[⚠︎] ▼ 𝙵𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝙱𝚒𝚝𝚎 ▲ Miguel O'Hara x Reader▼ 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝟷/ 𝟸

▸ THREE ◂

"Let's head back," Miguel suggests, opening a portal back to the main room.

You followed him quietly, absently rotating your wrist to inspect the complex watch. Miguel noticed your curiosity and offered a reassuring nod. "I'll teach you everything you need to know about it. For now, let's introduce you to a few people."

"I'm not sure Peter's available for visitors," Lyla chimed in. "He and Mary just had Mayday a few days ago, y'know."

"Who is this Peter?" you asked, perking up at the mention of another name.

It wasn't long before you found yourself face-to-face with Peter B. Parker himself. The cheerful, easygoing Spider-Man greeted you like an old friend, his casual charm putting you off-guard. Peter was the picture of casual chaos. His brown hair was slightly messy as if he'd just rolled out of bed, and his unshaven face gave him an air of scruffy charm. 

He wore a teal jacket over his faded red spider suit, paired with sweatpants that somehow worked with his laid-back demeanor. His grin was wide and genuine, his entire posture relaxed, even with a tiny red-haired baby nestled in his arms. It was hard to imagine this man as a seasoned hero—but the way he cradled Mayday told you everything about his priorities. Then, to your utter surprise, he placed a bundle in your arms.

"That's my little girl! Isn't she just adorable?" Peter beamed, his face glowing with pride as he handed over Mayday, a tiny, red-haired newborn swaddled in a light pink blanket.

You froze, the sudden weight of the baby startling you. She was so small, so fragile, her little face serene as she slept. She hadn't even opened her eyes yet. A warmth bloomed in your chest, soft and unfamiliar, as you looked down at her peaceful expression.

"Peter," Lyla hissed nervously, hovering beside him. "Maybe you shouldn't just hand her a baby like that—"

"Huh? Why not? Who doesn't wanna hold her!" Peter laughed, oblivious.

"Because she's a killer," Lyla hissed through gritted teeth, gesturing wildly in your direction.

Miguel shot her a sharp glance, silencing her protests with a wave of his hand. His attention was elsewhere. His gaze lingered on you, watching intently as you cradled the baby with a gentleness that caught even him by surprise.

The contrast was stark and mesmerizing. You—the hardened, cold-blooded agent who had bested him in combat not once, but twice—now stood completely disarmed, captivated by the tiny life in your arms. Miguel noticed how your hands, skilled at wielding weapons with deadly precision, trembled ever so slightly as they cradled Mayday with care.

Your wide-eyed wonder mirrored the look you'd had when you first gazed out at his city. Vulnerable, human, and unguarded. Miguel's lips twitched, an almost imperceptible smile breaking through his typically stoic demeanor. He couldn't help it. There was something oddly beautiful about seeing this side of you—the side that wasn't hardened by survival or shaped by violence.

"She's perfect," you murmured softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Miguel's chest tightened, and he allowed himself to enjoy the scene, already knowing how rare it was to see you like this despite only knowing you for a few hours. If you could feel this much tenderness for a child—perhaps you could be trusted with more.

You gently traced a trembling finger over Mayday's tiny nose, marveling at her softness. The little girl yawned in response, her tiny mouth forming a perfect "o." The sight tugged at something deep within you, crumbling the walls you'd built around yourself. For a brief moment, the cold, unyielding killer faded, replaced by someone softer—someone you thought you'd lost long ago.