Yes I know that Miguel's daughter is called Gabriella but i have elected to ignore that (and I was told by members of my server that the nickname Rosita is too cute to be replaced)

  "Here." Miguel passes me a coffee cup. I take it between gloved hands and blow the steam away.

  "Thanks," I murmur. It's the end of our interaction, the sparse words we speak to each other, and we turn our attention to the soccer pitch where Rosalina is playing attack.

  I edge sideways, using his large build to buffer the chilly winter breeze.

  Little legs fly across the muddy grass, following a ball which white patches have turned brown. The kids are at an age where they've yet to learn about spacing, so they all follow the ball like cats to a mouse. The dark clouds threaten to pour but, by some miracle, they seem to be holding out.

  "Your girl's a good little player," a parent of Rosalina's teammate comments from my right. It's a father only a few years older than I. He grins at me when I smile in thanks.

  "She's fearless," Miguel adds. I don't let my eyes drift to him, though they itch to. My gaze follows the game instead.

It's a few matches out from finals and winning is the only thing on Rosalina's mind. She's competitive (she got that nature from me) and ruthless (her dad), which makes her a prime candidate for player of the day each week... or to be benched when she gets a little too caught up in the game.

Soccer is all she can think about, all she talks about, and all she watches. Her hyperfocus is, once again, a trait inherited from her father. When the two O'Haras get stuck into something, they get stuck in.

It's even worse when they get stuck into two different things at the same time. Corralling a child is hard enough, but corralling a workaholic husband to dinner is just as difficult.

Rosalina makes a solid kick towards one of her teammates. It gets intercepted at the last minute and is sent back down the pitch, kicking up flecks of mud as it goes. My daughter bunches her face and gives chase.

I try my best to focus on the game, I really do, but it's hard to when just a few days prior I learnt that my husband had died. He's been on my mind constantly, and the tears I've wept could've filled an endless river. The pain of losing him hasn't eased a bit, and I doubt it will ease for a very, very long time.

  And, just to boot, the Miguel beside me has watched multiple versions of me die, is some kind of vampire, and is also the intimidating, downtown neighbourhood Spider-Man.

I am also the only me left alive out of all of the universes.

  So, my brain's a bit preoccupied.

But I do think my grief has been easier to handle than it would have otherwise. Rosalina's complete unawareness to the situation makes it easy to focus on keeping things normal for her than to soothe both her pain and mine. And Miguel, well... he helps out when my emotions stop me from doing anything.

I'm still unsure whether I want him around at all, really. But I can't deny that he's been helpful.

  The chilly wind bites through my coat and I shiver, holding my coffee tighter. If he was my Miguel, I'd shuffle into his side and steal his body warmth, and he would stretch around me and rub my arm. He was so big, so warm, that the way my lips threatened to turn blue wouldn't even matter. He was my own husband-shaped space heater.

  But this isn't my Miguel, so I stand apart from him and tremble.

••🕷️••

"Hey." Alicia leans against the side of my desk and watches as I type up my new journalist piece about the waste-dumping from a nearby organisation. "Did you check your husband's phone?"

  I don't look up from my screen just incase Alicia sees the despair on my face and interprets it as something else.

  "I talked to him," I say instead. "He was having a hard time at work."

  My lie is flimsy and transparent, a dead jellyfish in the breakers on a beach. I'm unconvincing. Alicia raises her brows at my adamancy to not look her in the eyes. She can smell gossip like a bloodhound, and I'm offering a full buffet.

  "Are you sure?" she presses.

  "I'm sure."

  Alicia hums and slides upright. Her nails tap on the wood of my desk, and I realise with dismay that she's concocting a new story to gab about from the tidbits of fabrication I fed her.

  "Don't you usually have lunch with him on Thursdays?"

  My fingers pause over the keys. We do, as Alchemax is only one long stretch of road down from the Daily Bugle, but I don't think that's something this Miguel knows. I don't even have a way to contact him, either. He doesn't have my Miguel's phone, and I'm not sure my phone can text one that came from another dimension.

And having lunch with Miguel would be... awkward.

  "Not today." I resume typing. "He's got a deadline to meet."

  The lies just keep on coming, don't they? First to Rosalina, now to my coworker. I can feel my lies wrapping around me like a blanket, or perhaps a snake is a better metaphor. Surely, they'll squeeze the life right out of me one day.

  "Huh. I'm glad to hear it's going well, then." She's completely insincere. "I'm going to the kitchen, do you want a tea?"

  "No," I sigh. "Thanks, Alicia."

When she walks off I take the opportunity to slump onto my desk. My forehead hits the keyboard, sending a smash of letters spilling across the page. I let my weary eyes close.

Each day feels like an eternity since Miguel died and his alternate self arrived. An eternity of plastering on smiles and feigning normalcy. It's so exhausting pretending to be okay when I'm not.

  My eyes begin to sting. I can't even properly grieve my husband.

I lift my head and blink slowly. Blurry words stare back at me, and I have a word count to reach, but my energy levels are so strung thin that I can't bring myself to type another letter. Maybe I do want a tea.

  What I need is a break. A long one. Preferably in the Bahamas.

  I wheel myself back from my desk and force my legs to stand. Traversing the bustling hub of the Daily Bugle is like marching through quicksand, pulling and pulling me down, and despite everything, I keep on walking. My head's bent to the floor. I don't look at anyone in risk of conversing.

  I stop outside the kitchen when I catch Alicia's voice.

"I think they're having marital trouble," she says, voice tilted with dramatics.

  I close my eyes in resignation. Journalists. When they get their hands on a story, they never stop talking.

"Really?" responds a co-worker. "Well, if they're splitting, I wouldn't mind a piece of the dad."

"You and me both." They share a laugh.

  I cringe. I won't deny that Miguel's hot; objectively, it's impossible to. He's an attractive man on a global - no, universal - scale. It used to not bother me that people would stare and talk, because Miguel's devotion to Rosalina and I was as sure as the sunrise. But he's gone, and the Miguel sleeping in my living room is so distant.

  I surprise myself by hating the idea of him leaving. What right do I have? Didn't I tell him to leave? Is that not betraying my husband, gone or not?

  Everything's just so mixed up. Left is up and right is down. I don't know how to feel about anything at all anymore.

  Alicia and our co-worker are still chuckling to themselves. I lean back against the wall and sigh.

  "I need some actual friends," I mutter to myself.

••🕷️••

The next morning, Miguel stands in the kitchen and butters Rosalina's toast. She stands at his side and watches impatiently, stretched up on her tippy toes.

He hands her the plate. She snatches it and dashes to the table, already a bite and a half down. She takes a seat opposite me.

"Don't run while chewing," Miguel scolds. "You'll choke."

"Sowwy!" Rosalina says around a mouthful of toast.

"No talking while chewing, either," I remind.

Rosalina swallows and groans dramatically. "Sorry!"

I catch Miguel rolling his eyes. I hide a sad smile behind my morning coffee.

  The morning ticks by peacefully. It's still early, so there's no rush to get out of the house yet. Rosalina scoffs down her breakfast too fast, and I nurse my own drink. Miguel is the only one who stands apart, separate from us in the kitchen. I catch my attention drifting towards him more than a couple of times and divert it away; back to my coffee, back to thinking about my work.

  It's hard not to think about Miguel - either version of him.

When Rosalina stomps upstairs to get ready for school, I let myself look at Miguel. He's absentmindedly stirring a spoon through his coffee as he leans against the kitchen bench. There's a thousand things he wants to say sitting behind clamped teeth, held back and restrained. I know him.

  I have a few things of my own that I'd like to say, too.

  "We're going for a walk," I decide.

  Miguel's russet-brown eyes lift from the floor and watches as I approach to wash out my cup. He takes a moment to process what I said.

  "A walk?" he asks.

  I nod. "After we drop Rosita off."

  Miguel raises his brows. "Don't you have work?"

  'They're having marital problems.' 'I wouldn't mind a piece of the dad.' The echoes of my coworker's gossip session circle inside my head and leave my stomach a gaping pit.

  I frown. I'd be more content to go back to that kind of environment if Miguel's and my issues were completely laid out and addressed. Maybe I could even sleep easier, too, though I'm sure such thing is a stretch.

  "Don't you?" I counter instead.

  Miguel inclines his head. "Fair enough. Why are we going for a walk?"

  I release a big exhale and turn to him. "To talk serious. And when I talk serious, I get nervous energy, so-"

  "So you go for a walk," Miguel finishes with a small, sad grin. And I know you, he seems to say.

  My smile wobbles. "So I go for a walk."

  Rosalina races back down the stairs with her bag in hand. She drops her bag onto the floor and shoves a lunchbox I made earlier into it. She lifts herself back up with a hopeful look.

  "Can we get an ice cream before school?" she asks. "Jacob said that he gets ice cream before school! Please? Please, please!"

  I share a look with Miguel. Do you want to take this one or should I? When he purposefully looks away, it's my turn to roll my eyes. Sure. Leave the bad cop stuff to me.

  "Not in the morning, preciosa," I say. When her face begins to curl with unhappiness, I compromise. "But maybe we can after school."

  Rosalina pouts. "But I want ice cream now," she mumbles.

  I crouch down and poke her stomach. "But isn't it sweeter to get an ice cream after school? It's something you can look forward to."

  Rosalina's pout deepens. She looks over my shoulder and I follow her gaze to Miguel, who's nodding at her to agree. My brows raise.

  "Fineeeee," Rosalina concedes. She grabs her bag and drags it to the entrance, where she plops down and starts shoving on her sneakers.

  I rise and send Miguel an intrigued look. He catches my gaze.

  "Yeah?" he prompts when I don't speak.

  "Do you have a kid?" I ask.

  Miguel's smile is thin, forced. He looks down at the floor again. "No. I, uh... didn't get a chance."

I mentally grimace. Very wrong question to ask, Y/n, well done.

"Oh." I place my mug in the dishwasher. "You're really good with her. Must just be a natural dad, then."

Miguel stares at me. There's a profound look in his eyes, one that both unnerves and warms me. It's so potent that I have to avert my gaze. If I wasn't able to kick him out before, I definitely won't be able to, now.

"Thank you," he says.

I offer him a quick smile before fleeing to the entrance where Rosalina waits. He follows, footsteps slow with thought.

When we drop Rosalina off at school, he hugs her until she's squirming to be let go.

"Un poco más," he mumbles, and squeezes her tighter.

"Nooo!" Rosalina squeals. She begins to hit his broad shoulders with a flimsy fist, but he barely even notices. My smile comes easy - the first time it has in two weeks. "Papaaa!"

Miguel finally lets her free. She scowls at him before flinging her arms around my middle. I pat her hair back and kiss her forehead. "Have a good day, baby. We'll get some ice cream after school."

Rosalina brightens and quickly nods with excitement. The bell rings, bringing our hug to a close. I straighten out her jacket and push her flyaways behind her little ears. We watch as she scurries inside with the other children.

I turn to Miguel and catch him staring after Rosalina go with a soft, bittersweet smile. I tap his arm with the backs of my fingers and nod to the car. It's time for us to have a conversation.

  There's a walk that Mig and I used to do in the early mornings, before he got so busy at work and I was promoted. We'd park along the riverside and amble down the sidewalk, stopping by at a bakery for a treat. We'd watch the streets grow busier and busier from a bench overlooking the harbour. Sometimes we'd talk about random, small things. Other times we'd just exist beside each other in comfortable silence and let the craziness rush by.

  It's moments like those that I miss the most.

  Miguel holds out my jacket for me after I park the car. I slide it on, shivering beneath the wintery chill, and zip it up to my chin. He's wearing a jacket from his dimension, a brand I don't recognise and a cut that isn't in fashion. It's future fashion, with white material that shimmers a light blue when he moves. I find myself a little envious of it.

  We start the walk in silence. I try to begin the conversation multiple times, but fail to find the right opener. Miguel patiently waits, head tilted slightly to me.

  It's been two weeks since he arrived, and one week since he told me who he was and what happened to my husband. In that week, I've contemplated and battled with the idea of this Miguel either going or staying - and the more I see him with Rosalina, the more my decision is made for me.

  But there's still part of me that stings at the idea of just replacing Mig, and a larger that struggles to even realise he's gone when this Miguel walks right beside me. Isn't this some kind of betrayal? Even if it's technically not, in some way or form, it still doesn't feel right. It's not... natural.

  But the way Rosalina lights up around her dad, and lights up around this version of her dad still, makes me hesitate. She loves me, but she's always been a daddy's girl. If she lost her dad, she'd be beyond heart broken. She'd feel the same agony I do - and I would rather cut off my own hands than submit her to that.

  Lying to her, still, makes me feel icky. But if this works? If this deception pays off? She'd never be the wiser. I would carry the burden of silence forever if it meant she kept on smiling, and I have a feeling that Miguel would do the same, too.

  We've passed three blocks while I struggle to speak. Miguel's stuffed his hands in his pockets and tucked his chin into his chest. I'm cowering against the wind and the uncertainties circling me.

  I release a low breath. "Miguel."

  His eyes are on me immediately. He's waited on bated breath for my conclusion. As have I.

  "You're right," I begin slowly. "... Rosa needs a dad. And I- I really don't want to do this alone."

  Miguel watches me like he can't quite believe what he's hearing. I clear my throat and look up to the cloudy sky. Mig, forgive me.

  I turn my gaze to Miguel. "You can stay. But-" I cut in before he can speak "- I have a few ground rules."

  Miguel nods, like he doesn't even care what I'll be asking of him if it means he gets to stay. The devotion makes me a little breathless, a little stunned. I have to drop my eyes to my shoes walking across the wet sidewalk, laces soaked and aglets dragging.

  "First, we need to get you a phone," I say. "I need to be able to contact you, and Rosa does, too."

  "Done," Miguel quickly says. "Easy. I'll get one right now."

  I shoot him a look out the side of my eyes. "Can you let me finish?"

  Miguel pulls his hands out of his pockets and raises his palms in deference, but his lips are fighting a losing battle of holding back his elated grin. My smile is weak, and falls away quickly.

  "Second, Mig and I had a routine. I work late on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so those are the days you pick up Rosa. Tuesdays she has soccer training. Wednesdays she has games, as you know." I send him a stern look. "Mig never missed a game. You're not gonna start."

  Miguel dutifully nods. "Understood."

  "Third; don't go dating or sleeping around or anything like that." I purposefully turn my focus towards the harbour, cheeks burning. "I know we're not together, but legally you're still my husband. I don't want any rumours going around."

  "I don't think that's going to be a problem," Miguel says quietly.

  I almost trip. I force myself not to read into what he just said, face growing hotter as my disobedient mind does so, anyway. Stifling the urge to hide myself in my jacket, I awkwardly cough into my shoulder and let myself take a few seconds to regain my composure.

  "Cool." It comes out higher than I wanted it to, and I wince with embarrassment. Fuuuck. "Um. Good."

  Another block passes. More silence. My lashes flutter with frustration as I try to build my next sentence in my head, try to build my confidence to say it.

  "One more thing." I close my eyes and sigh. "You gotta tell me what you are."

  I can feel Miguel falter. He's hesitant, unwilling, but I bolster the last of my nerves and stare him dead in the eyes. It's a nonnegotiable. If he's going to be around Rosalina for the foreseeable future, I have to know what he is. For the sake of my own mind. So it doesn't keep me up at night.

  Miguel exhales heavily. His eyes are guarded, locked behind steel walls.

  "I can't trust someone who doesn't even trust me," I insist. "I need to know."

  "You know what I am," Miguel deflects, his voice low and quiet to not attract the ears of the crowd around us. "Spider-Man."

  My expression hardens. "Miguel."

  He glances at me, at my unwavering resolve, and closes his eyes. He sighs in defeat.

  "You're right," he says emptily. "You deserve to know."

  The crease between my brows lightens a little.

  "It's a long story," he warns. "And it's not a happy one."

  "I kind of figured that," I murmur. It begins to rain, gentle, faint spits from the cloudy sky. "We're stories full of tragedies."

  His smile is unemotional. "Aren't we just."

  Rain lands on my lashes. I blink them away and look up at Miguel. He stares ahead, mind lost to another world, in another past. When he inhales, it trembles.

  "It happened three years ago, when I was still lead scientist at Alchemax-"

  "'Still?'" I interrupt. "What do you mean 'still?' Don't you work there now?"

  It's Miguel's turn to send me a half-hearted glare. "Will you let me finish?"

  I blink in surprise before an amused smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I dip my head for him to continue. "Touché, sorry."

  Miguel smirks. "Three years ago we tried to create a super soldier serum to replicate the original Spider-Man's powers when things went..." he breaks to sigh and sends me a solemn look. "... really wrong."

I step closer.