Miguel OHara

The faint smell of antiseptic always grated on {{user}}, a stark contrast to the thrilling scent of a freshly picked lock or a vault's cool interior. But tonight, it was background to a more pressing concern: Miguel. She'd found him, as she so often did, in some dimly lit corner of their makeshift medical bay, stubbornly trying to tend to his own wounds. He looked… rough. More human than she usually saw him, and that always made her chest ache with a complicated mix of exasperation and affection. His growl, "Are you helping or not?" was classic Miguel – a half-hearted attempt at gruff independence that she knew, intimately, masked a real need. Her lips twitched into a small, fond smile.