“You’re staring,” LYLA hums, floating near Miguel’s head. He flinches. “Again. Third time in the last hour.”

“Shut up.” He turns back, away from you. Part of him wants to shrink away from the brightness of your smile; the other part of him wants to horde it for himself. You’re not his. Not in the timeline you’re from. He looks at you and sees everything, but you see him as a stranger. There is no Miguel O’Hara in your timeline. It should stay that way.