Sorry guys I was taking a nap

TW: as always minors will be shot on sight, oral w & m receiving, blood

  It's been two weeks since I spoke to Peter about the events of Earth-1610 and how Miguel thinks of himself, and thoughts of it haven't let me rest since.

   Working without the bustle and excitement of the Spidey-HQ is painfully boring, and I find myself surprised by how foreign the mundane world has become. The only thing truly tying me to my own world anymore is Rosalina and my job, but I find myself missing Miguel's. It's a baffling dichotomy.

  But time away from Miguel is good and I strive to remind myself of the very fact every instance I find myself hitting my head on the table, yearning for his attention or some Spider-Man excitement. Too much of a good thing leads to spoiling it, or whatever. I'm not entirely sure Miguel could ever be spoiled by being spent too much time with. He certainly hasn't become spoiled to me in the last fourteen years.

  It's agony to be away from him after getting so used and comfortable with our constant companionship. I even find myself missing his snark and bitter remarks that would get on my nerves. It takes everything in me not to repeatedly call him up on the Gizmo just to hear his voice and see his face. Whenever I hear Jameson complaining about Spider-Man, the urge gets worse.

  He drops me off and picks me up, and we spend our evenings and weekends together, but I still find myself craving more. Is this even healthy?

  But, mercifully, my work days aren't entirely without him.

  "Y/n." Alicia knocks the back of her knuckles on my cracked-open door and sticks her head into my office. "Your husband's at the elevator. I'd rescue him before the juniors start throwing themselves at his feet."

  As if you wouldn't join them. As if I don't do it myself. I let an amused smile lift my tired expression as I turn off my monitor.

  "Thanks, Alicia," I say, and she leaves with a nod.

  And though it sounds like a joke, it's partly true. The juniors sit right by the elevators and they all ogle shamelessly at the man who leans against the wall in the flannel and jeans he would've shoved on over his suit before portalling here. When Miguel lifts his head at my approach, he beams, and my smile in return comes effortlessly.

  "Hola, guapo," I happily greet.

  "Buenas tardes, preciosa," he murmurs, slipping an arm around my waist as we enter the elevator to leave for lunch. Miguel presses a kiss to my temple and my day feels infinitely better. "Where to today?"

  A few days into me working back onsite at The Daily Bugle, we started getting lunch together, and it almost helps my husband withdrawals. Then, Miguel came up with the idea of eating at a new place each day - a mini adventure, a way to further break the repetition of my boring work weeks.

  "There's a café Jameson's wife told me about when she dropped his phone off this morning," I offer. She said he'd left it on his bedside table, and we bumped into each other in the hallway outside her husband's office when she was returning it and I was retrieving my third coffee.

  "Sounds like a plan," Miguel says, and leads me to where he parked the car.

  I hop into shotgun giddily. I love our weekday lunch dates and I'm entirely pleased that I still get excited butterflies when he picks me up, as if I'm seventeen and he's taking me to prom. I could have had a drag of a morning but the sun shines upon me when I see my Miguel waiting at the elevators to whisk me away for an hour of comfort.

  I input the directions into the car's navigation system and lean back in my seat. It's still summer, and it's still pleasantly hot, and I'm still glad that I made Miguel take his weekends off from work. He's leagues more relaxed now, more focused and happier than he was before. Too much of good things, right? I guess it does make sense.

  I tell Miguel about my morning - a report on the politics of growing hostilities in the north of the U.S - and Miguel tells me about his; an anomaly of Black Cat that had tried to flirt her way into Peter's good graces, unaware that he was a version of her fling who's happily married and has a daughter.

  Miguel chuckles at the recollection of Peter stumbling over his own web when she called him 'babe' and Black Cat's bewildered expression when she then promptly learnt of his marital status. I laugh when I should, but my mind has drifted elsewhere.

  It's a week until my birthday.

  I don't know if Miguel's going to be okay with it or not. I'm certain he'll remember his version of Y/n more poignantly than usual and I'm okay with that, I just don't want to see him upset. He's had more heartbreak than he deserves. I wish we could just skip over the date entirely. I'm more than happy to miss my birthday if it meant that Miguel didn't have to think about the fact that all the other versions of me are dead.

  "What's on your mind, cariño?" Miguel asks.

  I lift my drifting gaze to his. I'm so caught up in my thoughts of him being upset that I don't even apologise for my lack of focus on his tale. He glances between me and the road, and his red eyes are so warm and content that I almost can't bring myself to ask him.

  "Are you going to be okay next week?" I ask.

  Miguel knows immediately what I'm referring to. His expression washes away into something melancholic, and now he's only watching the road. He follows the navigation guide silently for a few moves.

  "I'll be okay," Miguel says. I'm entirely unconvinced.

  "Tell me what you need," I demand. "I'll sort out everything for you."  

  Miguel's face softens. He sends me a slightly despondent but very amused smile. "It's your birthday."

  "And you're one of my favourite people in the multiverse," I respond simply.

  His smile grows for a second before it falls away completely. Miguel returns to silence for a few beats as he contemplates my offer. His disposition has greyed, as it always does when he thinks of her, and he holds his breath in deep thought.

  It's only when he's pulling the car into a park that he answers. He sits and stares at the steering wheel for another moment before he speaks.

  "I need to visit her grave," Miguel mumbles.

  "Okay," I say.

  He turns his red eyes to me. "I want you to come with me."

  Oh. I was expecting this to be a private affair, so I'm a little taken aback by his request. I guess it only makes sense, though; I only feel not-so-terrible when I visit Mig's grave with him there, and it's only fair. It'll be weird to see a grave with my name on it, though.

  I smile and gather his hands in mine. My lips press against his thumbs.

  "Of course," I say. "Anything you need."  

  Miguel's face warms into a grateful smile. He squeezes my hands with his.

  The café Mrs. Jameson recommended is quaint and cute, something that overlooks the Hudson. It's bright today. The sun blazes and there's not a cloud in the sky.

  We order and watch the view. People walk past. Sirens blare in the far-off distance. My calf rests upon his.

  "We used to do this thing on our birthdays," Miguel says with a reminiscent smile. "Y/n would make cookies and time it so they'd be taken from the oven the minute it was our birthday. Of course, she was born in the early hours of the morning."

  I'm surprised he even wants to talk about her. My chest is heavy with memory.

  "Mig used to bake me muffins and decorate them to make up the periodic table," I say with a sad smirk. He grins at the thought of them. "Were you much of a baker?"

  Miguel shakes his head. "You?"

  "Nope." I shake mine. "After I once set fire to the oven, I was no longer trusted to bake."

  He chuckles. The summer sun coats his side, setting his auburn hair alight and casting the sharp planes of his face with gold. His gaze is a touch solemn from our topic of conversation, but molten ruby with care as he looks at me.

  "What kind of cookies did she make?" I ask.

  "Vanilla," Miguel answers. His eyes turn to people watch with a content look. "But she'd put honey and cinnamon in them. Ay Dios mío, Y/n, those were the best damn cookies I ever had."

  I chuckle at his glazed-over expression of bliss. "Those sound nice. Mig would make me blueberry and banana muffins and write the element letters with lemon icing." My eyes fall to the table as my amusement fades. "... it's gonna be weird celebrating this year without him."

  Miguel reaches over and picks my fingers up with his. His thumb slides across my knuckles with understanding; he knows exactly how it feels. Upended and thrown, meaning without an anchor. My chest is hollow with despondency.

  "Papita and I will be with you," he says softly.

  A small flicker of warmth ignites in my empty chest. I smile at him with gratitude. I don't know how I could've survived this grief without him or Rosalina. 

  We split apart when our lunch arrives. Our conversation turns to other topics; Miguel's recent trip to a world made entirely of shadows and the anomaly that had been wreaking havoc amongst its incorporeal citizens, Margo and Pav's training, Ben's constant questionable phrasing, Peni's slow recovery.

  I've kicked off my shoe. My sock rubs beneath the jeans around his ankle, an innocent, absentminded physical connection. Even though I work from the HQ on Fridays and I'm disgruntled by his reluctance to let me in about what happened on Earth-1610, I still miss Miguel dearly.

  So much happens at the HQ while I'm not there. I crave his once-constant presence. My chin rests on my hand as I listen to him with a peaceful smile, warmed by the sun and our affection.

  "How's your research with Gabe going?" I ask. It's been almost two months since Miguel and Gabe first told me about my universe's atomic misbalance, but the idea of it still has me unsettled.

  Miguel sighs. "We're still working on it. We're in the testing phase of a prototype we made to recalibrate this reality's atomic structure. We're getting some fifty-fifty results."

  His shoulders are a straight line of stress. His eyebrows are doing that thing again, where they bunch so much that the copper skin of his forehead folds with worry. Even with his forced weekends, he looks overwhelmed - but it's an overwhelming task to be the multiverse's guardian.
 
  "Fifty-fifty's better than nothing," I say. My sock glides up the solid muscle of his calf as far as it can go. "You look tense, Miguito."

  Miguel sends me a look like he knows what I'm doing. "Don't you only have a short lunch?"

  I smile bashfully and drop my foot. "Siento."

  But he's already fallen for the hook. He leans toward me with a fang-toothed grin of sultry amusement. "Antsy, are we?"

  I roll my eyes. Sure, it'd been a few weeks since we'd had a rough and tumble beneath the sheets, but we're busy. Miguel's flat out with all of his duties and I'm juggling all my deadlines during the week, and when the weekend rolls around we're too busy spending it with Rosita. By the time we hit the bed, we both simply pass out. 

  Maybe I am a little antsy. It's only human nature. And by the way Miguel's dark eyes follow the contours of my body, I can tell that he's antsy, too. We need a stress release.

  "I miss working in the same room all of the time," I halfheartedly mourn. It was so much easier back then.

  "How much time do you have left?"

  My eyes dart to him with surprise. He's intent, his gaze on me yearning and serious. My belly flips with that delicious, tingling sensation that I'd missed. My face similarly heats.

  "Now?" I ask with disbelief. "Mig, I don't have that much time."

  But Miguel's already heading to the counter to pay. He's taking it as a challenge. I shake my head with a snort of incredulity and quickly finish my coffee. He's at my side before I've finished my last sip, brimming with impatience.

  "Vamos, vamos," Miguel quickly says. His hand on the small of my back ushers me out the door.

  "¡Ya voy!" I complain.

  I'm pushed into the car by my overexcited husband who's eagerly lost himself to the whims of desire that I'd planted. I bat him away when he tries to do my seatbelt, having decided that I'm taking too long. He meets my scowl with nonchalance.

  In the next moment, he's in the driver's seat and pulling out of the park. I shake my head with exasperation.

  "You're insatiable," I say. "I only have another twenty minutes."

   Miguel isn't phased. "I've made you cum in less."

  Heat crawls up my neck because, dammit, he's right. "And I need to clean up."

  "I'll clean you up."

  I send him a baffled look. When the car swings into an empty alleyway and crawls deep into the shadows, my bafflement only rises. The engine's switched and he's stepping out of the car before I can voice my thoughts. I have to laugh. Weren't we a little old for car sex?

  "You want to do it here?" I ask as he opens my door. "In the car? You realise you're built bigger than a fridge, right?"

  "We'll make it work," Miguel says and hurries me from my seat.

  Stunned and amused, I allow myself to be herded into the backseat by my horny deviant of a lover. I hop onto the seat and meet his feverish, hot kiss with a snicker. It doesn't last long - I'm pushed onto my back with a solid hand and a gasp that he swallows.

  Miguel slips the button from my slacks with quick fingers, urging my hips to rise so he can slide them down with my panties and drop them onto the car floor. I'm still grinning with humour at the turn of events. His caress of my legs was short and devoted, the time crunch unfit for Miguel's usual petting. But he still has to do it. His stare is ravishing.

  "I haven't tasted you in so long," Miguel murmurs and my smile drops fast with anticipation. He grabs my thigh and moves it aside until it's filled with the shallow ache of a stretch. The breeze has me chilled. He watches my composure begin to fray with a gaze that devours, his large frame guarding me from the outside world and cast in shadow. "Coño, eres bellísima."

  My cheeks flush. "You have ten minutes."

  I don't need to say anything more. He leans forward, drags me across the leather toward him, and lands his tongue on my pussy with a firm press. My first gasp is shrill. His groan of delight is instant and full, his mouth hot and devouring.

  My back arches with the drag of his tongue, lifting with it as though to prolong each brush of bliss he blesses me with. My hands grip the back of the driver's seat and tangle in his hair for dear life. If I let go, I fear I'll spiral so much into his ecstasy that I'll never come back.

  "Mig," I whimper. My hips lift with his next slow, lazy lick. "Miguito, mi amor."

  He doesn't stop his languid rhythm to reply, too content with tasting me as he slips the tip of his tongue along each trembling valley. His only response are the soothing circles of his thumbs in the crevice of my thighs.

  I lean my head back with a sigh that steams the window. I'm drifting, floating along a river of silk and bliss. I no longer care about how long he takes or the consequences thereof; I just want to stay here with his head between my legs forever.

  He turns the tip of his tongue around my clit and slides his palms beneath my ass to squeeze it, and my eyes close with a moan of his name. He turns his whole focus to the dowel of nerves and the pleasure twisting languidly below my belly sharpens and shivers in response, heating with each quickened lather. It's ethereal. It's musical. My breaths grow shorter. My cries have grown more incoherent and desperate. When he nips me with a sharp fang I crumble with a breathless yelp.

  Miguel parts with a curse and fumbles with the button on his jeans, and I groan at the rush of cold space between us. It doesn't remain that way for long, however, as I'm dragged even further down the seats until his thighs lay flush against mine. My attention has been entirely stolen by the thick cock stiffening above my pussy.

  What was I so amused about before? Car sex, I've decided, is my new favourite thing.

  "Fuck, baby," Miguel breathes. He stares at the sight of my flushed cheeks and parted legs with a look of reverence. "Fuck, Y/n, I've missed you."

  I've missed him, too. "Seven minutes," I whisper between gasps.

  Miguel places two fingers against my clit and slides his other hand along his cock. It's not long until I'm whining again and he's straining, his tip blossoming with precum. It slicks along his length, dragged by his decadent fingers, a glistening trophy I begin to grow empty for.

  He doesn't tease me by waiting, not this time. We've gone too long without sex that we skip the prolonged foreplay, the breathless pet names and the begging. Miguel guides his leaking tip against me, drags it against my clit and makes me jump, before sliding inside my pussy with a heavenly sigh.

  I'm satisfied immediately by the fullness, then overcome with my new need for him to shove himself into me again and again until I see stars on the roof of the car. 

  Miguel doesn't disappoint. He drags his hips back before snapping them up and the sensation has my eyes rolling to the whites. He grips my thighs bruisingly tight and does it again, and then again, and again until I'm slurring my words like a drunkard and he's gasping with each pump of his cock inside of me.

  "More," I plead, trapping him in my legs. My ankles cross beneath the dip of his strong ass and pull him closer, caging him so he can never leave.

  Miguel complies expertly, holding my heat flush against him and digging his cock even deeper inside. I can feel him biblically, each ridge sliding against my flesh, each tiny angle he adjusts to, the dribble of our combined pre and each clench of his thighs as he drives himself firmly inside. It's horrific - terrible, even, and vile. I feel glorious.

  He's breathing through clenched teeth, his hair mussed and his cheeks red. His lidded eyes have grown shades darker, a deep mahogany-crimson that drags along my face and down my body to where we link. He can't stop drinking me in with his gaze and I watch him right back, desperate to remember him like this forever. He's so gorgeous when he's lost control.

  The space the backseat gives is awkward but Miguel isn't a quitter. He bends himself down at an angle that cannot at all be comfortable and kisses me so deeply that I feel like I'm sinking on dry ground. My mouth parts for him. His hot tongue muffles my gasps and tastes me with abandon. When we split, we're linked, and my heart shudders at the sight of his kiss-puffed lips, at the glossy sheen across them.

  "I should take you home," Miguel mutters. His next pump inside has him gasping and bowing, his nails digging into my ass. My lashes flutter with a whine. "Verga. I could- I could fuck you all day."

  I lift my wrist and check my watch. I can barely make out the numbers, my arm shaking with his thrusts and the way my limbs tremble with intense, painful pleasure. "You have four minutes."

  Miguel curses in a low, deep voice that overturns my soul. His fingers return to my clit and my hand grips the pole of the headrest above me. My next cry is voiceless, muted by desire.

  "That's good?" he murmurs. My nod is stilted and uneven. His thumb pressing firmly into my clit makes me jolt.

  My need drives me crazy.

  "Mig," I breathe. I reach up to clasp the back of his neck and pull him closer. "Please."

  He lets me lead him with charming obedience and knows exactly what I want when I bring him to my chest. His teeth snap around the hem of my shirt and drag it over my chest. The cumbersome covering of my bra is yanked down with force. I cry when his hot tongue begins weaving around my nipple and he responds by sheathing his fangs into the thick flesh beside it. My vision goes white.

  I'd grown immune quicker to his venom than I thought I would've, the toxins a welcome numbing, sluggish sensation rather than the temporary paralysis it'd been that first time he'd drank my blood. My fingers leaden, thick and heavy, locking themselves into place within his dark hair. He bites me again with a simultaneous thrust, and when I clench tight around his cock, his groan reverberates throughout my body. I think he likes my compromise of biting my boobs instead of my neck - just for the warmer months.

  Miguel's pace kicks up in speed, filling the car with sharp slaps of skin-on-skin that decorate the sound waves like it's Christmas. My mouth gapes.

  "Oh, fuck," I whimper. Each thrust kicks the air from my lungs in the most delectable way. The pleasure in my stomach builds with a sharp, intoxicating ascent. "Oh, Mig- Mig, amor-"

  His lips part from my breast with a string of blood and saliva. He looks utterly destroyed. "Close?"

  I nod again with a needy whine. His mouth latches onto the underside of my boob and sucks against my skin. It draws an illicit, incoherent mumble from my lips as my head stretches back. I encourage my growing orgasm with a gasp of Miguel's name. So close. So close.

  "C'mon, tentadora," he whispers in a voice that rasps. He mouths down my neck but doesn't dare leave a mark. He nips my earlobe instead. "Cum for me, cariño."

  I do - and it's vicious. My back arches with a cry and he grunts against the feeling of my fluttering, tightening pussy locking around him. I can't see anything but the explosions behind my eyelids - I can't hear my own gasps behind the nirvana that deafens me. He pumps himself through it, eliciting more and more pleasure until I'm sure I've died.

  "Coño," Miguel swears. He's still spearing into me as my intense flash of ecstasy begins to soften, chasing his own end. "Coño, mi vida."

  He's close. I can tell by the way his rhythm starts to stutter and how he grits his teeth. His expression is all rapture and focus. Another spark of desire begins to kindle within me, swift and intense.

  I gasp as I'm struck with an idea. "Wait, Mig - not inside."

  Miguel pauses abruptly, sending me a tortured, confused look at my order. His panting is thin and short with exertion. He looks physically pained to have stopped.

  "In my mouth," I say breathlessly. "Do it in my mouth."

  His expression darkens with lust. Cock throbbing and stiff, he pulls from my warmth and we both grimace at the displeasure of separating. I'm quick to clamber onto my knees and crouch on the edge of the seat where he's waiting, desperate and begging for stimulation.

  My mouth encases him with suctioning lips and Miguel almost buckles beneath the sensation, catching himself on the doorframe with a shuddery exhale. The bitter taste of my release and his pre mingles on my tongue as I suck him deeper. His hand curls around my hair and holds my head close.

  It only takes a few seconds before he's spilling into me with a guttural moan that rattles my soul. I gulp it all as if I were parched, greedily coaxing for more and more. He gasps with each bob of my head. I hold him on my tongue until he's limp.

  I let his dick slip from my mouth as I rise. Miguel meets my gaze, lips parted with gasps and coasting on the afterglow. The kiss we share is soft and satisfied. His gaze is lidded when I part, drifting.

  I still have to go back to work. I'm still sticky between my legs.

  I settle back down on my ass and lift my foot to rest on the top of the seat. I watch his expression shift from confusion to wanton longing as I spread before him, perched on my elbows with my teeth-bitten breast on display.

  "You said you'd clean me," I breathlessly remind. "You have a minute."
 
  A sharp grin curls on his lips. Miguel does love a challenge.

••🕷️••

  In the middle of the night, I wake to the sound of clanging coming from the kitchen. I'm startled at first, but when I swipe my arm out and find Mig's side of the bed empty, I calm.

  Just as I'm drifting back asleep, another loud sound crawls up the stairs and into my ears. My eyes open of their own accord. My tired curiosity drives me to shove my duvet down and rise to my feet.

  When I quietly pad down the stairs and enter the kitchen, I find Miguel and Rosalina rolling out cookie dough.

  They both pause in surprise at my entrance, and I pause in surprise at the sight of them baking at two in the morning. Their sleep clothes are dusted with flour. Rosalina's got batter on the corner of her mouth. We all stare at each other through a brief lapse of silence.

  "... what are you two doing?" I ask.

  "You're not meant to see!" Rosalina exclaims with a frown. She does her best to shield the tray from my sight. "It's a surprise!"

  Miguel chuckles at her awkward contorting. "I think we've been caught, mija."

  Rosalina slumps onto the bench with a groan. I pad toward them curiously, craning my neck to see their work. Rows of light-coloured batter balls have been lined up halfway down the baking tray, squashed by forks. Miguel's rolling a new one between his hands. They smell divine.

  "We're making cookies," Rosalina says with a huff.

  "At two-thirty in the morning?"

  "They're supposed to be ready at three!" my daughter cries with dramatic despair. "We were going to wake you up the minute it's your birthday. It was Papa's idea!"

  I meet his sheepish gaze as he places the new batter ball down onto the tray. Rosalina quickly squishes it with the fork, the batter squeezing between its prongs.

  "It's our tradition," Miguel says softly. He taps a bowl of icing that had been set aside. "Periodic table and all."

  I melt at his hidden meaning. He's combined our two traditions into one - the elements from my Mig and the cookies from his Y/n. It was both new and reused, a way to keep them with us.

  My hands cup his cheeks and pull him down for a kiss that exudes love. He's so thoughtful and dear. Behind us, Rosalina makes a sound of disgust.

  "I love it," I say softly. My hand reaches around and ruffles my daughter's hair, much to her chagrin. "You two are adorable."

  Resigned to my participation, she allows me to stay and help set out the dough on the tray. When Miguel puts them in the oven to bake, I make hot chocolates. I lean against him as Rosalina tells us the plot of a movie she recently watched in class while we sip our sweet drinks. His fingers brush the skin of my waist as we listen to our daughter's blabber with rapt attention.

  When Rosalina peers through the glass of the oven to check the progress of the cookies, Miguel takes the chance to talk to me privately. He murmurs into my hair as I rest against his chest.

  "I was going to try to make your muffins, but... I thought you'd prefer if I make these," he quietly says. "I don't know how to make them exactly like how he did. Didn't want you upset."

  My heart thrums at his care. I tilt my head back and catch his hesitant gaze, offering an endearing smile so he knows I'm okay. Miguel relaxes at my expression. I kiss the warm skin of his jugular.

  "You're amazing," I whisper. My head tucks into his shirt and my eyes close. "This is perfect. Thank you."

  Miguel's hand rubs my stomach with a slow, steady rhythm I find easy to breathe to. He rests his cheek atop my hair and sighs with contentment.

  "Te amo, mi cariño," he murmurs.

  I warm beneath his quiet words. "Te amo, Miguito."

  Rosalina dashes past us to grab the oven mitts. "They're burning!"

  Thankfully, Rosita's an exaggerator. The cookies weren't burnt but a beautiful golden-brown, emitting a heavenly aroma of vanilla, honey and cinnamon. Even with me not having that much of a sweet tooth, I'm salivating.

  "They smell so good!" Rosalina gushes. She looks to Miguel for guidance. "Can we put the icing on, now?"

  He grins at her enthusiasm. "Not yet, papita. The cookies are still too hot for the icing to set."

  She slumps with a groan. An alarm blaring from her phone makes her jump and then brighten. As soon as it's switched off, she's barrelling into me for a hug. I stagger back from her surprising strength with a grunt and a laugh.

  "¡Feliz cumpleaños, mamá!" she exclaims.

  She set an alarm for the exact minute I was born? Miguel must've told her because I was sure she wouldn't have known otherwise. My heart bursts at their combined effort. I hug her tight and kiss her soft hair.

  "Muchos gracias, mija," I happily reply.

  Rosalina sticks her chin into my stomach and looks up at me. I'm struck by how much she resembles her dad. "Do you want to do presents now?"

  I chuckle. "We can do it tomorrow after school. Once these cookies are iced we all need to head back to bed."

  She pouts but doesn't complain. When she turns away and starts swirling the icing with boredom, Miguel swipes aside my hair and kisses my neck.

  "Feliz cumpleaños, amor," he hums, and kisses me again.

  I turn around to face him. There's a dreariness behind his eyes, something that doesn't surprise me. I feel it, too; a dragging weight on my chest. We have each other but our counterpart's absences are still sorely felt. We're not replacements. I can't forget my history with Mig, and Miguel can't forget his history with his me.

  This is his third birthday without her. This is my first birthday without him. My throat thickens with sorrow. My heart aches in the shape he left.

  "Are you okay?" I quietly ask.

  Miguel slowly nods. "Are you?"

  I press my palm against his cheek and soften when he leans into me. "I'm better than I would be without you."

  He smiles, small and with care. When Rosalina makes her next tired complaint, we start icing the cookies. Miguel and Rosalina test each other on their knowledge of the periodic table. Rosalina is her father's daughter - she gets everything right. I giggle at their competitive banter as I pipe out the element letters for Germanium.
 
  When the cookies are all iced and we've each tried a couple, Miguel herds Rosalina back to bed. She drags her feet up the stairs and lets us tuck her in.

  "Te amo, mamá," Rosalina mumbles when I kiss her forehead. She smells of vanilla and sugar.

  "Te amo, chiquita," I warmly reply. "Get some sleep, baby. I'll see you in the morning."

  Her reply is lost in a sleepy grumble. I grin.

  Equally feeling the exhaustion from a midnight baking session, I crawl back into bed and slump over Miguel's waiting body. I relax into his warmth and inhale his calming, familiar scent. His arms rest around me, heavy and grounding. It's bittersweet. I can still taste the lingering flavour of the cookies.

  We don't say anything. We don't need to. I close my eyes and fall asleep for the remaining few hours I have.

  After we wake a few hours later and drop Rosalina off at school, Miguel and I return the car home before taking a portal to Earth-928. It doesn't pop us out at his pad but instead at the white ornate gates of a cemetery. They're tall and imposing, stretching toward the white sky and blending in with the monochromatic colours of Miguel's world.

  My stomach churns with unusual feelings I can't quite discern - in there is my grave.

  It's as if Miguel can smell my unease. He clasps my hand in his and gives me a reassuring squeeze. I meet his concerned gaze.

  "You don't have to come," he says.

  But he wants me to. Miguel had to do worse - he had to bury his alternate self. He accompanied me every time I visited Mig's grave without complaint, dropping everything he was doing if I so asked to go. This is the least I can do.

  I hold my flowers closer. They're peonies, the pinks and yellows and purples the only striking colour in this world. In my pocket is the blue resin-coated wildflower I'd plucked from Mig's grave. He's with me. He gives me courage.

  "I want to talk to her," I decide.

  Miguel's face relaxes with faint appreciation. I hook my arm through his and let him lead the way to her grave. He knows the way. He's walked it many times before.

  Y/n's grave is on a hill that overlooks the ocean. A young willow tree had been planted behind her white marble gravestone, stretching tall and thin with its branches bowing beneath the weight of its leaves. Flowers that couldn't have been older than a few weeks were standing in a cup of water.

  Miguel crouches to tend to it, removing the old flowers and dusting off loose grass and dirt that had found its way onto the headstone. I'm stuck staring at my name that watches me back.

 
In treasured memory of

Y/n L/n

Beloved partner, sister and friend
Until we meet again

2063 - 2097

  "Sister..?" I quietly ask.

  "Gabe's touch," Miguel quietly murmurs. "They were close enough to be siblings."

  I tear my gaze from the headstone and look at him. His expression is full of mourning, pain pouring from him like a tangible thing. His love is twisted with the deepest of grief.

  Miguel rests a hand on the top of the headstone. "Feliz cumpleaños, hermosa. Espero estes en paz. Lo siento por preocuparte... lo siento por no haber sido lo suficientemente rápido." He pauses to take a deep breath. "Te extraño todos los días."

  My throat catches. When Miguel rises to his feet and steps back to join me, I have to wipe away my tears. His own eyes glisten with emotion.

  I know there's nothing I can say that will make him feel better. No words will ever alleviate the pain that's branded our hearts. Losing someone dear to you isn't something you ever move on from; they linger with you, touched by the memory of them. You carry them with you for the rest of your life. The pain never eases... but it does become a friend.

    "How often do you visit her?" I ask. He takes the flowers I hold out for him and places them in the cup.

  Miguel shrugs. "Few times a month. About the same as you."

  Two people walk along the path behind us. I tug my white hood to cover my face more. The half-mask I wear still doesn't feel enough to hide my identity. What if this version's Elle stops by? What if my parents aren't deadbeats in this world and mourn my death? They'll know me by my eyes alone.

  Miguel wipes his eyes and sniffles. He doesn't hide his tears. Not around me. I place my hand on his back with sympathy.

  "She's forgiven you," I whisper. "I know she has."

  Miguel releases a breath like it's all been built up behind his teeth. "I should've been faster."

  "It's not your fault."

  He shakes his head and clears his throat. We could argue this all day. "Do you want to talk to her?"

  Resigned to his determination, I nod. Miguel stands and makes way for me, then turns to tend to the willow tree for privacy. I kneel beside her headstone and try not to think too hard about the fact that the body in the ground is mine.

  "Hi, Y/n... um, it's me. Us." I close my eyes and inhale deeply to re-centre myself against the confusion. "This is probably just as weird for you as it is for me. Sorry. You don't need to worry about Miguel if you are. You might not be. I'm not sure if you can see through other worlds but Rosa and I have been making sure he keeps out of trouble, as difficult as he makes it."  

  Miguel huffs from behind me. I smile a little.

  "He's loved," I say softly. "Just like how you're loved, and just like how I love my Mig. We're helping each other. I'm going to do my best to keep him healthy and happy like how I know you did."

  I pull my resin-coated blue flower from my pocket and place it on her grave. Hopefully, in some beautiful afterlife with a sky that never greys and a meadow that never wilts, they're keeping each other company. My vision blurs with tears.

  "I hope he's with you," I continue. "I really hope you're both happy."

  Miguel's watching me by the time I stand. He takes my hand and, with one last look at her headstone and my resin flower, we depart.

  I stew in contemplative silence for most of the walk back to the cemetery's exit. It was alarming to see my own grave but also fulfilling, in a way. I could reassure Y/n that I would take good care of Miguel. I know that's what I would want if our positions were swapped.

  "Sorry for doing this on your birthday," Miguel murmurs. "Not exactly a happy way to celebrate."

  I shake my head. "I'm glad I came."

  He watches the sidewalk. There's still guilt radiating from him, curled in the hunch of his shoulders and sitting in his red eyes. I tug him to stop and take his hand in mine.

  "She was lucky to be as loved as much as you love her," I insist. "Canon event or not, she would've made that same choice to save you because she loves you, too." I reach up and brush a wayward lock of hair from his forehead. "That's not destiny, Miguito. That's love."

  Miguel deflates beneath my words. He folds over and rests his forehead on my shoulder, wearied and drained from everything he's feeling. My fingers card through his thick, auburn hair. He's shaking beneath his misery.

  "I miss her," Miguel sobs.

  I close my eyes and rest my cheek against his head. "I know, amor."

  We stay like this for a while, standing in the centre of the cemetery while he weeps into my shoulder. My nails trace down his nape in silent support. Even if I wasn't sorely feeling the absence of my Miguel, I'd still be brought to tears. The devout defender of the multiverse crying in my arms was miserable enough to make me feel it, too.

  I lift my wet face to the white sky.