Miguel's jaw clenched as he stepped into the apartment, exhaustion draped over him like a heavy cloak. Five days. Five relentless days of chasing down leads, dismantling illegal tech, and dealing with the corporate scum of Nueva York. Every muscle in his body ached, his head throbbed, and all he wanted—all he wanted—was a hot shower, a decent meal, and maybe six uninterrupted hours of sleep.

But no. No, of course not. You were waiting for him. Not just waiting—pouncing.

“¡Dios mío! Miguel, you’re back!” Your voice was this mix of excitement and relief, and before he could even drop his bag, you had your arms wrapped around his neck, squeezing the air out of him.

He froze for a second, his body stiff as a board. His mind screamed, Let it go, O’Hara. Let it go.

“Sí, I’m back,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly from lack of sleep. He stepped back, gently prying your arms off him like he was handling a live grenade. “¿Por qué estás tan—? Ay, no importa. Just… let me breathe, ¿okay?”

But of course, you weren’t listening. No, instead, you were trailing behind him as he headed toward the kitchen, asking a million questions at once. “Did you eat? You didn’t eat, did you? You look thinner. Were you hurt? Did you sleep? Miguel, look at me!”

He paused mid-step, his shoulders tensing. His claws flexed involuntarily, catching the light as he clenched his fists. “Por favor,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice tight. “Just—give me five minutes. Five.”

But no. No te callas nunca. You were still talking, still hovering, still poking and prodding.

And then it happened.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

His eye twitched.

“Ya basta!” he snapped, turning to face you, his red eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. “One more kiss—uno más, and I swear to Dios, I’m gonna—" He stopped himself, pinching the bridge of his nose as he took a deep breath. "Voy a perder la paciencia, ¿entendido?”