𝐒𝐎, 𝐃𝐎 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌?
prologue: there’s something amiss.
dark! miguel o‘hara x reader
Life with your husband is perfect. But when subtle changes start to surface, the warmth you once knew starts to feel different. The man you love is still by your side devoted as ever. But beneath the surface, something isn’t right. And deep down, you’re afraid to ask why.
CW: paranoia, implications of ptsd
series masterlist 𒌐 chapter one
𒌐
Love just didn’t seem to do it justice.
What you felt for your husband was deeper than that; than a word. It was something you felt to your very core, something that willed you to get up every morning. Something that made you stare off at him in the utmost admiration and respect. Something that something that you knew you’d never be the same without.
You couldn’t put a name on it, just yet.
He noticed you long before you ever noticed him; before you even spoke, before he ever got close enough to hear your voice. He’d see you across the campus courtyard, tucked into a corner of the library, laughing with your friends outside the lecture hall. You weren’t the loudest or the flashiest person in the room, but you had this presence, something that pulled him in before he could stop himself.
He thought you were pretty. Too pretty. Distractingly so. The kind of pretty that made him stare longer than he should, that made him forget whatever the hell he was supposed to be doing. And that annoyed him.
Miguel was focused—always had been. School, goals, the future—that’s what mattered. Not distractions.
But somehow, you became the exception.
It started small. A few stolen glances, a few chance encounters. He never meant to hover, but he found himself sitting a few seats away from you in class, lingering in places he knew you’d be, listening when you spoke just to learn the way your voice lilted at the end of your sentences. Making excuses for why he was walking by the science building when his classes were on the opposite side of campus. He knew you’d be passing that way.
You were just constant. sitting a few rows ahead of him in lecture, showing up at the same campus coffee shop, appearing in the library at the same ungodly hours he did.
By some lick of fate, as he would call it, you ended up semester long partners for your chemistry class, and it was smooth sailing from there.
Late-night study sessions that turned into deep conversations about life. Coffee dates that weren’t technically dates but still felt like something more. You stole his hoodies, and he let you, even when he grumbled about it. He carried your books when your bag was too heavy, always acting like it was no big deal.
You became his person. And he, yours.
You balanced him. Where he was intense, you were easygoing. Where he was too serious, too focused, you reminded him to breathe, to live. You challenged him in a way no one else dared to, never letting him get away with his usual brooding, always pushing back when he got too cocky.
And Miguel? He kept you steady. He was your anchor, your protector before you even realized you needed one. If someone gave you a hard time, Miguel was there, looming, intimidating, making it very clear that no one messed with you. When you got overwhelmed, when life felt like too much, he was the one who sat beside you, grounding you with his quiet presence, his steady, unwavering loyalty.
By the time your freshman year ended, it was obvious to everyone: friends, professors, even strangers, that you and Miguel O’Hara were inseparable.
And by senior year, he knew he was going to marry you.
And in the going-on eight years you’d known Miguel, you’d begun to know him like the back of your hand.
He was an early bird.
More often than not, you’d find yourself waking in an empty bed. Mornings in your home were never rushed, but they weren’t lazy, either. They started early, usually before the sun had fully risen. He’d never been the type to sleep in, no matter how long he’d worked the night before or how much you’d pester him to stay in bed. He’d be up before the sun, every morning. Sometimes you’d frown, approaching him with a small complaint, wanting to have just one quiet morning with him. He’d always say, “We already did, quierda.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie. He did enjoy quiet mornings with you; his arms reaching for you instinctively to pull you close and hold you a while before he got up.
It’s not like you could've known or indulged in it though, too busy sleeping like a rock at the bottom of the ocean.
He had a habit of checking on you every morning, especially when you were still in bed. His footsteps would approach softly, the creak of the floorboards almost imperceptible, before he’d pause at the doorframe, leaning casually against it, eyes taking in the scene. It wasn’t out of insecurity, but rather a quiet affection. He wanted to see you safe, to see you at peace, even if his restlessness didn’t allow him to be.
His first action of the day was always the same; a cup of black coffee, strong and bitter. You knew this because you’d wake to the smell of it every morning, your own warm mug placed on the nightstand, a small gesture that showed he was thinking of you. You knew he didn’t need the caffeine— his body was accustomed to early mornings and long days— but it was ritual, and you knew he valued that. Some form of routine to keep him grounded.
And when you finally aroused, you’d find him sitting at the kitchen counter, fingers curled around his own mug— a cute little one you’d found shopping one day— staring out the small window thoughtfully.
Sometimes, he’d make you breakfast. Scrambled eggs, pancakes, or something simple yet comforting. The kind of meals he thought you would appreciate, even if he wasn’t a chef. When he would hand you a plate, he’d hover for a second longer than necessary, a soft “Here” leaving his lips, his gaze unwavering as if waiting for your approval. When you thanked him, he’d nod, but there was always a subtle tension in his posture like he was uncertain if it was truly good enough.
You’d have to swallow a whole bite first before he relents.
He’s handy.
What was once a slow, occasional plink had turned into an incessant, irregular patter, a maddening little reminder that the kitchen sink was in rebellion.
“Otra vez con esto?” He’d muttered under his breath, staring down at the persistent drip-drip-drip of the kitchen sink. It’d been leaking on and off for a while. Most of the time you tried to fix it yourself, but he would always chide you if caught.
You watched as he crouched beside the sink, pulling open the cabinet doors to inspect the pipes. He reached under the sink, fiddling with the shut-off valve. The stretch of his back was unfairly attractive, the way his muscles flexed under his shirt as he reached in making it very difficult to focus on the issue at hand.
You heard a soft grunt of effort, followed by a quiet “Mierda” when something rattled loose.
You sat on the counter, watching as he turned his back under the sink, muttering under his breath. His broad shoulders barely fit in the cramped space beneath the cabinets, and his long legs stretched out awkwardly as he worked.
With a quiet grunt, Miguel adjusted the faucet, tightening the connections beneath the sink. Every movement was deliberate and controlled, he was always like that, hyper-focused when solving a problem. He muttered to himself in Spanish, something about cheap pipes and how everything these days was built like basura.
“You okay down there? Do I need to call a plumber?” you asked, biting back a smirk.
“A qué? No—you don’t need some guy coming in here overcharging you for something I can handle.” He replied dryly. “Hand me the wrench,” he muttered. You huffed, grabbing the tool and placing it in his waiting palm. His fingers brushed against yours, warm and rough from years of hard work.
You smirked, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. “You know, this is kind of a Handy Manny situation.”
He paused slowly, peeking his head out from under the sink. “What?”
“You know, Handy Manny? That kids’ show?” You grinned. “With the talking tools?”
He blinked at you, unimpressed. “Me estás comparando con un muñeco animado?”
“Well, you are handy,” you teased, swinging your legs playfully. “All you need are talking tools.”
Miguel exhaled sharply, turning back to the pipes. “Por favor, the last thing I need is a wrench that talks back.”
“You mean, besides me?”
He let out a short laugh, the sound low and warm in his chest. “Exactamente.”
You watched as he tightened a bolt, his forearms flexing with the movement. It was unfair how effortlessly strong he was, how easily he fixed things like it was second nature. There was something almost soothing about the way he worked, focused, precise, completely in control.
After a few more adjustments, Miguel sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag. He reached up to turn the faucet handle— no more leak.
“Y ya.” He stood, towering over you, smug as ever. “Fixed. No talking tools necessary.”
You clapped dramatically. “Wow, amazing. You’re so strong and capable.”
Miguel rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Dame un beso,” he ordered, tapping his cheek.
You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss where he pointed. But before you could pull away, his hand found your waist, tugging you closer, stealing another kiss—deeper, slower, filled with that unmistakable Miguel arrogance.
When he pulled back, he smirked. “Eso is the proper payment.”
You huffed, rolling your eyes.
Handy Manny never charged for his services.
And how could you forget the bed frame?
The bed had been getting worse.
At first, it was just an occasional creak when you shifted in the middle of the night. Annoying, but bearable. Only causing noise when you exert too much force. Then, it turned into an insufferable symphony of squeaks at the slightest movement. Shifting? Squeak. Rolling over? Squeak. You knew it was tearing up his nerves, no matter how he tried to ignore it. You could see the telltale furrow of his brows and the very slight roll of his eyes into the back of his head. And finally, the last straw: Miguel had sat down on the edge one night, and the entire frame wobbled so violently that you both went still, exchanging a look.
He exhaled slowly. “No. Absolutely not.” He’d muttered. “I’m fixing this. Right now.”
So, you’d sat cross-legged on the mattress, watching as Miguel crouched at the foot of the bed, tightening bolts with the kind of intense focus that made him mutter to himself. His shirt was slightly damp from exertion, clinging to the defined muscles of his back, sleeves pushed up to reveal the thick lines of his forearms. Every time he tightened a screw, you could see the strength behind the movement— the ease with which he handled the stubborn metal.
“Should’ve done this way sooner.” He grumbled.
“I told you it was getting bad.”
Miguel shot you a look. “Sí and I was too distracted to care.”
Heat licked up your spine at the implication. “Well, maybe if you weren’t so rough—”
“No empieces,” he warned, but his smirk gave him away.
You bit back a grin, stretching out on your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows. “It’s true, though. You don’t know your own strength.”
He huffed but didn’t argue. The room fell into a steady rhythm of quiet metal-on-wood sounds, Miguel’s large hands moving with ease as he tightened, adjusted, and reinforced the frame. You let yourself watch him— how his brows knit together in concentration, how the muscles in his forearms flexed as he worked.
It was almost too attractive, watching him fix things, watching him take care of something just because you needed it.
A few minutes later, Miguel gave the frame a solid shake. It barely moved.
“Should be good now,” he said, rising to his full height. “Ya no se va a romper.”
You blinked up at him innocently. “No squeaking?”
“No squeaking.”
“No wobbling?”
Miguel’s eyes narrowed slightly as if sensing where this was going. “No wobbling.”
You hummed, rolling onto your back, and stretching out luxuriously on the mattress. “Mmm. We should probably test it, just to be sure.” Miguel let out a short laugh, running a hand down his face.
“What? Quality assurance is important.”
He sighed, stepping closer, bracing a knee against the mattress. His large hands pressed into the bed on either side of you, caging you in as he leaned down.
He’s a geek.
You both had been no stranger to the distressed whirring of your old laptop. Every time you powered it on, it wheezed like it was taking its last breath, the fan groaning under the weight of existence. It was a surprise that it hadn’t started smoking. It was a keepsake, you’d always have to remind him when he shot a telling look your way, eyebrows raised insinuatingly as he glanced between you and the old thing. You failed to mention that the only reason you’d bought it was because it was your favorite color.
That night he’d been sat comfortably on the couch while you opted for the floor, laptop sat upon the coffee table. Originally, he’d been reading a novel but it was long discarded after you distracted him with typing. He crossed his arms, staring at your ancient laptop as if it had personally offended him. He had been so patient, but that night, as you casually clicked away at the screen, seemingly unbothered by the relic you were using, he finally snapped.
“This thing is hideous, I just can’t.”
“It still works, Miguel.” You’d dismiss, waving him off as he loomed over your shoulder. You’d have to, otherwise, he’d get all in a stupor about GPUs and CPUs and—
“Do you even know how computers work?” he blurted, leaning forward.
You didn’t bother to look over your shoulder, “Mmm, vaguely.”
“Vaguely?” He scoffed. “Okay, let me enlighten you. See, inside that fossil you call a computer, there’s a CPU—” See. “Think of it like the brain. Now, when you ask it to do literally anything— open a file, load a webpage, breathe— it sends instructions through circuits at high speeds. But your CPU? It’s so old, it probably needs a walker to get those instructions across the motherboard. And don’t even get me started on your RAM—”
“Oh, please don’t get started on the RAM,” you teased, still typing.
He ignored your teasing; he was on a roll now. “Random Access Memory, cariña. It’s supposed to help your system multitask, but yours is so outdated it’s like asking a goldfish to remember where it left its keys. And that hard drive? I’ve seen abuelitas move faster than that thing. Every time you save a file, I swear I can hear it groaning.” Though he was behind you, you knew he was speaking with his hands. “The thermal paste has definitely dried up by now, which means the heat distribution is trash—”
You smirked, finally turning to look at him. “Oh… So what you’re saying is… it’s still working.”
“Are you even listening? Barely, Bebè, it’s barely working.” He dragged a hand down his face, exasperated.
“Right, right. The… thermals and the… heat…”
He groaned, pinching his nose, “That’s the same thing.”
You turn back to your laptop with a small grin, “Miguel, if you wanted to lecture me about computers you could’ve just asked.”
His jaw clenched, and to someone who didn’t know him, they’d think he was upset. “I wouldn’t have to if you would just get a new one.”
“A new one?” You hummed sweetly, “I dunno… this one has character.”
He threw his hands up, you know because you could feel the waft of air hit your neck. “It has lag! It has artifacts! It has a death wish!”
You laughed softly, turning to peek at his expression, “You’re a cutie when you nerd out.”
He huffed, looking away— not before you noticed the very slight red hue on his ears. “I’m not nerding out, I’m being practical.”
“Uh-huh… So, tell me more about heat distribution?”
Miguel groaned again, but he could already feel himself giving in, because despite his frustration, despite the fact that he knew you were messing with him on purpose; He’d explain it all anyway.
“One of these days, I’m just going to build you a new one while you sleep. And when you wake up it’ll be too late for you to argue, and I’m going to make sure I personally burn that damn thing.” He chided, but you knew it was in good spirits.
He’d kept his promise. Well, partially.
He hadn’t waited until you fell asleep like he said he would, but he did build you a new one. Hustling into the house with a large box in his arms, placing it onto the living room floor carefully. Ironically, you’d been on the couch, typing away at your precious laptop when he brought it in.
Without a word, he rolled up his sleeves and began to build the computer from scratch. He paid no mind to the instruction manual, tossing it carelessly to the side. He’d built furniture, fixed appliances, hell, even rewired the kitchen lights without so much as a passing glance towards instructions. It amazed you every time.
Within a few hours, he was done. He’d powered it on and crossed his arms, waiting a few moments. He shot you a glance over his shoulder, “Hear that?”
You scoffed at his antics.
The computer was silent.
He’s the sweetest thing.
He’s not overtly romantic, or eccentric in the way he expresses himself. While he does buy you gifts, he’s not especially flashy either.
But he is sweet, so sweet, in the ways that matter.
He’s sweet in the way he takes care of you without being asked.
Miguel notices the little things. If you sigh too much, rub your temples one too many times, or let your shoulders droop after a long day, he’s already moving before you can even say a word. He kneads at the knots in your back with those big, careful hands, pressing just right. He makes sure you eat, cooking something warm and filling even if he’s not hungry. If you fall asleep on the couch, he carries you to bed like it’s nothing, tucking the blanket around you with a tenderness that contradicts his sharp edges.
The way he always adjusted things to fit your needs— your favorite mug always within reach, the blanket already warm before you curled up on the couch. The way he memorized the way you liked your food, how you took your coffee, the exact moment in a movie where you’d start to get sleepy and lean against him.
He’s sweet in the way he worries about you.
He’ll act annoyed when you forget your jacket, but later, you’ll find it draped over your shoulders, without a word. If you so much as shiver, he’s pressing his body against yours, wrapping you up in his warmth like it’s second nature. When you go out, he walks on the side of the street closest to the cars, and if a crowd gets too thick, his hand finds your lower back, guiding you through it instinctively.
He doesn’t tell you to be careful outright. Instead, it’s “Call me when you get there.” Or “Text me if you need me.” Or the simple way his jaw tightens when you do something reckless because he’d rather die than see something happen to you.
He’s sweet in the way he listens.
Miguel remembers everything you say, even the things you don’t expect him to. You’ll mention once that a certain dessert reminds you of your childhood, and weeks later, he’ll bring it home like it’s no big deal. If you ramble about something you love, he listens, really listens, even if he doesn’t fully understand it, because it matters to you.
He’s sweet in the way he lets you see him.
Miguel is used to being strong, to keeping things locked up tight. But with you? He lets his guard down in ways he never does with anyone else. He lets you see him tired, lets you see the worry in his eyes when he thinks you aren’t looking. He lets you run your fingers through his hair when he’s exhausted and lets you press sleepy kisses to his jaw without pulling away.
He lets himself need you, and that’s the sweetest thing of all.
Because for all his strength, all his stubbornness, your husband loves fiercely.
And when he loves you, he loves you entirely.
He’s caring.
It was past midnight when he’d rolled over in bed, reaching out instinctively.
His hand met empty sheets.
Frowning, he blinked himself awake, his senses sharpening as he scanned the dimly lit room. Then he heard it; The faint shuffle of movement from the living room.
With a quiet sigh, he pushed himself up and padded toward the soft glow of the lamp.
You were curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, staring blankly at the TV. A show played in the background, forgotten. The glow cast soft shadows on your face, highlighting the tired slope of your expression.
Miguel leaned against the doorway for a moment, watching you.
Then, without a word, he walked over and crouched in front of you. His hands found your knees, rubbing slow, grounding circles through the blanket. “Otra vez?” he asked, voice quiet.
You nodded, not needing to explain.
Miguel exhaled through his nose, then shifted, sliding onto the couch beside you. He didn’t press, didn’t ask questions. He simply opened his arms, a silent invitation.
You hesitated for half a second before sinking into him, letting his warmth pull you in. His chin rested atop your head, his large hand smoothing over your back in steady, rhythmic motions.
“Estoy aquí,” he murmured against your hair. “Siempre aquí.”
You sighed, closing your eyes, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little.
And in the steady, quiet comfort of his presence, you knew. Miguel didn’t need words to remind you that you were loved.
He’s very considerate.
His anger, like everything else about him, is intense. It’s a wildfire, quick to spark, quick to burn, leaving behind charred remains if he isn’t careful. It has always been his curse; this need for control, this frustration when things slip through his fingers, this deep, unrelenting fury at the world when it doesn’t bend the way he wants it to.
For a long time, he didn’t care to control it. It was just a part of him. People knew to stay out of his way when his temper frayed, and if they didn’t—well, they got what was coming.
But then there was you.
Suddenly, his anger wasn't just his problem. And the thought of that anger, his anger, hurting you, even unintentionally, terrified him.
So he tries. For you, he tries.
It’s not perfect. He still clenches his jaw too tight sometimes. His hands still curl into fists when things don’t go his way. But now, when the fire flares up in his chest, when frustration threatens to spill over, he doesn’t let it consume him. He takes a breath. He walks away if he has to.
“I’m not mad at you,” he tells you, voice strained but careful because he never wants you to think it’s your fault. “Just—give me a second, amor.”
He takes a moment to collect himself, push down the fire before it can burn too hot.
And he comes back every time.
He never storms off and doesn't return. He never lets you go to sleep upset. He'll always approach you after he's cooled off, placing a hand on the small of your back and speaking to you softly. He'll talk. And that's how you know he's trying.
"Lo siento," he murmurs sometimes, pressing his forehead against yours. "I'm trying."
And you see it. You see the effort, the restraint, the ways he's learning. Not just for himself, but for you.
He attends therapy and has been for just over five years. Initially, he had been reluctant, having mixed feelings about being so vulnerable to a stranger. But over time, he grew to value the information he learned about his anger and himself. Though he's made great progress, he'll continue to show up because he believes it to be a good thing.
"Mi amor," he began once, his voice low and measured, “I know sometimes I... I let my anger get the best of me." His eyes searched yours, apologetic and sincere. "Pero, I'm working on it. I don't want to be the kind of man who scares you. I don't want to be the storm, the one who tears things apart. I want to be the calm after it, the one to build you back up.”
He’s upheld that’s promise all these years.
So, Love just couldn’t possibly do it justice.
He’s been too good to you over the years. Loved you just right without you having to teach him. He learned. He teaches himself how to be everything he needs to be for you. And in return you do the same. You’ve learned his mind, his quirks, his voice, his body, all engraved into your brain like a map. You know him, down to his very bones.
Indeed, you know your husband like the back of your very own hand.
But…
Lately, there’s something amiss about your husband.
It started with little things. Fleeting moments that didn’t hold any substantial significance, ones you could almost swear you imagined.
Miguel has always been a creature of habit, that no one could deny. You knew his routines just as well as your own. Him happening to pick up a new habit here and there wasn’t innately strange. But the frequency was just weird.
He always takes his coffee black. No cream no sugar— just bitter and strong. Always has since the day you met him.
The first time, you don’t even catch it. You make his coffee, just like always, and hand it to him with a kiss to his cheek. He mutters a tired “Gracias,” brings the mug to his lips, and—
He pauses.
It’s so brief you almost miss it. His grip on the mug tightens just slightly, his jaw tensing for the briefest second before he takes a careful sip.
You don’t think much of it. Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe work is wearing on him more than usual. But you catch a glimpse of the look on his face, one you could only thing of as masked disgust.
But then it happens again.
And again.
And again.
One morning, you catch him subtly tipping his mug just a little too far when he brings it to his lips—but instead of drinking, he only lets the coffee brush his mouth before lowering it back down.
You frown. “Not thirsty?”
He blinks, looking at you as if he forgot you were watching. “Hm?”
“You barely drank any.” You nod toward the still-full mug in his hand.
For a second, his expression is unreadable. Then he exhales, shaking his head. “Just… thinking about work.” He takes another sip, this time actually drinking, and sets the mug down a little too quickly. “It’s fine.”
But something about the way he says it makes your stomach turn.
It’s fine.
Not good. Not exactly what I needed. Just… fine.
Miguel never cared too much about food or drinks, but when it came to coffee, he had opinions. He used to say that putting sugar in coffee was “a crime,” that he could tell when a café used cheap beans just by the aftertaste. He loved his coffee the way he loved his work; strong, straightforward, and absolutely not up for debate.
But now, he’s treating it like a chore. Lifting the mug every few moments like he’s on autopilot. Like he’s drinking it out of pure obligation.
So the next morning, you test him.
You make two cups of coffee; one black, one with cream and sugar. You set them both down on the counter without saying a word, waiting to see which one he reaches for.
Miguel steps into the kitchen, rolling out the tension in his shoulders. He gives you a tired smile before reaching out—
And then he stops.
His eyes flick between the two cups. There’s a look on his face, he contemplating something. But what? He shouldn’t be hesitating. Miguel knows which one is his.
Then, slowly, he picks up the black coffee.
You watch closely as he brings it to his lips, taking the smallest sip possible. His throat moves as he swallows, his expression neutral, too neutral.
Then he smiles, setting the cup down. “Thanks, cariño.”
It should reassure you. But it doesn’t.
You try again.
So the next morning, you prepare two cups of coffee—both with cream and sugar.
You set them on the counter like usual, forcing yourself to act natural, even as your suspicion rises.
When Miguel walks into the kitchen, He leans in to press a kiss to your temple before reaching for the cup.
And he doesn’t hesitate.
Your fight not to furrow your brows.
He takes a sip, a real one. Not the barely there brush of his lips against the rim. A full, deep swallow, like he’s been craving it. There’s no sign of discomfort, no hesitation, no barely-contained grimace like when he drinks his usual black coffee. If anything, he almost looks satisfied.
He hums. It’s barely audible. But it’s unmistakable.
You stare at him. “Is it good?”
He hums in response, already reaching for another large sip.
Your fingers tighten around your own mug. “You like it?”
Miguel sets the cup down, licking a stray drop of coffee from his lips before glancing at you.
And that’s when he notices.
You’re staring.
You’re staring at him, your own coffee untouched in your hands, something unreadable in your eyes.
His face remains carefully neutral, but you catch it—that flicker of something, that half-second of realization.
Miguel glances at you, his brow furrowing slightly at the odd tone in your voice. “Yeah. Why?”
Miguel never drank sweet coffee. The first time you ever stole a sip of his years ago, you’d nearly gagged at how bitter it was. “How do you drink this?” you had complained, nose scrunching. “It’s like burnt regret.”
He’d smirked, smug. “That’s how coffee’s supposed to taste.”
And one the one occasion you’d make his coffee wrong, he’d pulled a face, set the cup down, and complained about how it was “ruined.” He grumbled about it the whole way to work and forced himself to drink it just so it “wouldn’t go to waste.”
So why was he so keen to it now? Why did he just wake up and suddenly detest his very specific preference?
You’re pulled from your thoughts as he utters, “Everything okay, cariña?” His voice is smooth, unbothered, but there’s an edge to it now.
You swallow, forcing yourself to nod. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He picks up his coffee again, this time taking a slower sip. Deliberate. Controlled. When he sets it down, his eyes meet yours, studying you as intently as you’re studying him.
You try not to think about it too much.
Whatever, it’s just coffee.
But he stares.
Miguel as always had an intense gaze. It was something you loved about it him. His eyes were so expressive and warm when they danced over you, you could tell exactly what was on his mind with a simple glance.
He’d always watch you softly when you’d do leisure things like folding laundry, or washing dishes, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
But now, there’s… something behind his eyes.
You’ve got a habit of waking up in the middle of the night. It’s not unusual for you to have nightmares, dreams haunted by old memories that you’d rather not speak about. And Miguel knows this; he’ll usually awake to your shuffling, immediately going into comfort mode.
The first time, it’s unsettling. The second time, it’s terrifying.
Something rouses you from sleep—not a sound, not a touch, just a feeling. An eerie awareness that prickles at the edge of your subconscious, urging you awake. Your body stirs before your mind fully catches up, a slow drift to consciousness, your limbs heavy with sleep.
But the moment your eyes flutter open, you realize you’re not alone in your wakefulness.
Miguel is sitting up beside you.
At first, you don’t understand. You blink against the dimness of the room, your vision hazy from sleep. The bedside lamp is still off, and the only light comes from the moon filtering through the blinds, casting faint silver lines across the bed.
You shift slightly, your brow furrowing. “Miguel?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
His body is angled toward you, broad shoulders hunched forward slightly, one arm resting against his knee. His face is mostly in shadow, but his eyes catch the faint light, dark and unreadable. His gaze sweeps over you; slowly, deliberately, like he’s committing every detail to memory.
Something in your chest tightens. You feel scared.
“…Can’t sleep?” you murmur, your voice still thick with drowsiness.
A pause. Too long of a pause.
Then, finally, he blinks. “Yeah,” he says, his voice low. “Just thinking.”
It’s the same answer he’s given before, but this time, it doesn’t feel right. There’s something too careful about the way he says it, something too measured in the way his lips form the words.
Your sleep-heavy mind tries to reason with itself. Maybe he’s just stressed. Work has always weighed on him. Maybe he had a bad dream. Maybe you’re just too groggy to read him properly.
And yet…
The longer he sits there, the more your skin prickles.
He’s still watching. Unblinking. Unmoving.
Normally, when Miguel couldn’t sleep, he’d get up, rub at his face, sigh like the weight of the world was pressing on his shoulders. He’d lean over and kiss your temple, tell you to go back to sleep while he went to the kitchen for water.
But tonight, he does none of that.
Tonight, he just sits there. Watching.
Your hand shifts beneath the covers, reaching out instinctively. His skin is warm when your fingers brush his, but there’s something wrong about the way he reacts. He stiffens slightly, as if he wasn’t expecting it.
As if the sensation of your touch was something new.
Your heart does something uneasy in your chest.
“Miguel,” you say, a little more awake now. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Yeah,” he says. And this time, you realize—he only looks away after he says it.
Like he’s remembering that he’s supposed to.
Something cold slips down your spine.
“Just go back to sleep.” He murmurs.
You should press further. Ask what’s wrong, ask why he’s sitting there watching you in the middle of the night a weirdo. But you don’t.
Because suddenly, you don’t want to know the answer.
So instead, you let out a quiet hum, pretending to be reassured. You squeeze his hand once before turning onto your side, facing away from him.
You can still feel his gaze on you.
Even when you squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. Even when minutes pass, stretching into something too tense, too unnatural.
You don’t know how long it takes for him to finally lay back down.
But when he does, you don’t sleep for the rest of the night.
That wasn’t the only occasion.
It’s early in the morning, the kind of groggy, half conscious moment where your body moves on autopilot. You’re standing at the kitchen counter, stirring your coffee, when you get that feeling again; that creeping sensation of being watched.
It pricks at the back of your neck, a faint shiver running down your spine.
You glance up.
He’s standing across the kitchen, holding his own mug, but he isn’t drinking from it. His posture is easy, like he just happened to pause mid-step, but his eyes, his eyes don’t match.
His eyes trace over your face, your hands, the slope of your shoulders; again, slow and meticulously.
Studying.
It’s not a soft, affectionate gaze. Not the kind of look your husband gives you when he admires you absentmindedly.
It’s closer to analysis.
Like he’s taking note of how you move, the way you hold your mug, the way your fingers tap lightly against the ceramic.
Your stomach tightens.
“…What?” you ask, forcing a small smile, voice still heavy with sleep.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then, too slowly, too carefully, he exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smirk. “Nothing,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly. “Just watching you.”
Just watching you.
You let out a soft chuckle, brushing it off, but when you turn back to your coffee, your hands feel clumsier than before.
His reactions are… off.
It happens on a lazy afternoon, the kind where neither of you have anywhere to be. The house is quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside, the low murmur of a movie playing in the background.
Miguel is stretched out on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, while you sit curled up beside him. It’s the kind of day that’s comfortable, familiar.
You’re scrolling through your phone, half paying attention to the screen, when something catches your eye. It’s an old photo, years ago, back when you and Miguel had first started dating. A messy kitchen, flour dusting the countertops, Miguel standing behind you with his arms wrapped around your waist, his face buried in your neck as he tried to stifle his laughter.
You smile at the memory and turn the screen toward him.
“Baby, remember this?” you ask, nudging him lightly.
Miguel looks over, his gaze settling on the image.
And then; there it is. That same, almost imperceptible pause.
It’s quick, so quick that you might not have caught it if you weren’t paying attention. The slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his lips part just barely before he smooths his expression over.
Then, just like before, he recovers.
“Of course I do,” he says, flashing you a small smile. He shifts, pulling you closer, his fingers grazing the curve of your shoulder. “You got mad at me for getting flour in your hair.”
Your stomach clenches.
That’s true. That did happen.
But it’s not what you expected him to say first.
He should have groaned first. He should have rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t remind me,” because you had absolutely destroyed him in that flour fight. He should have playfully griped about how he was still finding flour in his hair days later, how you had gotten it in places flour had no right being.
Instead, he chose a safe detail. One that’s accurate, but not instinctive.
“That was a mess,” you say, studying him carefully. “You were the one who started it, though.”
Miguel huffs, shaking his head. “No, that was you.”
No.
It was him.
It happened again that same day when you were watching a movie. It’s one of your favorite traditions; watching an old movie together, something you’ve both seen a hundred times. The kind of film where you already know all the lines, and you’re watching just for the quality time.
And Miguel has always been the worst about it.
He loves to mumble the words under his breath, just to annoy you. Sometimes he’ll even beat the characters to their own lines, reciting them before they can, smirking when you groan and shove at his shoulder. It’s a game. One that’s been going on for years.
So when the movie reaches that scene,the one he never fails to ruin, you turn to him expectantly, waiting.
But he just sits there.
Silent, with a soft smile playing on his lips.
You hesitate. “You’re not gonna say it?”
Miguel glances at you, confused. “Say what?”
You laugh, thinking he’s joking. “The line. You always do.”
There’s a pause. A flicker of something in his expression—not confusion. Not entirely. More like… recognition delayed by just a second too long.
Then he smiles, like it’s no big deal. “Guess I’m giving you a break today.”
Your stomach knots.
It’s such a small thing. Something no one else would think twice about.
But that’s exactly why it sticks with you.
Because Miguel has never just forgotten to do this. He does it every single time. It’s part of the routine. And he’s very big on routine.
And yet, this time, it didn’t.
You don’t say anything else. You let it go, pretend to focus back on the movie, but your mind keeps circling back to the same thought.
He’s become eerily possessive.
The night air is crisp as you and Miguel walk home together, your fingers laced with his, the city alive around you. The streets are quieter in this part of town, the hum of traffic distant, the glow of streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement.
It should be peaceful. It should be normal.
But something is off.
Miguel has been quiet for the past few blocks, his fingers curled a little too tightly around yours, his jaw set like he’s working through something in his head. You don’t think much of it at first. He’s probably had a long day, he’s likely tired—
“Who was that man?”
His voice is low, cutting through the quiet like a blade.
You glance up at him. “What?”
Miguel doesn’t look at you. His eyes stay fixed ahead, unreadable. “The man outside your office,” he clarifies. “The one you were talking to.”
You blink, caught off guard. It takes you a second to even remember what he’s talking about. Then it clicks—Ethan, a coworker from your team, just exchanging a few words as you left work.
You almost laugh, but something about Miguel’s tone makes it die on your lips.
“Oh, that was Ethan,” you say, tilting your head at him. “He’s a friend from work. We were just talking about a project.”
Miguel’s grip tightens.
Just for a second. Just enough for you to notice.
“Ethan,” he repeats slowly, like he’s testing the name on his tongue.
You frown. “Yeah. Miguel, it was nothing. Just small talk.”
He stays silent for a moment, and for the first time tonight, you feel it. The shift. The tension thickening the air, coiling in the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his grip on your hand doesn’t relax.
And then—
“Did he touch you?”
You stop walking.
Your breath catches in your throat, your pulse ticking just a little too fast.
Miguel takes two more steps before realizing you’re not beside him anymore. He turns back, his expression still unreadable under the glow of the streetlights.
You shake your head slightly, trying to make sense of the question. “What?”
A chill runs down your spine.
His face is calm. Too calm. “I asked if he touched you.”
“What the hell kind of question is that?” Your voice is quiet, but firm.
Miguel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break eye contact. “Answer me.”
Your stomach knots, heat rising to your cheeks—not in embarrassment, but in anger. “No, Miguel. He didn’t touch me. Why would you even ask me that?”
Something flickers in his eyes, but it’s gone before you can place it.
He exhales through his nose, his expression still carefully composed, but there’s a sharpness to him now—a barely restrained tension in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers flex at his sides.
“Bueno,” he mutters, as if that settles it. As if that should reassure him.
It doesn’t reassure you.
Because this is not normal.
A few weeks ago, he would have laughed, teased you, maybe thrown an arm around your shoulders with that smug, boyish smirk and said something like, “Should I be worried, cariño?”
But now?
Miguel just accused you of something you don’t even understand.
Your chest feels tight. “Miguel, what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Olvídalo.”
“No, I won’t forget it.” You take a step closer, searching his face. “Where is this coming from?”
Miguel exhales sharply. And then—before you can say anything else—he turns away.
The motion is too abrupt, too unnatural. He moves a few feet ahead, his back to you, hands braced on his hips as he stares down at the pavement. His shoulders rise and fall, deep and measured.
You don’t follow him.
You just… watch.
Because this is the second time.
The second time you’ve seen him struggle to control something he shouldn’t have to control.
The second time you’ve seen a flash of something unfamiliar behind his eyes—anger, frustration, something almost obsessive.
And for the second time, you think:
This isn’t right.
The street feels eerily quiet now, the air thick with something unspoken.
Finally, Miguel exhales again. When he turns back around, his face is calmer—but it’s wrong. It’s not the calm that comes with genuine relief. It’s forced, practiced.
Like a man trying to fix a mistake before you notice it.
“Sorry,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking something off. “Long day. I shouldn’t have—”
He explains himself.
You don’t say anything.
A few weeks ago, he would’ve never asked you a question like that. A few weeks ago, he wouldn’t have reacted this way at all.
And… his anger.
Miguel has always been quick to frustration, but never with you.
Before, when things got too overwhelming, when the weight of his responsibilities, his past, his guilt became too much, he used to snap at the world, but never at you. And when he did let his anger slip in your presence, it was never like this.
Because he goes to therapy. He works to control it. He promised you he would never let it hurt you.
But tonight, you saw something else.
He’s late coming home, later than usual. By the time he finally steps through the door, you’ve been sitting at the dinner table alone for nearly an hour, his food gone cold. You hear the lock click, the sound of him sighing as he enters, but before you can even call out, he’s already heading straight for the kitchen, barely sparing you a glance.
You frown. “Miguel?”
Nothing.
You try again, softer this time. “Hey. Everything okay?”
He moves with a tension you can’t quite place, reaching into the fridge for a drink. You watch as he grips the handle of the bottle a little too tightly, his shoulders stiff, his movements sharp.
Something’s wrong.
“Bad day?” you ask gently, standing from the table. You don’t touch him yet, but you hover close, waiting for him to let you in.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.
“Yeah,” he mutters, taking a long drink. “Something like that.”
His tone is clipped, and it throws you off. Miguel has had bad days before—plenty of them. But he usually lets you in, even just a little. Even if it’s just a sigh, a tired confession against your shoulder, a quiet “Te necesito, cariño.”
Tonight, there’s none of that.
You try to lighten the mood. “Well, you missed dinner. And I worked hard on it, you know.”
A joke. Something small. You expect him to exhale, maybe roll his eyes fondly and kiss your temple like he always does.
Instead, he slams the bottle onto the counter.
The action makes you flinch.
Your breath catches in your throat, eyes snapping to him as he turns toward you, expression stormy.
“Do you think I fucking planned that?” His voice is sharp, cutting in a way you’ve never heard before. “You think I wanted to stay late at work? That I like coming home to—”
He stops himself. His hands clench into fists. His chest rises and falls, his breaths unsteady. He’s seething.
Your stomach twists.
“Miguel,” you say carefully, stepping back just slightly, “I didn’t mean—”
“Then what did you mean?”
It’s not just frustration. This is anger. Not the controlled kind. Not the kind that he’s spent years learning to manage, to restrain, to never direct at you.
This is something else. Something raw. Something that doesn’t belong to the man you know. It’s simply not like him to go up over something so minuscule.
The silence stretches between you. Your heart pounds, your hands gripping the fabric of your sweater, and for the first time, you don’t know what to say to him.
Then, just as suddenly as it came, it’s gone.
Miguel exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. His whole body sags, as if he’s just realized what he’s done. When he looks at you again, his gaze softens—but it’s too late.
You’re still staring at him, lips parted, awestruck.
Not in admiration. Not in love.
But in shock.
Because in all the years you’ve known Miguel O’Hara, in all the times he’s struggled to keep his temper in check. he has never looked at you like that.
Like he could hurt you.
He takes a step forward. “I—”
You step back. It’s instinctive.
He stops. Something flickers across his face.
It looks almost like fear.
“Cariña,” he tries again, softer now. His voice is low, pleading. “I didn’t mean—”
“Y-You—” Your voice catches. You swallow hard, the pounding in your chest refusing to slow. “You promised.”
Miguel freezes.
“You promised me.”
When he started therapy. When he confessed how afraid he was of his own anger, how he never wanted it to touch you. When he held you in the quiet of the night and swore he would never let himself become the kind of man who made you flinch.
He knew of your background, and he knew he didn’t want to create a space anything like for you.
His lips part, but no words come. He looks at you like he wants to fix this, like he wants to erase what just happened.
You lie awake that night, staring at the man beside you.
Miguel sleeps soundly, his broad chest rising and falling in the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. His face is peaceful, relaxed, familiar.
This is Miguel.
The man who kisses you slow in the mornings, who holds you a little too tight when he thinks you’re upset, who whispers mi vida against your skin like a prayer. The man who promised you, again and again, that he would never let his anger rule him. That he would always try. For you.
And yet…
Your gaze traces over him, soft but heavy with something you don’t want to name.
There are things. The way he forgets small things he should know, the way he stumbles on certain memories. The way he looks at you like he’s meeting you for the first time. He jumps at your touch, like it’s foreign.
The way his temper flares too quickly now, sharp and poorly controlled, a stark contrast to the man who spent years learning how to keep it in check.
The way he looks at you like he’s afraid of something you don’t understand.
Your chest feels tight.
Because you love him. You love him.
And this is still Miguel.
But at the same time…
Something is different. Something is wrong.
Your fingers twitch against the sheets, aching to reach for him—to press against his skin, to feel the warmth of him and let it chase away this feeling creeping into your bones.
But you don’t.
Instead, you just watch.
Watch the slow, steady rhythm of his breaths. The way his lips part slightly as he exhales. The crease between his brows that never truly fades, even in sleep.
You love him.
But for the first time since you met Miguel O’Hara, you don’t trust what you’re seeing.
There’s something amiss.
You couldn’t put a name on it, just yet.
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