The living room was quiet, save for the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of Miguel’s heavy boots hitting the punching bag in the corner. He’d been at it for an hour, channeling whatever multiversal headache he’d dealt with today into the leather.

You were stretched out on your stomach on the couch, minding your own business and scrolling through your phone, when the noise abruptly stopped.

A shadow fell over you. You didn't even have time to look up before 250 pounds of solid, sweaty Spider-Man collapsed completely on top of you. He didn't crush you—he knew exactly how to distribute his weight—but he effectively pinned you into the cushions, burying his face directly into the crook of your neck.

"Miguel," you wheezed, a laugh bubbling up. "You're covered in sweat. Get off."

"No," he grumbled, his voice a low, vibration against your skin. "Too tired. Moving requires energy I do not possess."

"You possess enough energy to be a human blanket, apparently."

Instead of moving, Miguel shifted his weight lower, his large hands sliding down your back until they found their absolute favorite resting place. He cupped your ass through your sweatpants, his massive hands easily covering you, squeezing firmly with a deep, contented sigh.

"Perfect," he muttered.

"Oh, I see. I'm not a wife, I'm just a glorified stress ball," you teased, tilting your head back to try and look at him.

Miguel lifted his head, his dark eyes hooded and intense. A slow, lazy smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, his fangs peeking out just a fraction. "You are my wife. And this," he gave you another heavy, possessive squeeze that made you gasp, "is my favorite perk of the marriage contract. It’s therapeutic."

"Pretty sure therapists don't grope their patients, Miguel."

"They aren't married to you," he growled playfully, his lips brushing against your ear. He shifted, pulling your hips flush against his, letting you feel the sudden shift from 'tired husband' to 'dangerous predator.' His claws were carefully retracted, but his grip turned entirely demanding, dragging you up until you were kneeling beneath him on the couch.

"Wait," you laughed, your hands pressing against his broad, damp chest as he hovered over you. "You just said you didn't have the energy to move."

"I found some," Miguel whispered, his eyes locked on yours as his hands slid underneath the waistband of your pants, his touch sending a jolt straight down your spine. "Now stop talking, cariño."