TW: just a lil dash of spice ✨

  "Hey, Miguito."

  I twirl a lock of grass between my fingers. His grave's begun to sprout wildflowers, small buds of blues and yellows and pinks. I lean against his grave stone pine tree and watch the rolling hills of the horizon, searching for the words I want to say.

   I drop my hands to my lap in frustration. How can I be a journalist, work with words every day, and yet my mental dictionary still fails me? I press my head against the tree's trunk and frown at the long stretch of baby grass before me.

  "I had it all planned out in the car ride here, you know," I mumble. My thumb strokes the grass strand wound tight around my index finger. "My speech. I went over it and over it again." I laugh shortly. "Look at you. Even like this, you still leave me fumbling for words."

  I grin at my own stupid little joke, and then feel the sting of tears welling. They drip down my cheeks and land amongst his wildflowers.

   "I miss you," I choke out. I sag against the tree and pretend it's him, wish dearly it was him. "I miss you a lot. Every single day."

  I close my eyes tightly. More tears fall, twin rivulet waterfalls. The breeze whispers through the leaves above me, sending a chill that bites through my coat. My seat has grown damp from the dewy ground. I don't plan to move anytime soon.

  If Mig's in the earth, then I'll stick as close to him as I can.

  My breath comes out in an uneven shudder. My throat begins to close, grows thick and painful with my emotional torrent. I force past it. I came here to talk to him, so I'll talk to him.

  "You just couldn't stop at being a goddamn genius, could you?" I chuckle weakly. "You had to be Spider-Man, too. I can't believe you kept that from me. You're an asshole until the very end, you know?"

  My grin wobbles. "Fuck, but I love you for it. I love you." My voice pitches, shaky. "I love you, Mig. I love you so much."

  I lift my shirt to wipe away my tears. I feel stupid for not bringing any tissues.

  "Oh, my god," I exhale with a thin laugh. "Oh, Mig, you'd love Peter. You'd wring his neck, but you'd love him. And Jess and Patrick, too. There's so many of you - and not just you-you. Spider-People, a whole fucking society." I sob through a giggle and shake my head. "It's so absurd. You're still amazing me, but that's not surprising. You've been amazing me since I met you.

  "Do you remember that?" I ask. My vision has completely gone, blurry thoroughly with tears. "You were such a dick to everyone, and then you meet one girl who can throw your attitude right back at you and you fall in love." I snicker and lift my eyes to the sky - so blue. So blue, like he made it this perfect just for me. "You were adorable. And the day we had Rosalina - you were crying more than she was. Who knew that mean, scary Miguel O'Hara was such a softy?"

  I imagine him rolling his eyes at me and grumbling. It brings a smile to my face.

  "You're a softy in all of the universes," I argue with the reaction I know he'd have. "And I think there's no choice for me but to love every version of you."

  I glance over at the edge of the glade where Miguel waits. He's tinkering with his Gizmo and talking quietly to Lyla. They're both far enough away to give me privacy, but close enough that I can call to them if I need.

  "I'm sorry for not telling Rosita," I whisper. My eyes drop back to the budding flowers that grow above him. "I just can't bring myself to. But I promise I will one day. When she's a little older and can handle it."

  I stroke my thumb down the grass strand. The wind blows my hair across my face, streaks it with the tears from my cheeks.

  "God - she loves you so much, Mig. She looks at you like you're her entire world." I pull my knees up and bury my chin into my arms. My curled grass strand flutters to the dirt. "I can't blame her. You were my entire world, too. You still are."

  My gaze brush over the strands of grass. I try to see him in them - the shade of green, the lushness, corresponding to the shape of his body. I fail to. I try to realise if that's a good thing or not and can't quite come to a conclusion.

  I stand on shaky legs. "Don't worry about us, amor. We've got... well, you, looking out for us." I smile softly. "And he's doing a pretty good job at it. You always do."  

  I wrap my arms around the tree and hug it tightly. The bark stings and aches, digging into my skin. I squeeze it tighter.

  "I love you," I say again, weak and heartbroken. "I love you, Mig."

  I bend down and pick one of the budding flowers. I want something to remember him by. I've forgotten that it's spring, now. He's reminded me.

  Miguel looks up when I approach, teary-eyed and wet-cheeked. He opens his arms with the offer of a hug and I step into him without hesitation. My tears soak his shirt. His hand rubs my back. Lyla flits about us, frowning with sympathy.

  When my shaking stops, I look up at him. He wipes my fresh tears away and smiles sadly. "What have you got there?"

  I glance down at the flower bud. It's blue, like his old Spider-Man suit. "It's from his grave."

  "It's pretty," he offers.

  I frown at the flower. I shouldn't have taken it. It'll die, now. Miguel reads the changes in my expression and sighs softly.

  "Let's go home," he gently suggests. I nod, still frowning, and he rests his hand between my shoulder blades to guide me back down the mountain.

  When we get home I'm so emotionally exhausted that I do nothing but head straight to the couch for a nap. I place the flower bud on the coffee table and stare at it, silently weeping, until I fall asleep.

  An hour later when I wake, I find that the flower bud isn't how I left it. Instead it's in perfect bloom and coated with resin, a token of Miguel to be kept forever.

••🕷️••

  "No more photos!" Rosalina complains.

  "Just one more, papita, please?" I ask with a hopeful smile. She throws her head back with a groan before plastering on a big, fake grin for the camera.

  It's the night of her school dance, and we spent the afternoon dolling her up in her pin-stripe blazer and pleated skirt combo. She decided against wearing a tiara, but bejewelled herself with a necklace, rings and bangles. Her nails are perfectly coloured purple, thanks to my careful painting skills.

  Miguel stands behind me, peering over my shoulder as I indulge myself on photo-taking. I remember being this young and hating standing still for photos - now I'm the annoying mother armed with a camera. We took photos of me and Rosa, Miguel and Rosa, and then a bunch of selfies of all of us together. All the while my daughter's patience swiftly dwindled.

  "Enough," Rosalina demands and pushes my phone down. She sends me a scowl, but really she just looks like an angry kitten. "No more."

  I sigh. "Fine." I tuck my phone away, much to her relief.

  With the photoshoot finally over, we hop inside the car and drive to Rosalina's school while her and I sing along to Duran Duran (with Miguel mumble-guessing the lyrics). The car park is filled with parents dropping off their dressed-up kids and waving goodbye as they file into the hall, which glows pink and green from the inside.

  "Bye!" Rosalina says quickly before quickly opening the door.

  "Hold on, señorita." I hold her shoulder before she can depart. She turns back to me with a frown. "Have you got your phone?"

  She lifts a small purse of mine that I gave her to use. "I also brought candy!"

  Miguel nods seriously. "Very prepared."

  I roll my eyes. "Have fun."

  Hearing the dismissal, Rosalina slips from the car and dashes towards the hall. Miguel and I watch her go until she disappears, slipping inside with her schoolmates.

  "Pretty soon we'll be dropping her off at clubs," I comment.

  "Don't remind me," Miguel mumbles before placing the car into drive and pulling out of the car park. I snicker. "Do you want to go home or do you want to do something fun?"

  I turn to him, slightly intrigued, all suspicious. "Your kind of fun or mine?"

  Miguel frowns at my insinuation. He glances at me, insulted. "Are you saying I'm not fun?"

  I raise my brows in doubt. "Mig, your definition of 'fun' is locking yourself up in a lab for ten hours straight."

  He scoffs. "I do not lock myself in my lab for ten hours."

  "Sorry," I amend. "Your station at work for eleven hours."

  "Dios mío." Miguel sends me a shitty look. "Are you done?"

  I smile. "Yes."

  "Good." He accelerates when the light hits green, pulling along with the rest of the traffic. "I heard about a street festival happening downtown during my patrol a few nights back." I sit up straighter, interested. Miguel forces a big sigh of faux disappointment. "But, you'll probably just find it boring-"

  "No, no." I cut him off. "I'm down."

  Miguel smirks at my predictability. "Am I still boring, now?"

  I recline back in my seat and watch the passing traffic. "You have your moments," I decide.

  I can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

  We pull to the curb and hop out a few streets out of downtown, where the cars block the road and crowds upon crowds gather. Music drums across the city, vibrating the ground, and the smell of street food permeates the air. I grab Miguel's hand and drag him towards the cluster with the giddiness of a girl on her first date.

  I haven't been to a street festival like this without having to stress about Rosalina's whereabouts for years. I feel a little younger here, dragging Miguel through the throng of bodies like we're graduates again. I'd never give up Rosalina for anything, but sometimes it's nice to spend a night without worry.

  I stop in the middle of the street, lost in the varying heights of the people around me. To my side Miguel stands, towering above the sea of heads like a poker-faced lighthouse. I stretch up on my toes in an attempt to peer over shoulders.

  "Where do you want to go first?"

  I flinch when Miguel's lips brush the rim of my ear. The crowd is so dense, so loud, that he has to bend down to talk to me. It's an excuse to make my heart flutter, and the curl of his lips tells me he hears it.

  I feebly shrug. "I can't even see anything."

  Miguel wordlessly hooks an arm around my thighs and lifts me up. I gasp in surprise and grab at his shoulders. The people around us shy away with discontent mutters.

  "Mig!" I exclaim breathlessly. He's almost two heads below me like this, and he stares up at me with an amused grin. "A little warning!"

  He doesn't even apologise. "Can you see better?"

  I cast a look over the crowd and begrudgingly admit that I do.

  "Where to first, cariño?" he asks again, and this time I have an answer. I point out to a donut stand that's calling my name.

  Miguel loosens his grip and I slip down his body until my feet hit the concrete. I stagger from ground shock. His amusement is a living thing.

  "Goddamn giraffe," I mutter. Miguel snorts.
 
  After almost battling through the crowd to get to the donut stand and then waiting for the donuts, Miguel guides me to a secluded side-alley to eat our snacks. It's dark, the street lights not quite reaching all the way in, and the not-so-distant sound of music drifts overhead. The reclusiveness is a relief, and maybe even a little intimate.

  "I thought you weren't a sweet tooth?" Miguel asks teasingly.

  "Don't be stupid," I say halfheartedly as I scoop one of the small cinnamon donuts out of the paper bag we share. "Everyone loves donuts."

  "Amen," he says, and eats one whole.

  I peek up at Miguel as I chew on my donut. He leans against the brick wall behind us and watches the smoggy sky. He stares at the smoky-brownness of it as if searching for something.

  2099's Neuva York is cleaner than this one. I wonder if Miguel's used to looking up and seeing the stars. I wonder if he misses them, and then I wonder what else he's given up to be here, instead.

  Just as I'm about to ask, Lyla pops into existence between us with a subtle flash of yellow light. She illuminates the alleyway.

  "Miguel, I've just discovered a new anomaly making a mess of Earth-2874," she says seriously. "It's pretty bad. I need you back at base."

  My heart sinks. We haven't even really gotten to enjoy the festival.

  Miguel glances at me. I look down, pretending to be interested by my nibbled donut.

  "Jess can handle it," he decides.

  "Jess is busy with Margo."

  "Then get Peter to," he insists. "I'm busy too, okay, Lys?"

  "Jeez." Lyla raises her palms in defence. "Sorry. I'll get in contact with Peter."

  She disappears with a glitch. I can't help but feel a little bad - both for her and for inadvertently making Miguel skimp on his duties.

  "You probably should've gone," I say.

  "Can hardly leave in the middle of a date."

  My eyes widen in surprise. A smile grows sharp and quick. "Oh-ho, a date, is it?"

  Miguel falters, alarmed. "I-"

  "You better buy me flowers and kiss me on the porch while it's raining, then."

  He has to take a few seconds to process my sentence. When he does, the same self-assured look of smugness I love makes its way onto his face. He lifts his hand and wipes some sugar from the corner of my mouth with his thumb; a slow, languid caress that has my lips parting.

  "I think I can manage that, hermosa," he murmurs.

  My heart stumbles over itself so wickedly that my breath is knocked from my body. I can never win with him, can I? I annoy him, he annoys me just as much in turn. I flirt, and he flirts back twice as effective. And yet I keep fighting. My competitiveness is a fatal flaw.

  He brushes his nose against mine. The fingers crooked beneath my jaw tilts my chin back. I'm still struggling to regain my breath.

  "You want a kiss?" Miguel whispers. His breath is hot, tumbling against my cheek. He smells of cinnamon sugar and aftershave.

  "In the rain," I reply, but my voice is breathless, weak, brittle with longing. I stare at his lips as they inch ever so slowly closer. "S'not raining."

  "I'll take you to a dimension where it is."

  My hands raise to his hair. "With a porch?"

  "All the porches and rain you want," he murmurs.

  "I have one more condition." I pull his hair back so I can look him in the eyes, and I shiver at the intensity of his red gaze; the desire, the longing. His focus is foggy and fixated on my lips.

  "What's that?" Miguel hums.

  "Dance with me."

  He blinks. Blinks again and shakes his head. His focus snaps to my eyes in confusion. "What?"

  I step back to where the music's louder and pull him with me. "Dance with me, Miguito."

  He follows helplessly, pulled along by my hands in his. He's an image of desperation with his ruffled shirt and messy hair. He may flirt back twice as effective, but I only rise to the occasion.

  "Can't I just kiss you?" he pleads breathlessly.

  "I'm not that easy."

  Miguel groans something that truly sounds heartbroken as I drag him towards the street music. "Why'd it have to be you?"

  I laugh, pitched and nervous and exhilarated. "Because anyone else would bore you."

  Miguel curses under his breath while I position us in a spot that isn't too rowdy. The music flooding from someone's massive speaker system is something I recognise to be Latino in origin, and couples around us dance; slow, sensual, sexy - moves that would otherwise belong in a bedroom than on the streets. The bachata is a dance for lovers.

  I hook my hands around his neck, my smile curt and teasing. Miguel's staring me down with a pissed-off look in his eyes but he's humouring me, holding my waist a tad too firmly. His grip only tightens when we start to move to the beat, matching the crowd.

  "I haven't danced in two years," Miguel admits grumpily.

  "I can tell," I chuckle. I bring his forehead to mine and close my eyes. "You're rusty, guapo."

  "Give me a break," he murmurs. "I'm trying my best."

  I giggle, on the edge of delirium. He inhales sharply when my hips rock against his, and he whimpers. The sound drives me crazy.

  A decade ago when my Miguel first taught me the more sensual version of the bachata in the living room of his flat, we ended up naked and tangled beneath his bedsheets - and it ended very much the same way every other time we attempted it. The bachata is a dance for lovers.

  His hand slides along my waist, holding as I sway against him. My hand crawls up his arm and hook my fingers around his. My heartbeat thunders in my ears. The bachata is a dance for lovers.

  I'm playing with fire.

  It feels so nice when it burns. 

  Miguel turns me and tugs my back into his chest. His hands pin me against him as we rock to the beat - one on my waistband, the other on my hip. He grinds in perfect time. He's not so rusty anymore.

  "You're not making this easy for me," Miguel says into my ear, voice hoarse and strained.

  "Maybe I don't want to make it easy for you," I hum.

  Miguel groans. "You're a tease."

  "You love it."

  "Dios, ayúdame," he mutters. "If there weren't all there people around, I'd..."

  I spin back around and press my chest to his. Our dancing doesn't stop, only heightened by the heated words we share. His glare has only grown darker, more furious. I preen beneath his rage. Never before has anger been attractive on a man.

  "You'd what?" I purr. My fingers trail up his chest and latch onto the hair behind his ear. I smile at him, sultry, eyes lidded. "Say it, Mig. I want to hear what you'd do to me if you had me alone."

  His fingers dig into the flesh of my hips. A brief flash of warning sparks in the back of my head; a reminder of the razor-sharp talons he has, what damage I've seen them cause. It makes me feel alive.

  "Your phone's ringing," he bites out.

  My brows furrow. That's not sexy talk. But then I feel the buzzing of it in my back pocket and I pause my ministrations to pull it out. Miguel sighs; a mix of regret and relief.

  My frown deepens. "It's Rosa." I block one ear and bring the phone up to the other. "What's up, baby?"

  I can barely hear her over the crowd, but a mother's hearing is trained for the sound of an upset child. "Can you pick me up?" she whimpers.

  My heart crashes through the floor. "Of course, papita. We'll be right there."

  Miguel's already overheard it. His face is still flushed and he still looks a little pissed at me, but his worry is quickly taking precedent. Fun's over. I'm back to being a tunnel-visioned mother.

  Miguel pushes a path through the crowd, using his bulky size to our advantage. He pulls me along in the wake of him. We make it to the car in record time.

  "What do you think happened?" Miguel asks as we quickly hop in.

  "I don't know."

  "She hasn't been bullied before, has she?"

  "No." I chew my nails as Miguel navigates the heavy Neuva York traffic. "She hasn't told me if she is - fuck! Why is this traffic so bad?"

  "Hey." Miguel grabs my hand and strokes the back of it with his thumb, remarkably calm considering. "We'll get there soon."

  I cling to his hand desperately. I sink my teeth into my lip until it aches. It aches all the way to Rosalina's school.

  I'm already opening the door and hopping out before the car even pulls to a stop, marching across the car park towards the hall, a mom on a mission. Miguel has to jog to catch up.

  Two figures stand outside the hall - one tall, one short. My eyes narrow at them as I stalk towards the hall's entrance.

  "Rosita?" I call when I realise that the shorter's outfit looks familiar. My relief careens through me so suddenly and wholly that I get whiplash. My pace quickens. "Rosa, baby, are you okay?"

  Rosalina's face is already crumpled and tear-stained, but she bursts into sobs as soon as she sees me. She takes off at a run and almost bowls me over by how strongly she tackles me into a hug. I sink to my knees and hold her just as tight.

  I look up at Miguel. "Can you talk to the teacher?" I ask.

  He hesitates, not quite willing to leave, but does as I ask.

  "Papita, what's wrong?" I murmur gently. I wipe away her tears and kiss her forehead. "Why are you crying?"

  "They were so mean!" she blubbers, almost in hysterics. She latches onto me tight - way too tight to be normal. "They were so mean to me!"

  "Papita, I need you to breathe deeply for me, okay?" I ask, and mimic deep, steadying breaths. She attempts to follow along. "Tell me what happened."

  Rosalina does her best to recount the situation for me, speaking through broken sobs while I rub her arms; of how a group of girls made fun of her outfit and called her awful names. I know from my life experience that it's just kids being petty, but it's life-shattering when you're eleven.

  My daughter's usually so carefree and confident. I've never seen her this disheartened before, and it breaks me.

  It breaks Miguel, too. He's cut himself from talking with Mr. Frank and picks Rosalina up for a tight hug. She grips onto him tightly and cries. The fury on his face is nothing in comparison to before.

  "Where are they?" he demands to know, turning to Mr. Frank. "Where are the kids that did this?"

  "Mig, you can't." I step between him and Mr. Frank. "You'll scare them."

  "They made my daughter cry," he seethes. Rosalina digs her face deeper into his neck and he holds the back of her head in comfort. "What they did was wrong."

  He's wound like a set spring. It's taking everything in him not to burst with rage and tear the hall's doors down. The protectiveness is admirable, attractive even, but level-headedness is key.

  "I know." I place a hand on his chest and the other on Rosalina's back. He's trembling beneath my palm, shaking with rage. "I know, amor. But causing a scene will only make her feel worse."

  Miguel falters. He looks down at the koala cub clinging to him and considers my reasoning. He exhales deeply and the sharp edge of his fury softens with it.

  "Let's just go home," I murmur. My hands rub circles; on her spine, above his heart, calming both. "We can eat ice cream and watch a movie. How does that sound, papita?"

  Rosalina sniffles and nods.

  Miguel's jaw is still gritted. His nostrils are still flared with injustice. I reach up and press my palm to his cheek and, despite his bad mood, he leans into my touch.

  "We can talk to the principal tomorrow," I say. "But let's make this night better."

  I nod my thanks to Mr. Frank before steering my family back to the car. Miguel takes the backseat with Rosa. I take the steering wheel and drive us home.

  The carride starts silent. A bad tension sits in the air.

  "Did you dance?" I ask.

  "No," Rosalina responds with a sniffle. I glance in the rearview mirror and find Miguel with Rosalina's head against his arm. His eyes are closed. He looks to be meditating. That doesn't seem to be a bad idea.

  I bite my lip. I want to ask more questions, to try and lighten the mood, but none come to mind.

  When we pull into the carport and head inside, Rosalina hugs me again. Miguel hangs up our jackets, stony and silent.

  "Thanks for picking me up," she says, voice wobbly.

  "Anytime, sweetheart." I crouch down and return her hug. "You know we're just a call away."

  Rosalina nods.

  "Go get a shower," I quietly urge. "It'll make you feel better."

  She nods again and slowly trudges up the stairs. I watch her until she disappears, and then I stay crouched in my spot until I hear the shower start.

  Miguel stands in the entrance with me and doesn't say a word. He continues to not say anything as he follows me to the living room, and then his silence is one of shock when I grab a pillow from the couch and scream into it.

  Screaming isn't enough. I hit the couch with the pillow until my arm aches, and then I toss it onto the floor. I take a moment to catch my breath.

  "I want to throttle them," I spit.

  "Ay, caramba," Miguel murmurs. "And I thought you were scary when you tried to dismember me with an umbrella."

  I pace the room and wring my hands. "What do you do when you're too angry to think straight?"

  "Personally, I punch stuff, but-"

  "Great." I swing around and punch the wall.

  Miguel catches my arm too slow. I stagger backwards with a soundless cry. A little bit of drywall crumbles to the ground.

  "Why would you do that?!" he exclaims. He holds my hand gently and examines the damage, frantically scanning his eyes over my red knuckles.

  "Because I was really angry," I whine. "I'm not angry anymore. I'm just in pain."

  "Funny how it works like that, huh?" Miguel says sarcastically. He leads me to the couch to sit down. I rest my head on his shoulder. "Coño, between you and Rosa - this place is going to give me a heart attack."

  I laugh weakly. "I'm sorry. And I'm sorry for teasing you before."

  "You better be," he grumbles unhappily. His thumbs are careful, massaging my knuckles and feeling for any breakage. "My hand can only satisfy myself for so long."

  My blush is wicked and deep. I raise my head and send him a disapproving frown. "Miguel."

  "Ah, so now you're all prim and modest." He snorts and shakes his head. "Figures."

  I sniffle. "I can always make you sleep on the couch again."

  "Don't say things you don't even want to happen yourself, amor."

  I roll my teary eyes. There goes my one and only trump card. His grin is quick and smug.

  Miguel presses a slow, whispering kiss to each of my sore knuckles. My breath sucks in between my teeth at the slight ache the nearly-there contact makes.
 
  "You're fine," he declares softly. "Just a little bruised - as long as you don't punch any more walls."

  "I don't usually punch walls," I feebly defend. 

  "And yet." Miguel sends me a pointed look. "You know you can't write with this hand now." 

  My eyes widen and I glance down at my dominant hand - my injured dominant hand. I slump in disbelief at myself. 

  "Ay, caramba," I mutter.