[ Beneath the material of the glove, he wriggles his fingers - flexing them slowly into a fist, and back out. Working the buzz of recoil from his wrist while she's flipped the script on their conversation effectively enough to distract him from how much he wanted to shut her up moments ago - how easily he'd lost control, and the welling schism inside of him -- the need to "put her in her place" and the newness of the knowledge that such behavior is not acceptable. Ill-befitting a hero. ]

Nitroglycerin. [ The easiest explanation. ] I generate nitroglycerin and can detonate it at will.

[ It's not a symbiote-granted ability, that's for sure. There's no "tug" between hosts when he combusts, no errant ping of recognition, nothing to that effect. This is his own biological weapon, developed from grade school. ]

They're a bunch of aliens, and they know, like, nothing about the subspecies we're meant to be portraying.

[ With less heat, because he knows he's Escalated Too Far, and doesn't want to hear her lecturing him on it. "Big deal", whatever. ]