The skyline of Nueva York stretched out before them, bathed in the golden hues of a setting sun. Miguel stood at the edge of a rooftop, arms crossed, watching as you landed beside him with effortless grace.

—“You’re late,” he muttered, but there was no real bite to his words.

You tilted your head, giving him a knowing look.

Miguel sighed, running a hand through his hair.

—“I should be angry,” he admitted, “but I’m not.”

The wind tousled his dark curls as he glanced at you, something unspoken in his crimson gaze. You’d always had a way of making him soften, of slipping past the walls he built around himself.

—“You drive me insane,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Reckless, stubborn… always getting yourself into trouble.”

His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant at first, before he laced them together. His touch was warm, grounding.

—“And yet,” Miguel exhaled, as if surrendering to something inevitable, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The city blurred behind him as he cupped your face, his expression unreadable—until his lips met yours, slow and deliberate. The weight of the multiverse, the constant battles, the never-ending missions—none of it mattered in that moment.

For once, Miguel O’Hara wasn’t thinking.

He was simply feeling.