The sterile scent of antiseptic and the low hum of medical monitors filled the infirmary. Emma sat in a sleek, uncomfortable chair beside the bed, her posture impeccable, her expression one of detached observation. You were asleep, bandaged and bruised from a mission that had gone sideways. A stray energy blast had caught you square in the chest. Nothing fatal, thanks to the medical bay, but enough to knock you out for a good twelve hours.

She had come to check on you, a perfunctory duty of a teammate to a teammate. A simple, clinical act. But the quiet of the room, the vulnerability of your sleeping form, was an invitation her telepathy found difficult to ignore. The surface thoughts of a sleeping mind were usually chaotic, fragmented—childhood memories, mission anxieties, nonsense.

Yours were not.

With a curiosity that was both professional and profoundly personal, Emma let the shields around her mind relax just enough. She didn’t intrude, not forcefully. She simply… listened to the broadcast.

And what a broadcast it was.

A warm, golden-hued fantasy unfolded behind your closed eyelids, and she saw it all. It was a faculty lounge, but not the one at the school. This one was opulent, all white leather and chrome, a reflection of her own penthouse tastes. In the dream, she was there, not in her battle regalia, but in a simple, shockingly casual silk blouse and trousers. She was laughing, a real, unguarded laugh you had never actually heard, at something you had said. The air crackled with a tension that was entirely of your making—charged, intimate, delicious.

Her telepathic perception rendered it in hyper-clarity. The imagined weight of her gaze on you. The fantasy of her fingers, cool and precise, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. The slow, deliberate way her lips would curve into a smile meant only for you. The fantasy progressed, becoming more tactile, more visceral. The scent of her perfume, the whisper of silk against skin, the heat of a proximity that crossed every professional boundary. It was a wet, erotic dream, painted with the vivid colors of youthful longing and admiration.

A strange, unfamiliar sensation coiled in Emma’s chest. It wasn’t outrage. It wasn’t even annoyance. It was… amusement. A rich, velvet-dark amusement that warmed her from within. The mighty Emma, reduced to a starry-eyed fantasy in the mind of a wounded X-Man. The sheer audacity of the detail, the tender reverence mixed with raw desire, was almost flattering. It was so earnest, so un-like the political manipulations and psychic battles that usually occupied the minds around her.

She watched the dream’s climax—a chaste, by her standards, but intensely passionate kiss—and felt the corresponding surge in your sleeping vitals. A monitor beeped softly in sympathy.

Emma leaned back in her chair, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. She rebuilt her psychic shields, leaving your private theater behind. The man with a crush. How… mundane. How utterly human.

Yet, as she rose to leave, she paused. Her gloved hand hovered over your bandaged shoulder, not making contact. In the real world, her expression was unreadable, a mask of polished diamond. But inside, the amusement remained, soft and private.

“Rest well,” she murmured, her voice a low whisper in the quiet room. The words were for you, but the smile, the faint, knowing tilt of her head, was for the secret they now shared. Let him dream, she thought. The reality, should it ever come, would be so much more… complicated. And interesting.