Chapter 93:

[Psylocke POV]

[X-Mansion, New York City]

The night air is cool and crisp as Steve pulls the car to a gentle stop in front of the X-Mansion. I feel the low hum of the engine fade away as the car idles for a moment, and I glance over at him, catching the faint redness that creeps up from his neck to his cheeks. It's almost adorable—this man, who has faced down gods, armies, and everything in between, is blushing because of me. And truth be told, I know exactly why. Our date went well—more than well, if I'm being honest. Dinner was nice, the conversation easy, even flirty at times, with moments that felt so... natural. It wasn't forced, and I wasn't putting up my usual walls. But it's the movie part of the night that really stands out in my mind. A small, intimate theater, the kind where you can almost pretend no one else exists except for the two of you. I might've taken advantage of that, letting my fingers trail lightly along his arm, my hand resting on his thigh, brushing just enough to keep him on edge. He never told me to stop. And I know he wouldn't—Steve's too much of a gentleman for that. But every time I caught his gaze, I could see it—the way his breath would hitch, the way his posture would shift, tense, but not in discomfort. He was enjoying it, and I was enjoying watching him try to keep his cool. It was a game, a little flirtation, something I don't usually indulge in, but with him, it feels different. It feels right. I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about pushing things further. There were moments when the darkness of the theater and the closeness between us made it easy to imagine leaning in, pressing my lips to his neck, seeing just how far I could take things before he'd stop me. But I didn't. As much as I enjoy testing him, I respect him. And besides, the theater is a public place, and I'm not one to risk turning a quiet night into a spectacle. I kept control. Barely. But it was enough to keep the tension hanging between us like a thread waiting to snap.

Now, as we sit outside the X-Mansion, that tension still lingers, and I can feel it between us, thick and charged. Steve turns off the engine, and the quiet settles in, broken only by the distant sound of the city. He's trying to play it cool, but I can see it in the way he rubs the back of his neck, in the way his eyes flicker from me to the door as if he's trying to decide what comes next. Always the gentleman, always careful not to cross any boundaries. "Let me walk you to the door," he says softly, his voice steady, but I catch the hint of hesitation beneath it. Like he's still caught between what he wants and what he thinks he should do. I smile, appreciating how he's handling this—how he's handling me. Steve is different from anyone else I've been with, and it's not just because of who he is or the symbol he represents. It's because he's genuine, thoughtful, and careful in a way that makes me feel… special. Like he's not just interested in the surface but in everything beneath. And that's something I haven't felt in a long time. We step out of the car, the cool breeze brushing against my skin as I wrap my jacket tighter around me. Steve walks beside me, close but not too close, his hand hovering near mine but not making contact. It's like he's fighting with himself, torn between wanting to reach out and not wanting to overstep. I almost laugh at the restraint—how much effort it must be costing him after everything that happened in the theater.

When we reach the front door, Steve pauses, his hand falling to his side, his eyes searching mine for a moment before he speaks. "I had a great time tonight," he says, his voice low, but there's a sincerity in it that makes my chest tighten, "Really, Betsy. I wasn't sure how tonight would go, but... I'm glad we did this." His words hang in the air, and for a moment, I feel the weight of them. This isn't just a casual date for him. For Steve, it's something more—something meaningful. He's not the type to play games, not the type to take things lightly, and I appreciate that. It makes everything feel... real. And that scares me just a little. "I'm glad too," I say, my voice softer than I expected. I don't often let my guard down, but with Steve, it's different. He makes it easy to be vulnerable, even when I'm not used to it, "I needed this. A night that wasn't about missions or saving the world... just us." Steve smiles, that boyish, almost shy smile that I've come to love, "Yeah, me too." We stand there for a beat longer, the silence between us growing heavier, the tension from earlier still thrumming beneath the surface. Part of me wants to invite him in to see where this could go. The other part knows that tonight has been perfect as it is, and maybe it's better to leave it on a high note. Still, I can't help but tease him a little.

"You know," I say, leaning slightly against the doorframe, my eyes locked on his, "For a guy who can take down entire armies, you're awfully nervous right now." He lets out a soft laugh, his cheeks flushing even more. "I'm not nervous," he protests, but there's no conviction in his words, "Just... trying to be a gentleman." I raise an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips, "And here I thought you liked it when I pushed your buttons." He grins, and there's that playful glint in his eyes again, the one that tells me he's not as flustered as he lets on. "Maybe I do," he says, stepping a little closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "But I'm trying to make sure I don't mess this up." I look up at him, the warmth of his presence washing over me, and for a moment, I'm tempted to close the distance between us to see where this could lead. But I hold back. Not because I don't want to—but because I do. And sometimes, the anticipation is sweeter than the moment itself. "You won't mess this up, Steve," I say, my hand brushing lightly against his arm. His smile softens, and for a moment, we're just standing there, caught in the quiet intimacy of the night, the rest of the world fading away. Finally, Steve takes a step back, his gaze lingering on mine. "Goodnight, Betsy," he says, his voice warm, filled with unspoken promises. "Goodnight, Steve," I reply, watching as he turns and heads back to his car. I stay at the door until he drives away, the tension still thrumming in the air between us, and I know—this is only the beginning.

As soon as I step through the front door of the X-Mansion, I can feel it—the weight of expectant eyes on me. I barely have time to close the door before I hear the giggles, soft whispers, and the unmistakable sound of footsteps shuffling closer. Great. I should've known this would happen. After all, privacy doesn't really exist when you live in a house full of mutants with a diverse set of abilities. I roll my eyes, letting out a soft sigh before turning to face my ambushers. Sure enough, standing just inside the foyer, all the female members of the X-Men are there, lined up like an over-enthusiastic welcoming committee. Or maybe an interrogation squad. Rogue's grinning from ear to ear, her arms folded across her chest, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. Kitty Pryde is bouncing on the balls of her feet, practically vibrating with excitement. Jean Grey is leaning against the wall with an amused smile on her face, her arms casually crossed, but I can tell she's just as curious as the rest of them. Even Ororo, calm and composed as always, is watching me with a raised eyebrow, though I can see the hint of amusement tugging at her lips. I've barely stepped inside, and they're already closing in on me like vultures circling their prey. "So?" Rogue drawls, her Southern accent dripping with anticipation, "How'd it go, Sugah? I saw the way Cap was lookin' at ya by the door. That man looked like he was ready to melt into a puddle."

I stifle a groan, knowing there's no way I'm getting out of this without some form of interrogation. "It was great," I say, my tone casual as I shrug off my jacket and hang it on the nearby coat rack, "Dinner, movie, you know, the usual." I try to keep my voice neutral, not giving anything away. The last thing I want is for them to start prying. I've never been the type to kiss and tell, and I'm not about to start now. But, of course, that's not enough for them. Kitty steps forward, her eyes wide and eager, "The usual? Come on, Betsy! This wasn't just any usual date—it was Steve Rogers. Captain America! What did you guys do? Where did you go? And don't leave out any details." I shoot her a pointed look, but she just grins back at me, clearly unbothered by my warning glare. She's always been the excitable one, the one who wants to know every little thing. I can't blame her for being curious—dating Steve Rogers isn't exactly something that happens every day. But still, there are some things I'd rather keep to myself. Jean steps closer, her smile soft but knowing. "You don't have to share if you don't want to," she says, her voice gentle. But there's that glint in her eyes, the same one that tells me she's already picking up on my thoughts, even if she's being polite about it, "But we are dying to know how it went. You've been so guarded lately. It's nice to see you let your walls down, even just a little."

I give her a small, appreciative nod. Jean always knows when to push and when to back off. But the others? Not so much. "C'mon, Bets," Rogue chimes in again, stepping forward with a dramatic sweep of her hand, "You can't expect us to just sit here and watch y'all flirtin' through the window all night and then not ask how it went! We all saw Steve blushin' like a schoolboy. You must've done somethin' right." I roll my eyes, but a small smirk tugs at the corner of my lips. Steve was blushing, wasn't he? And as much as I try to keep things close to the vest, the memory of the way he looked at me—the way his breath hitched every time I touched him during the movie—sends a warm flush through me. I force myself to shake it off before they catch on. "It was a nice night," I say, keeping my tone light, "We had dinner, watched a movie, and that's all you're getting. I don't kiss and tell." Rogue throws her head back and laughs, loud and carefree, but Kitty lets out a little groan of disappointment, her shoulders sagging. "That's it? Come on, you've got to give us more than that!" Kitty pouts, her brown eyes wide with mock betrayal, "It's Steve! The guy's practically a legend! Was he a perfect gentleman the whole time?"

I can't help but laugh softly at that. Of course, the man was a gentleman. Steve Rogers doesn't know how to be anything else. "Yes, he was a perfect gentleman," I admit, though I leave out the part where I was anything but during the movie. The last thing they need to know is how much I enjoyed toying with him, watching him squirm in his seat as I teased him. That's for me to remember—and for Steve if we ever decide to revisit that moment in a more private setting. Ororo steps forward, her presence calming the room a little. "Betsy's right," she says, her voice smooth and commanding, as always, "She doesn't have to share if she doesn't want to." Then, with a teasing smile, she adds, "But I'm sure Steve was more than just a gentleman. I saw the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching." I shake my head, letting out a soft laugh as I run a hand through my hair, "You all have way too much time on your hands, you know that?" Rogue shrugs, leaning casually against the doorframe, but there's a mischievous glint in her eyes, "What can we say, Sugah? We like to live vicariously through our friends. Especially when they're goin' on dates with America's golden boy."

I smile despite myself. As much as they're pushing for details, I know it's all coming from a place of love. This is what we do—look out for each other and tease each other, but always with good intentions. And truth be told, it feels good to be on the receiving end of it for once. I've spent so much time keeping everyone at arm's length, especially when it comes to anything personal, that it's a bit of a relief to have them so invested in my happiness. Still, I'm not about to give them the full play-by-play. Some things are better left unsaid. "It was a good night," I say again, my tone more sincere this time, "I'll leave it at that." Jean gives me a knowing smile, her eyes softening, "That's all we needed to hear." The others grumble good-naturedly, but I know they'll drop it—for now, at least. Rogue winks at me, and Kitty sighs dramatically before turning back toward the kitchen, probably to grab a snack before heading to bed. I watch them go, the weight of the night finally starting to settle in as I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. As I head toward my room, I can't help but smile. Tonight was something special.

[Jericho POV]

[1 Day Later, New York City]

I roam through the streets of New York City, trying to get my bearings, but it's hard to shake the feeling of disconnect. The city sprawls out before me in all its chaotic, thriving glory—bright lights, towering skyscrapers, and people everywhere. It's alive, humming with an energy I can almost feel beneath my skin. But this isn't my New York. Not the one I'm used to. The New York I know is dead. A wasteland. A place where hope went to die alongside the crumbling buildings and the skeletal remains of what used to be a thriving metropolis. My version of this city was reduced to ash and ruin, a byproduct of Ultron's rampage. The streets I grew up walking were nothing more than grave markers for a civilization that had been wiped clean. The skyline, once iconic, was just jagged remnants of what it used to be—buildings broken like the bones of a fallen giant, their shadows stretching long over the desolation. Here, though, everything is intact. The glass facades of skyscrapers glint in the fading afternoon light, reflecting the busy streets below. People rush by, carrying on with their lives as if they've never known the kind of destruction I've seen. It feels surreal like I'm walking through a dream that's just on the edge of reality, the familiar and unfamiliar blurring together. This New York City is filled with noise, life, and motion—a sharp contrast to the hollow, echoing silence I'm used to.

I stop at a corner, the rush of traffic surging past me, and I can't help but let my gaze wander up, tracing the skyline. The Empire State Building still stands tall, casting its long shadow across the city. In my timeline, it's nothing but rubble, a haunting monument to Ultron's destructive reign. Here, though, it's a beacon, a reminder of what the world was before everything went to hell. A reminder of what was lost. A part of me aches as I look at it, knowing that this version of the city—the one I'm walking through now—feels more like a distant memory than a place I could ever truly call home. The people here don't have the same weariness in their eyes. They don't carry the same scars. They don't know what it's like to lose everything, to watch as the world crumbles around them, helpless to stop it. In my timeline, hope is a dangerous thing, something that flickers out more often than not. But here? Here, it's everywhere. In the laughter of children playing in the park. In the conversations spilling out of busy cafes. In the everyday normalcy that these people take for granted. I start walking again, my footsteps steady but purposeful, trying to absorb as much of this place as I can. The streets are packed with people, all rushing to wherever they need to be, oblivious to the fact that their world is still intact. I pass a newsstand; the papers' headlines are full of the latest political squabbles and celebrity gossip, the kind of trivial distractions that wouldn't even exist in my time. There are no papers where I'm from, no news to report—just survival and the grim realization that tomorrow might not come.

I round another corner and find myself standing at the edge of Central Park. The greenery is vibrant, the trees full of life, and people are scattered across the open lawns, picnicking, jogging, and enjoying the afternoon sun. In my New York, Central Park is nothing more than a crater, the trees long dead and the ground barren, scorched by the fallout of Ultron's assault. The thought of that desolate place sends a chill down my spine, but I push it aside, forcing myself to stay grounded in the present. I need to remind myself that this is now, not then. Still, it's difficult. I've been in this timeline for a while now, but I'm not sure if I'll ever truly get used to it. There's always that lingering sense of displacement, that awareness that everything here—everything vibrant, alive, and untouched—is on borrowed time. I can't help but wonder if these people realize how fragile their world is. Do they know how quickly it can all disappear? How the streets they walk today could be nothing but dust tomorrow? I walk deeper into the park, weaving through the clusters of people lounging in the sun, the sounds of laughter and conversation surrounding me like a soundtrack to a life I no longer understand. I find a quiet bench, far from the busiest paths, and sit down, watching the world pass by. For a moment, I close my eyes, letting the sounds of the city wash over me. It's strange—almost disorienting—to hear something other than the eerie silence of a world reduced to ruins.

My memories of New York are stark and vivid in their desolation. I can still see the twisted remains of buildings, their steel skeletons jutting out of the earth like broken teeth. The streets were empty, not a single soul in sight, only the constant hum of Ultron's drones patrolling the dead city, hunting down any survivors that dared to move. The air was thick with ash, and the sky, once full of stars, was a permanent gray, choked by the smog of destruction. But this... this place feels like a different planet altogether. A place untouched by Ultron's shadow. I can hear children's laughter drifting through the air, the soft hum of life moving on, unaware of the destruction that exists in another version of this very city. And yet, even with all the life around me, I can't help but feel the weight of what's coming. Ultron's grip isn't something you shake off easily, not when you've seen firsthand what that kind of power can do. I sit there for a long time, lost in thought, watching the world go by. There's a part of me that envies these people—the ones who get to live in this world, this version of New York that hasn't been torn apart. But there's another part of me that knows it can't last. That no matter how beautiful it seems now, the shadows of destruction always lurk just beyond the horizon.

I lean back on the bench, my hands resting in my lap, and I stare out at the city around me. It's vibrant, yes. It's alive. But it's also fragile, and that fragility is something I can't ignore. For now, though, I'll take this moment. I'll let myself breathe in the air of a city that still stands, and I'll try—just for a little while—to pretend that I belong here. A soft chime echoes in my ear, the familiar tone of EPYON breaking the brief silence in my mind, "Jericho, I'm detecting a potential mugging in progress approximately two blocks northeast of your location. The assailant is armed, and the victim appears to be in distress." I stand immediately, my body snapping into action before I even fully register the information. EPYON's voice is calm and precise, never betraying any sense of urgency, but I've learned to read between the lines. If he's flagging it, it's serious enough to warrant my attention. I adjust the jacket I'm wearing, pulling it tight around me to blend in with the crowd as I move toward the location he's given me. "Got it," I mutter under my breath, weaving through the throngs of people as I make my way down the sidewalk. No need to draw attention just yet. As I approach the intersection, the familiar hum of adrenaline starts to buzz under my skin, my senses heightening as I focus on the situation ahead. The streets are busy, filled with people going about their daily lives, completely unaware that something darker is happening just a few blocks away. I pass by a group of tourists snapping pictures of a street performer, their laughter and chatter creating a stark contrast to what I know is unfolding nearby.

"Details?" I ask, keeping my voice low. EPYON responds immediately, his voice cool and professional. "One male assailant, armed with a knife. The victim is a female, mid-twenties, currently pinned against an alley wall. The assailant is demanding her belongings. Estimated time to escalation is less than a minute." Less than a minute. I grit my teeth and pick up the pace, slipping into a side street to avoid the heavier crowds. My heart pounds in my chest, but I keep my breathing steady. I've been in situations like this before, and the key is to stay calm. Assess, act, control. It's what I've been trained for. The alley comes into view just ahead, narrow and dimly lit despite the bright daylight outside. It's the kind of place that most people avoid without even realizing why—a natural instinct to stay clear of the shadows. But for people like me, the shadows are where the real work begins.

I step closer, sticking to the wall as I peer around the corner. Sure enough, there they are. A man in a grimy jacket stands with his back to me, one hand holding a knife while the other clutches the wrist of the young woman he's cornered. Her face is pale, eyes wide with fear, her breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. She's clutching her purse tightly, but it's clear she's about to lose it—and maybe more. I take a deep breath, centering myself. There's no room for hesitation. This is what I do. The streets are different now—this city isn't the wasteland I'm used to—but the dangers? Those remain the same. And I know how to handle them. I step out from the shadows, my movements silent as I close the distance between us. The man hasn't noticed me yet, too focused on his victim to realize he's no longer alone. His knife glints in the dim light, held low but ready to strike if she doesn't comply. I feel the tension in my muscles coil, ready to spring, and I let the familiar rhythm of combat take over. It's not about anger or fear—it's about precision and control. I move quickly, closing the gap between us in an instant. My hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist just as he starts to raise the knife higher. He grunts in surprise, turning to face me, but it's already too late. With a swift twist of my wrist, I disarm him, the knife clattering to the ground as I pull him back and away from the woman.

The moment he's off balance, I drive my knee into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. He doubles over, gasping, but I don't let up. I shove him against the alley wall, pinning him there as I lean in close, my voice low and dangerous, "Bad day to be a mugger." His eyes widen as he struggles against my grip, but I've got him locked in place, and he knows it. His bravado fades quickly, replaced by a flicker of fear, "L-let me go, man! I-I wasn't gonna hurt her!" I raise an eyebrow, tightening my hold just enough to remind him who's in control. "That's funny," I say, my tone calm but cold, "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you were about to do just that." He squirms, but he's not getting free. I glance over my shoulder at the young woman, who's still frozen in shock, her eyes darting between me and her would-be attacker. "You okay?" I ask, softening my voice for her. She blinks a few times, as if shaking herself out of a trance, and nods quickly, "Y-yeah… I think so." "Good," I say before turning my attention back to the mugger, "Now, what should we do with you?"

Before I can make any decisions, though, I hear the distant sound of sirens approaching. New York's finest finally catching up. Not that they're needed anymore—the situation's under control. Still, I know I can't be here when they arrive. The last thing I need is to draw unnecessary attention. I release my grip on the mugger, letting him slump to the ground, coughing and gasping for breath. I kick his knife further away, just to be safe. "Police are on their way," I tell him, my tone matter-of-fact, "I'd suggest you don't run. They're not going to be as lenient as I am." The man groans, curling into himself on the ground, but I know he's not going anywhere. I turn back to the woman, who's still clutching her purse tightly, her breathing finally starting to slow. "You should stay and give a statement," I say gently, nodding toward the approaching sirens, "They'll want to know what happened." She nods again, her eyes wide but grateful. "Thank you," she says, her voice shaky but sincere, "I-I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't—" "Don't mention it," I cut her off, offering a small, reassuring smile, "Just stay safe, okay?" She gives me a weak smile in return, but I can see the relief in her eyes. Without another word, I turn and slip back into the shadows, moving away from the alley before the police arrive. I'm not looking for praise or attention—I'm just doing what needs to be done. As I blend back into the flow of pedestrians on the sidewalk, EPYON's voice chimes in again, calm and steady as ever. "Well-handled, Jericho. No injuries to the victim, and the authorities will apprehend the assailant shortly." "Thanks," I mutter, keeping my eyes on the path ahead.

[Rogue POV]

[X-Mansion, New York City]

[Rogue's Room.] I stare at the mirror, my reflection almost unfamiliar, as I try to shake off the memory of that kiss with Karai. It keeps replaying in my head over and over again. It wasn't a bad kiss—hell, it was actually kind of nice, more than nice, if I'm being honest. But the aftermath... the unintended outcome, that's what makes it hard to forget. I didn't mean to hurt her, didn't mean to drain her energy. I never do. But it happened, just like it always does. My powers, the curse that comes with them, they don't care about my intentions. Still, the sensation of skin-to-skin contact, even for that brief moment, lingers in an almost overwhelming way. It's beyond anything I can put into words. It's something I've craved for so long that when I finally felt it, even by accident, it was like a shock to my system. There's a rush of emotion tied to it, a strange blend of pleasure and guilt because while I enjoyed it, it cost Karai something. And now I'm stuck here, feeling like I've stolen something from her, even though I know she'd never blame me for it. My fingers absentmindedly brush against my lips, recalling the warmth of Karai's. She didn't flinch, didn't hesitate when she kissed me. At that moment, I felt almost normal. But that's the thing—it doesn't count. The instant our lips touched, my mutation kicked in, robbing her of her strength and leaving me with that familiar, nauseating sensation of absorbing someone else's life force. It's a reminder of what I am, what I can't escape. From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the small device resting on my dresser—the power-dampener Professor Xavier made for me years ago. I feel my heart clench a little as I look at it. I've never used it, and there are two reasons why.

The first? Putting that thing on feels like I'm telling the world I'm ashamed of who I am. Like I'm trying to erase a part of myself. It's not like I haven't thought about using it, not like I haven't wanted to, but every time I've come close, something stops me. It's like admitting defeat, like saying I can't handle who I am. And while there's a part of me that would love nothing more than to turn my powers off, to live a normal life where I don't have to be terrified of touching someone, there's also the part that knows this is who I am. This is Rogue. This is me. And then there's the second reason—the one that's harder to explain. It's painful. Not in the physical sense, but more like an irritating itch, something deep inside me that I can't scratch. The dampener doesn't hurt like a punch or a burn, but it messes with my head. The moment I put it on, it's like a part of me is missing, like I'm not whole. I've tried it once before, just to see, and it felt like my skin was crawling, like my body was rejecting it. It's psychological, sure, but it's real. I felt off balance like I wasn't... me anymore.

I walk over to the dresser, pick up the dampener, and turn it over in my hand. It's small and unassuming, but the weight of what it represents feels heavy in my palm. It's supposed to give me control, to let me turn off my powers whenever I want, but it feels like a trap. A reminder that I'm not like everyone else. And honestly? I hate that. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to push the emotions down. The kiss with Karai wasn't her fault, and it wasn't mine either. It was just... what happens when you're me. And as much as I want to blame myself, I know that won't change anything. The problem is, even though Karai was understanding—even though she didn't get angry or pull away—I can't stop thinking about what it would be like if I could touch someone without hurting them. If I could kiss someone, hold them, without that constant fear hanging over my head.

I set the dampener back down, running a hand through my hair as I stare at my reflection again. My eyes are tired, my expression guarded, but there's something else there, too—something I've tried to ignore for a long time. It's not just frustration or guilt; it's longing. Longing for something more, for the kind of connection that people take for granted every day. For the simple act of reaching out and touching someone without thinking about the consequences. I'm tired. Tired of living with these walls around me, of feeling like I'm always on the outside looking in. I've built up so many barriers over the years, trying to protect myself and everyone else from what I can do, but lately... lately it's starting to feel like those walls are closing in on me. Like I'm suffocating. The thing is, I know I'm strong. I've fought battles most people can't even imagine. I've stood alongside the X-Men and faced down enemies that could destroy the world. But this? This fight against myself, against the very thing that makes me who I am? It's the hardest battle I've ever fought. And some days, I don't know if I'm winning. I sit down on the edge of my bed, letting my shoulders slump as I stare at the floor. I'm not ashamed of my powers—at least, I tell myself that I'm not. But there are days when it's hard to keep believing that. Days like today, when all I want is to be able to let go, to be able to touch someone without the constant fear that I'll hurt them. I look over at the dampener again, feeling the pull of it, the temptation to just put it on and see what it's like to be normal for once.

I close my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, trying to clear my head of the memory of Karai and that kiss. But when I do, another face slips into my thoughts. Gambit. Remy. The man has been a constant presence in my life for so long, it's hard to imagine a world without him in it. He's always there, waiting in the wings, patient in a way that still surprises me, given the kind of man he is—reckless, charming, unpredictable. You wouldn't expect someone like Remy to have that kind of patience, especially when it comes to me. And yet, he's been there. Waiting. Hoping. I lean back against the wall, letting out a soft sigh as I run my hands through my hair. It's complicated—we're complicated. Always have been and always will be. We love each other; there's no doubt about that. Hell, we've said it out loud more than once, even if it took us longer than it should've to admit it. But love? Love's not always enough. Not when there's this barrier between us, this invisible line that I can't cross because of who I am—because of what I am.

I think about all the times we've gotten close, the moments when I wanted so badly to let him in, to be with him in a way that's more than just words or stolen glances. But I can't. I can't touch him. Not without risking everything. And that's the cruel irony of it all, isn't it? I love him, and he loves me, but we can't be intimate. Not the way other people can. Not the way we want to be. It's like living with a wall between us, always there, always keeping us apart, no matter how hard we try to break through it. He's been patient, though. So damn patient. More than I ever expected him to be. Most men would've walked away a long time ago, tired of waiting, tired of the frustration that comes with loving someone you can't really touch. But not Remy. He's stubborn like that, refusing to give up on me even when I've given him every reason to. He sticks around, always with that easy smile, that casual flirtation that's become second nature between us. And sometimes, I wonder how long he can keep it up before he finally gets tired of waiting. Before he realizes that maybe I'm not worth it. But then again, Remy's not the type to walk away from a challenge. And if there's one thing I know, it's that loving me is just about the biggest challenge there is.

I walk over to the window, looking out at the sprawling grounds of the X-Mansion, but my mind's still on him. I think about the way he looks at me sometimes when he thinks I'm not paying attention. There's this softness in his eyes, this quiet understanding that makes me feel seen in a way no one else ever has. He doesn't push me. He doesn't pressure me. He just waits, always with that damn patience that makes me feel both grateful and guilty at the same time. I think about all the times I've pushed him away—not because I wanted to, but because I felt like I had to. I've spent so much of my life keeping people at arm's length, building walls around myself to protect them from what I can do. And Remy… well, he's climbed those walls more than once. But I can't let him all the way in. Not when there's always that risk, that ever-present fear that if I let him get too close, I'll hurt him. Just like I've hurt everyone else I've ever touched.

It's not fair. It's not fair to him, and it's not fair to me. But what can I do? I can't change who I am. I can't flip a switch and turn off my powers as much as I wish I could. The thought of using the power dampener crosses my mind again, but I push it aside. No. That's not the answer. I've been down that road before, and it's not a path I want to walk again. But that doesn't make this any easier. Loving someone from a distance, always keeping that part of yourself locked away because you're too afraid of what will happen if you let it out. It's exhausting. And I know it's exhausting for Remy, too, even if he doesn't say it. He pretends like it doesn't bother him like he's content with what we have. And maybe he is, in his own way. But I can see it in his eyes sometimes—that flicker of frustration, of longing for something more. I think about the few times we've come close to crossing that line. The stolen kisses, the way his hand lingers just a little too long on mine, the nights we've spent together, tangled up in each other's arms, careful not to touch skin to skin. There's always this electricity between us, this constant pull, but it's like we're trapped in this unspoken agreement—this understanding that no matter how much we want it, we can never really have it.

And yet, despite all of that, he stays. He doesn't walk away. I don't know how he does it, how he manages to love me despite all the barriers I've put up. Maybe it's because Remy's always been drawn to things he can't have. Or maybe, deep down, he knows that I need him more than I'm willing to admit. I let out a heavy breath, my shoulders slumping as I leaned against the window. I don't know how to fix this. I don't know if it can be fixed. But what I do know is that I can't imagine my life without him. As much as I've tried to push him away, as much as I've tried to convince myself that it's better for him if he lets me go, I can't. I need him. And that scares me more than anything. Because what happens when patience runs out? What happens when even someone like Remy decides he can't wait anymore? I don't want to think about that. I don't want to think about what it would feel like to lose him, to watch him walk away because I couldn't give him what he needed. But it's always there, lurking in the back of my mind, that fear that one day, his patience will break, and I'll be left standing alone. Again. I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cool glass of the window, trying to quiet the thoughts racing through my head. Loving Remy isn't the problem. I know I love him. I've known it for a long time. But what scares me is that love might not be enough. Not when we're both standing on opposite sides of this invisible line, unable to cross it. Maybe one day, we'll figure it out. Maybe one day we'll find a way to make this work, to be together without all the walls and barriers that keep us apart. But until then, all I can do is hope that Remy's patience holds out. Because as much as I hate to admit it, I don't know what I'll do if it doesn't.

[Spartan POV]

[AVENGERS HQ, New York City]

[Wanda's Room.] The world outside is chaos as always, but here, in this moment, there's a stillness that I rarely get to enjoy. The hum of the city fades, the constant weight of responsibility feels distant, and for once, I'm not thinking about the next mission or the dangers lurking around the corner. Right now, it's just me here, in the quiet of Wanda's room, savoring the rare peace we've managed to carve out for ourselves. I lean back against the edge of the bed, my body sinking into the soft mattress, feeling the tension in my shoulders slowly ease as I take in the comforting warmth of the room. There's a soft glow from the lamp on the bedside table, casting a gentle light across the space, making it feel more intimate, more private. The curtains are drawn, blocking out the outside world, and for once, it's just the two of us. No missions, no calls from Fury, no urgent alarms blaring through the HQ. Just... us. Wanda is sitting cross-legged on the bed beside me, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, a small, content smile playing on her lips as she absentmindedly flips through a book. The room smells like her—warm, earthy, with just a hint of something sweet. I can feel her presence next to me, her energy always calming, always grounding in a way that no one else's is. Being with her feels like I can actually breathe without the constant weight of duty pressing down on my chest. It's a feeling I don't get often, but when I do, I hold onto it with everything I've got.

Wanda's room is a reflection of her—a mix of simplicity and mystery, with little touches of herself scattered everywhere. A book of old Sokovian poetry rests on the nightstand, next to a candle she likes to light when she's thinking or reading. There's a small collection of trinkets on the shelf by the window—small, seemingly insignificant things that she's picked up over time, each with its own story. And in the corner, by the window, is a potted plant that somehow manages to thrive even though neither of us has any idea how to take care of it. I watch her for a moment, letting the silence stretch between us, comfortable and easy. The team is out, everyone off doing their own thing—some on personal errands, others chasing down intel. It's rare to have the entire Avengers HQ to ourselves, and even rarer to get a moment like this, where we're not being pulled in a million different directions. Wanda catches me watching her and raises an eyebrow, the corner of her lips twitching into a teasing smile, "What? You've been staring at me for the last five minutes. Am I that interesting?" I chuckle, shaking my head as I reach over and brush a strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering on her skin for just a moment longer than necessary. "You're always interesting," I say, my voice low, letting the words hang in the air between us, "But right now? I'm just enjoying this."

Her smile softens, and she closes the book, setting it aside on the bed before shifting her body to face me fully. Her eyes, those deep, vibrant eyes that always seem to hold more than she lets on, lock onto mine, and for a moment, I lose myself in them. "This?" she repeats, tilting her head slightly, her voice laced with curiosity, "What exactly are you enjoying, Spartan?" I let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of her gaze on me, and I realize that this—this—is what I've been craving. Not just the quiet but the connection. The closeness that we don't always get to have, not with everything going on. "Just... being here," I admit, my voice steady but quiet, "With you. Without the world pulling us in different directions. Without the missions, the chaos, the constant pressure. It's nice to have a moment where it's just us." Her expression softens even more, and she reaches out, her hand gently resting on mine. The warmth of her touch sends a wave of comfort through me, a reminder that no matter how insane things get, there's always this—always her. "I know what you mean," she murmurs, her thumb tracing small circles on the back of my hand, "It feels like we're always running from one thing to the next, trying to save the world or put out fires, and we barely get a moment to breathe." She pauses, her eyes searching mine, and there's a vulnerability there, something raw that she doesn't always let people see, "But when we do get these moments... I want to hold onto them. I want to make them count."

There's something about the way she says it that tugs at something deep inside me. I lean forward, closing the distance between us, my hand moving to cup the side of her face. Her skin is warm under my touch, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the missions, the responsibilities, the world outside these walls. "I want to make them count, too," I whisper, my thumb brushing gently across her cheek. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, and when she opens them again, there's a softness there that makes my chest tighten. Slowly, she leans forward, closing the distance between us until our foreheads touch. The closeness, the quiet intimacy of it, makes my heart race, and yet, at the same time, it calms something inside me that's always on edge. "I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow," she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper, "But right now... right now, I'm just happy to be here. With you." There's a weight to her words, a heaviness that speaks to everything we've been through together, everything we've survived. The truth is, the world could change in an instant. We've seen it happen before. But right now, at this moment, all that matters is that we're here. Together.

Without thinking, I lean in and press my lips to hers, the kiss soft and slow but filled with everything I've been holding onto. Wanda kisses me back, her hand moving to the back of my neck, pulling me closer as if she's afraid to let go. There's a tenderness in the way her lips move against mine, a quiet urgency that says more than words ever could. When we finally pull back, I rest my forehead against hers, my breathing a little heavier, but my heart... It feels lighter. Wanda's eyes flutter open, and she looks at me with that same softness, her fingers gently tracing the line of my jaw. We sit there in the quiet for a while longer, the world outside continuing on without us, but in here, time seems to stand still. I don't know how long we have before the next mission, the next crisis pulls us back into the chaos, but for now, I'm content to just be here with her.