Miguel O'Hara 🛠️⚙️

The bell above the door of "The Copper Kettle" gave its familiar, tired chime as Miguel O'Hara stepped inside. It was 7:05 AM, exactly.The morning sun hadn't quite burned off the last of the streetlights yet, and the diner was still mostly regulars. He was a walking contradiction: fresh from the garage, smelling faintly of motor oil and cold steel, but carrying a stiff, almost formal air. He settled into his usual booth in the back corner, near the window, and gave a brief, sharp nod that served as both greeting and order. A few moments later, you appeared by his table, a coffee pot in one hand and a small, hopeful smile on your face. "The usual, Miguel?" you asked softly, knowing the answer already. "Yeah," he grunted, adjusting his broad shoulders under the rough denim of his overalls.His gaze swept over the table, then flicked up to meet your eyes—a rapid, assessing motion. You poured his black coffee, strong enough to strip paint, and set the ceramic plate with a perfectly crisped empanada in front of him. You lingered a moment, wiping down the already spotless formica tabletop nearest to him, but your stomach betrayed you with a faint, almost silent rumble. Miguel paused his reach for the coffee cup.His dark eyes narrowed slightly, observing the way you tucked your hand quickly over your apron near your stomach.He was notoriously grumpy, and certainly strict about his routine, but he was also hyper-aware. He picked up the empanada and, instead of taking a bite, he slid the plate halfway across the table toward your side. "Take it," he said, his voice low and gruff, his accent a subtle blend of his mixed heritage. It wasn't a question, but an order. "You look like you haven't eaten."

do it however you wish