Summary: You slowly realise your boyfriend Miguel O’Hara is Spider-Man through his patterns.
Miguel O’Hara is a man of patterns.
You learn them slowly.
The way he always chooses quiet restaurants. The way his hand finds the small of your back without thinking. The way he stiffens when sirens start, even when he pretends not to hear them.
And then there are the disappearances.
Every time something goes wrong in the city, Miguel is suddenly gone.
A phone call. An excuse. A hurried kiss pressed to your temple. He promises he will be right back.
He never is.
Spider-Man is, though.
You see him on the news, red and blue cutting through smoke and chaos. Saving people. Catching falling debris. Swinging between buildings while your boyfriend is nowhere to be found.
You tell yourself it is a coincidence.
You tell yourself you are paranoid. You love Miguel, and love makes excuses easily.
Until the night it becomes impossible to ignore.
You are halfway through dinner when the ground trembles, a distant explosion rattling the windows. Miguel freezes. His jaw tightens.
“I need to step out,” he says too quickly. “Just for a minute.”
“Miguel?”
He is already gone.
You step outside moments later, heart racing. Smoke rises a few blocks away. Sirens scream. And there he is, Spider-Man, vaulting over a wrecked car, heading straight for the disaster.
Panic grips you.
“Hey,” you shout, running toward him. “Please. My boyfriend was just here. Miguel. Please, can you help him?”
The mask tilts toward you. For just a second, something breaks in his posture.
Then he is gone.
Miguel returns ten minutes later, breathless, hair dishevelled, acting as if nothing had happened.
You do not confront him. Not yet.
The truth reveals itself a week later.
You are at his apartment when news of a fire lights up your phone. Miguel glances at the screen, then at you.
“I need to go to the store. We are out of a few things.”
You nod. Smile. Pretend your heart is not pounding.
While he is gone, you shower. The water is hot enough to sting, but it does not quiet your thoughts. When you step out, wrapped in a towel, you open his dresser, looking for one of his shirts.
At the bottom drawer, beneath folded clothes, you find it.
An old Spider-Man mask.
Worn. Faded. Carefully kept.
Your hands shake as you put it back exactly where it was.
When Miguel returns, you kiss him. You laugh. You act normal.
But you know now.
You just need the right moment.
It comes on a crowded subway platform.
Something goes wrong.
You barely understand what happens before the lights flicker and people start screaming. Metal shrieks. The tunnel trembles.
Spider-Man is there in seconds, holding beams, shouting orders, saving everyone he can.
You help people limp away, guiding them to safety. One by one, the platform empties until it is just you and him.
Then the ceiling groans.
A chunk of concrete crashes down, pinning your leg. Pain explodes through you.
“No,” Spider-Man shouts, straining against the debris. “I have you. I have you.”
You grab his wrist, fingers slick with dust and blood.
“It’s okay, Miguel, get out of here. It’s going to collapse.”
He does not react at first. He is too focused on saving you.
Another tremor. You scream in pain.
“It’s okay,” you say again, voice shaking. “You did your best. My leg is broken. I can feel it. Miguel, please.”
He freezes.
Slowly, the mask turns toward you.
“How,” he breathes.
“I love you,” you say softly. “But please. Save yourself.”
He argues, of course, he does. His voice cracks. His hands shake. He refuses every word you say.
Then the ceiling collapses further.
With a roar of effort, he lifts the debris, hauls you into his arms, and swings you out just as the tunnel caves in behind you.
You cling to him, pain and relief tangled together. He lands near the hospital and carries you inside without a word.
When you wake, your leg is wrapped and elevated.
The room is quiet.
Miguel sits beside your bed in civilian clothes, eyes red, hands clasped tightly together.
“How did you know?” he asks quietly.
You tell him everything. The disappearances. The dates. The mask. The way your heart had known before your mind caught up.
He leans forward and presses his forehead to yours.
“I wanted to protect you. I never wanted to lie to you.”
You cup his face gently.
“You did protect me. And I would choose you again. Every time.”
He kisses you then, careful and trembling, like the world might shatter if he is not gentle.
“I love you,” Miguel says.
You smile through the pain.
“I know."
Recovery is more peaceful than the chaos that brought you here.
The hospital room smells faintly of antiseptic and clean linen. Machines hum softly.
Your leg is heavy with bandages, elevated and aching in a dull, constant way.
Miguel barely leaves the chair beside your bed. When he does, it is only to pace a few steps before sitting again, like moving too far from you physically hurts.
He learns your pain schedule better than the nurses do.
“You are due for medication,” he murmurs before you even glance at the clock.
You smile weakly.
“You memorised it.”
“I memorise things that matter,” he replies, eyes never leaving you.
He helps you wash your face in the mornings, holding the basin steady, handing you the towel like it is something precious. When you struggle to move in bed, he moves instantly, careful hands bracing your shoulders, your waist, always asking permission with his eyes even if his voice stays quiet.
At night, when the ward settles, he finally talks.
“I was so scared,” he admits once, voice barely above a whisper. “Not of losing you. Of surviving you.”
You turn your head toward him.
“Miguel.”
“If you had died because of me, I would have broken. Completely.”
You reach for his hand. He grips yours like it is an anchor.
“But you did not. Because you stayed.”
That seems to undo him more than anything else. He bows his head and presses a kiss to your knuckles, breath shaky.
When you are discharged, Miguel brings you home.
Your crutches lean against the wall by the door.
He has moved things to make space for you. A blanket was folded neatly on the couch. A pillow positioned just right.
“I set up the shower chair. And I bought groceries. Probably too many.”
You laugh softly.
“You panic-shopped.”
“I prepared,” he corrects, but his ears redden.
Domestic life with Miguel is gentle.
He cooks while you sit at the table, leg propped up, watching him move through the kitchen with precision.
He asks your opinion on everything, seasoning, temperature, portions. When he brings your plate, he kneels slightly to place it in front of you, as if serving you is something sacred.
At night, he helps you into bed. He changes your bandages with care.
“You can tell me if it hurts,” he says every time.
“I will. You do not need to be afraid. You won't break me.”
He exhales slowly. “I am learning.”
Sleep comes easier when he is there. He lies on his side, facing you, one arm draped carefully over your waist, like he is afraid to hold too tightly.
Sometimes you wake to find him watching you.
“What?” you murmur.
“Nothing, I just like knowing you are still here.”
One afternoon, as rain taps against the windows, you catch him staring at the drawer.
“The mask,” you say gently.
He nods.
“I do not want secrets anymore.”
He retrieves it and places it on the table between you. It looks smaller somehow without the weight of lies attached to it.
“This is not all I am, but it is part of me.”
You reach across the table and take his hand.
“And I love all of it.”
That night, when he kisses you, it is slow and unguarded. No urgency. No fear. Just warmth and certainty.
Later, as he helps you settle back against the pillows, you catch his wrist.
He curls beside you, careful of your leg, forehead resting against yours when you hear the sirens.
You know he heard them, his body reacted much like before.
“Miguel.” you spoke.
“Yes?”
"Go."
"Thank you." his voice was barely above a whisper, by the time you sat up, he was already in his suit ready to jump out the window.
"I love you, Miguel."
"Love you too, Mi Amor." He smiled before his mask covered his face and jumped out the window.
You lay back in the bed, happiness filled your chest as you looked at the ceiling.
hello everyone, I am ALIVE, trying to fight art block so here's a gif
it was supposed to be just Wild's hair animation (that's my idea of relaxing after a stressful week of drawing I guess), and then when I was done I thought that something was missing just like in totk
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