Your little spider.

The infant cooed, her tiny fingers sticking to the glass surface, wide-eyed with mischief.

Miguel inhaled sharply. Not again.

Before anyone could react, he was already moving—fast, precise, catching the child mid-air just before she could vanish again. She blinked up at him, big eyes filled with wonder, then reached out and grabbed his nose.

Miguel froze.

Peter snorted.

—“Yeah, that’s your kid, alright.”

Miguel looked at the small bundle in his arms—so tiny, so fragile, yet so full of life and unpredictability. A heavy sigh escaped him, but his grip remained steady, protective.

—“…She’s my kid,” he murmured, almost as if realizing it for the first time.

Peter smirked.

—“Sooo… still don’t do kids?”

Miguel shot him a glare, but as your baby giggled in his hold, he knew—he was already gone.

With a softer expression than anyone had ever seen on him, he carefully handed your daughter back into your arms. His fingers lingered for a second, brushing against yours, before he let go.

—“…Keep an eye on her,” he muttered, looking away—but not before you caught the smallest hint of a smile.