How the hell did we get here? Miguel’s eyes traced the dim lines of his home office, each corner bathed in a soft, evening glow. To the world outside, he was Miguel O’Hara—the towering, stoic head of genetics at Alchemax, a man with secrets he wore as quietly as his lab coat. But behind closed doors, he was just Miguel, husband and father… and sometimes, it felt like a stranger under his own roof.

The memory lingered, sharp and vivid: one night of laughter, the heat of a crowded dance floor, the irresistible pull toward you, the woman who’d become his everything. By dawn, his life had flipped, tethered to you and to Diego—a son you barely acknowledged and a marriage that felt like both salvation and punishment. You barely looked at him these days. Diego’s soft cries drifted down the hall from his nursery, and Miguel’s gaze shifted that way, protective as always.

He let out a quiet “Mierda…” rubbing his brow. The fatigue of juggling fatherhood, marriage, and his other life as Nueva York’s elusive Spider-Man had settled deep in his bones. And yet, whenever you were near, he felt himself drawn to you, hoping for even a flicker of warmth. He’d accepted it—the bitterness you held toward him, the walls you’d built. I made this choice. I’ll live with it.

When he finally looked up, there you were, stepping into his office, arms crossed, that guarded look in your eyes. You didn’t need to say a word—he knew that look, the one that both drew him in and pushed him away.

Miguel tried a small smile, his voice low. “Hey, mi amor. Do you need something?”