The music throbbed like a heartbeat, pulsing through the crystalline corridors of the Hellfire Gala. Laughter echoed off the walls, every voice louder than the last, every dress more daring, every mutant trying too hard to look like they weren't trying at all.

You stood at the edge of it all, collar itching, tie too tight, eyes scanning for an exit.

“I hate this,” came a voice behind you — low, even, controlled.

You turned. Kwannon stood half-shadowed, framed by the shifting lights of the gala, wearing a sleek obsidian gown that moved like smoke. She looked stunning, of course. But her expression said she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Mutant Met Gala, they said,” you muttered. “Be seen, they said.”

Her lips barely curved. “Politics in couture.”

You glanced at the crowd. “We could leave.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here.”

She tilted her head. “You sound like someone with a plan.”

“I sound like someone with working legs and a healthy disrespect for mingling.”

That got a quiet huff of amusement from her. Not quite a laugh — but enough.

You slipped through the crowd together. Past Emma and Shaw, past Monet arguing with Warren, past smiling teeth and judging eyes. Neither of you spoke until you reached one of the marble balconies, where the night air wrapped around you like a secret.

Kwannon leaned on the railing, her hair catching the wind. “Better.”

You joined her, undoing your tie. “Much.”

For a while, neither of you said anything. The stars above shimmered, untouched by the chaos below. The ocean stretched out like ink. You watched her profile — calm, unreadable.

“I don’t trust crowds,” she said at last.

“Because you can read what they’re really thinking?”

“No. Because I can’t turn it off.”

You glanced at her, surprised. She didn’t look at you.

“Everyone puts on a face in there,” she continued, voice quieter now. “Some of them wear masks under masks. But the thoughts… they’re loud. Too loud.”

You swallowed. “That sounds… exhausting.”

“It is.”

A breeze rolled past. She closed her eyes.

You hesitated, then offered, “I don't belong here either.”

“Because you’re human?”

You blinked. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” She looked at you then. Really looked. “But that’s not why. Is it?”

You looked down. “No. I think… I just don’t like being reminded of how small I am. Everyone here is brilliant. Beautiful. Dangerous. They float, and I sink.”

She turned fully toward you. “Then why come?”

You shrugged. “Because being close to the fire is the only way to stay warm.”

Kwannon didn’t answer right away. She stepped closer, eyes scanning yours. “You think you’re small?”

You gave a lopsided smile. “Aren’t I?”

She reached up — just for a second — and touched your temple with her fingers. Gentle. Barely there. “You’re loud,” she whispered. “But not in the way you think.”

A silence passed between you. Then, without a word, she sat on the cold marble floor, pulling off her heels.

You blinked. “You’re… sitting.”

“I thought you said we were retreating.”

You chuckled and dropped beside her, legs outstretched, tie undone. “Didn’t picture you as the balcony kind of rebel.”

“I’m not.” She looked up at the stars. “But I am tired of pretending I like being seen.”

You sat there in silence. No cameras. No telepaths. No drama.

Just two people — not wanting to be anything but themselves for one night.

After a while, she glanced sideways. “You’re not so small,” she said.

You raised a brow. “You sure?”

“I don’t lie,” she said. Then, softer: “You didn’t run when I went quiet. Most people do.”

You smiled. “I don’t like running.”

“No,” she said. “You like staying.”

She turned back to the stars.

And for once, so did you.

You came back the next year. And the year after that.

Neither of you ever talked about it — the moment, the silence, the not-quite closeness. But every Hellfire Gala, somewhere between the noise and the neon, you’d find her on the same balcony.

Heels off. Guard down.

Waiting.

Just for a moment.

Just for you.